I have a growing sense that Anagarika Munindra viewed meditation much like one views a lifelong friend: with all its flaws, with immense patience, and without the demand for instant transformation. I cannot shake the feeling that the practice of insight is far more chaotic than the idealized versions we read about. Not in real life, anyway. On paper, it looks orderly—full of maps, stages, and clear diagrams.
Yet, in the middle of a sit, dealing with physical discomfort and a slumping spine, while the mind drifts into useless memories of the past, everything feels completely disorganized. And somehow, when I think of Anagarika Munindra, that mess doesn’t feel like a mistake.
Night Reflections: When the Mind Stops Pretending
The hour is late, and as usual, these reflections only surface when the world is quiet. Maybe because everything else shuts up a bit. The traffic outside is quieter. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, mixed with something dusty. I notice my jaw’s tight. I didn’t notice when it started. Tension is a subtle intruder; it infiltrates the body so quietly that it feels natural.
I recall that Munindra was known for never pressuring his students. He allowed them the space to fail, to question, and to wander in circles. That detail stays with me. Most of my life feels like rushing. A race to gain knowledge, to fix myself, and to reach some imagined spiritual goal. Even meditation becomes another thing to be good at. Another silent competition with myself. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
Befriending Boredom and Irritation
On many days, the sit is entirely unspectacular, dominated by a dense cloud of boredom. The sort of tedium that compels you to glance at the timer despite your vows. I once interpreted this as a failure in my practice, but my perspective is shifting. Munindra’s approach, at least how I imagine it, doesn’t freak out about boredom. It doesn’t label it as an obstacle that needs smashing. It’s just… boredom. A state. A thing passing through. Or not passing through. Either way.
This evening, I became aware of a low-grade grumpiness for no obvious cause. No external drama was needed; the irritation simply sat there, heavy and quiet. I felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. At times, that urge is far more potent than my actual awareness. And then there was this soft internal reminder, not a voice exactly, more like a tone, saying, yeah, this too. This counts. This is part of the deal.
Consistency Over Performance
I have no way of knowing if he would have phrased it that way. However, the stories of his teaching imply a deep faith in the process of awakening refusing to treat it like a cold, mechanical system. He seemed to have a genuine faith in people, which is a rare quality. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He didn’t seem interested in playing the role of someone above the mess. He stayed in it.
My leg fell asleep about ten minutes ago. I shifted slightly even though I told myself not to. A tiny rebellion that my internal critic noted immediately—of course. This was followed by a short interval of quiet—not a mystical state, just a simple pause. Then the thoughts returned. Perfectly ordinary.
Ultimately, that is the quality of Munindra that remains in my thoughts. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. There are nights that are merely nights, and sessions that are merely sessions. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I still harbor many doubts regarding my progress and the goal of the path. About whether I possess the necessary endurance for this journey. However, reflecting on the human warmth of Vipassanā that Munindra personified, makes the path feel less like a series of tests and more like an ongoing, awkward companionship with my own mind. And that is enough of thien su munindra a reason to show up again tomorrow, even if the sit is entirely ordinary.