Sometimes I think Anagarika Munindra understood meditation the same way people understand old friends—imperfectly, patiently, without needing them to change overnight. 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.
But the reality of sitting involves numb limbs and a posture that won't stay straight, while the mind drifts into useless memories of the past, everything feels completely disorganized. Somehow, remembering Munindra makes me feel that this chaos isn't a sign that I'm doing it wrong.
Tension, Incense, and the Unfiltered Self
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. Perhaps it is because the external noise has finally faded, and the street is silent. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, mixed with something dusty. I become aware that my jaw is clenched, though I can't say when it began. That’s usually how it goes. Tension sneaks in quietly, like it belongs there.
I recall that Munindra was known for never pressuring his students. That he let students struggle, doubt, loop back, mess up. I hold onto that detail because I spend so much of my own time in a state of constant hurry. 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. That is exactly how we lose touch with our own humanity.
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. In the past, I saw boredom as a sign of doing it "wrong," but I'm beginning to doubt that. Munindra’s way, as I perceive it, remains unruffled by the presence of boredom. It doesn’t label it as an obstacle that needs smashing. It is merely boredom—a condition that arises, stays, or goes. It doesn't matter.
A few hours ago, I felt a surge of unexplained irritation. No trigger. No drama. Just this low-grade grumpiness sitting in my chest. 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. But then came a quiet intuition, suggesting that even this irritation belongs here. This is not an interruption; it is the work itself.
The Long, Awkward Friendship with the Mind
I don’t know if Munindra would’ve said that. I wasn’t there. 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 also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He had no interest in appearing as a master who had transcended click here the human condition. He stayed in it.
My limb went numb a while ago, and I gave in and shifted my position, despite my intentions. A minor act of defiance, which my mind immediately judged. As expected. Then there was a brief moment of silence. Not deep. Not cosmic. Just a gap. Then the thoughts returned. Perfectly ordinary.
I guess that’s what sticks with me about Munindra. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. Some nights are just nights. Some sits are just sits. Certain minds are just naturally loud, exhausted, and difficult.
I remain uncertain about many things—about my growth and the final destination. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. But remembering the human side of Vipassanā, the side Munindra seemed to embody, transforms the practice from a rigid examination into a long-term, clumsy friendship with myself. And maybe that’s enough to show up again tomorrow, even if nothing dramatic happens.