Anagarika Munindra: The Path of Patience and Imperfect Friendship

It occurs to me that Munindra’s approach to the mind was akin to a long-term friendship—unrushed, accepting of imperfections, and profoundly patient. I keep coming back to this weird feeling that Vipassanā isn’t as clean as people want it to be. Not in real life, anyway. In the literature, everything is categorized into neat charts and developmental milestones.
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
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. With my phone cast aside, I can detect the lingering scent of incense, 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. 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. Rushing to understand, rushing to improve, rushing to get somewhere else mentally. Even meditation becomes another thing to be good at. Another silent competition with myself. In that striving, the actual human experience is sacrificed.

The Validity of the Unspectacular
There are days when I sit and feel nothing special at all. Just boredom. Heavy boredom. The kind that makes you check the clock even though you promised you wouldn’t. I used to think that meant I was doing it wrong. Now I’m not so sure. 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 simply a state of being—a passing phenomenon, whether it lingers or not.
Earlier this evening, I noticed irritation bubbling up for no clear reason. There was no specific event, just a persistent, dull anger in my chest. I wanted it gone. Immediately. That urge to fix is strong. At times, that urge is far more potent than my actual awareness. Then, a gentle internal shift occurred—a subtle realization that even this state is part of the path. This is not an interruption; it is the work itself.

A Legacy Without Authority Games
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 also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. This is especially notable in spiritual circles where power dynamics often become problematic. He had no interest in appearing as a master who had transcended the human condition. He here remained right in the middle of it.
My leg fell asleep about ten minutes ago. I shifted slightly even though I told myself not to. 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. And then, the internal dialogue resumed. Normal.
That is precisely what I find so compelling about his legacy. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The permission to not turn every experience into a milestone. Some evenings have no grand meaning, and some sits are just sitting. Certain minds are just naturally loud, exhausted, and difficult.

I’m still unsure about a lot. About progress. About where this leads. About whether I’m patient enough for this path. Yet, keeping in mind the human element of the Dhamma that Munindra lived, transforms the practice from a rigid examination into a long-term, clumsy friendship with myself. And that is enough of a reason to show up again tomorrow, even if the sit is entirely ordinary.