I find myself thinking of Anagarika Munindra whenever the practice seems too cluttered, too flawed, or filled with uncertainties I cannot silence. Curiously, I never had the chance to meet Munindra in person, which is strange when I think about it. I have no personal memory of sitting with him, listening to his speech, or seeing his famous pauses in person. Even so, he manifests as a quiet influence that surfaces whenever I feel exasperated with my internal dialogue. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. Mostly at the moment I’ve concluded that meditation is a failure for the day, the week, or perhaps permanently.
It’s around 2 a.m. right now. The fan’s making that uneven clicking sound again. I ought to have repaired that fan long ago. My knee is throbbing slightly; it's a minor pain, but persistent enough to be noticed. I am in a seated posture, though it's more of a discouraged slouch than a meditative one. The mind’s noisy. Nothing special. Just the usual stuff. Memories, plans, random nonsense. And then I remember something I read about Munindra, how he didn’t push people, didn’t hype enlightenment, didn’t pretend this was some clean, heroic journey. He apparently laughed a lot. Like, actually laughed. That detail sticks with me more than any technique.
Vipassanā: Precision Tool vs. Human Reality
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. Like I should be more serene or more focused after all this time. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He didn't make the practice about showmanship or force a mystical persona. He had no need to be "special." There was only awareness—a kind, gentle awareness directed even toward the unpleasant parts of the self.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It wouldn’t shut up. Then I noticed the annoyance. Then I got annoyed at myself for being annoyed. Classic. There was this split second where I almost forced myself into being mindful “correctly.” And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. The breath flowed in and out, seemingly oblivious to my desire for progress. I often lose sight of the fact that the process is independent of my personal narrative. It simply unfolds. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. A human consciousness, a human form, and a human mess. All of it is workable. All of it is worthy.
I click here don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. I suspect the doubt will return when I wake up. I will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. But for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his human warmth.
The clicking fan, the painful knee, and the loud mind are all still here. And somehow, that is perfectly fine for now. It's not "fixed," but it's okay enough to just keep going, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.