Anagarika Munindra keeps popping into my head when practice feels too human, too messy, too full of doubts I don’t know how to shut up. The irony is that I never actually met Anagarika Munindra. Perhaps "irony" isn't the right word. I have no personal memory of sitting with him, listening to his speech, or seeing his famous pauses in person. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. It often happens deep into the night, usually when my energy is low. Mostly at the moment I’ve concluded that meditation is a failure for the day, the week, or perhaps permanently.
It is nearly 2 a.m., and I can hear the rhythmic, uneven click of the fan. 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. My posture is a mix of sitting and slouching, a physical reflection of my desire to quit. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. 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. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. But there are days when that whole vibe just makes me feel like I’m failing a test I didn’t sign up for. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. He seems more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. Despite this, he remained... ordinary? That term feels simultaneously inaccurate and perfect. 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.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
During my walking practice earlier, I found myself genuinely irritated by a bird. Its constant noise was frustrating. I recognized the anger, and then felt angry at myself for having that reaction. It’s a classic cycle. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness upon myself. Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. Breath came and went like it didn’t care about my spiritual ambitions. That’s the part I keep forgetting. The practice doesn’t care about my story. It just keeps happening. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
I certainly don't feel any sense of awakening as I write this. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. I'll likely look for more tangible progress or some confirmation that this isn't a waste of effort. But for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his click here human warmth.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. 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.