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’ve never sat in front of him, never heard his voice live, never watched him pause mid-sentence the way people say he did. Even so, he manifests as a quiet influence that surfaces whenever I feel exasperated with my internal dialogue. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. Usually when I’ve already decided meditation isn’t working today, or this week, or maybe ever.
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. I’m sitting but not really sitting, more like half-slouched, half-giving-up. The mind’s noisy. Nothing special. Just the usual stuff. Memories, plans, random nonsense. Then a memory of Munindra surfaces—how he avoided pressuring students, never romanticized awakening, and didn't present the path as an easy, heroic feat. He was known for his frequent laughter, a real and heartfelt kind. That trait remains in my mind more vividly than any technical instruction.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision tool. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. As if I ought to have achieved more calm or clarity by this point. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He seems more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. He guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. Despite this, he remained... ordinary? That term feels simultaneously inaccurate and perfect. He never treated the path as a performative act or pressured anyone to appear mystical. He had no need to be "special." There was only awareness—a kind, gentle awareness directed even toward the unpleasant parts of the self.
The Persistence of the Practice Beyond the Ego
Earlier today, I actually felt angry at a bird while walking. It simply wouldn't stop chirping. 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 damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. That’s the part I keep forgetting. The practice doesn’t care about my story. It just keeps happening. Munindra appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still worthy.
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 will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. But tonight, get more info it’s enough to remember that someone like Munindra existed, walked this path, and didn’t strip it of warmth.
The fan continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. And somehow, that’s okay right now. Not fixed. Not solved. Just okay enough to keep going, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.