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. 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. 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 should’ve fixed it weeks ago. My knee hurts a bit, the dull kind, not dramatic, just annoying enough to keep reminding me it exists. 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 I recall a detail about Munindra: he wasn't one to rush people or market enlightenment as some polished, epic adventure. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
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 certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect that. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He feels more approachable and forgiving; he wasn't idle, just profoundly human.
It's amazing how thien su munindra many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. He guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be 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.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
During my walking practice earlier, I found myself genuinely irritated by a bird. Its constant noise was frustrating. I noted the irritation, and then felt irritated at my own lack of composure. A typical meditative trap. I had a brief impulse to coerce my mind into "correct" awareness. And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. 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 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 am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. I will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. However, for tonight, it's enough to know that Munindra was real, that he walked this path, and that he kept it kind.
The fan continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. And strangely, that feels acceptable for the moment. Nothing is repaired or resolved, but it is enough to continue, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.