I find myself thinking of Anagarika Munindra whenever the practice seems too cluttered, too flawed, or filled with uncertainties I cannot silence. The irony is that I never actually met Anagarika Munindra. Perhaps "irony" isn't the right word. I never sat in his presence, heard the actual sound of his voice, or witnessed his characteristic mid-sentence pauses. 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.
The time is roughly 2 a.m., and the fan has resumed its irregular clicking. 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. My posture is a mix of sitting and slouching, a physical reflection of my desire to quit. 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. He was known for his frequent laughter, a real and heartfelt kind. That trait remains in my mind more vividly than any technical instruction.
Vipassanā: Precision Tool vs. Human Reality
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. And certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect that. 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 should click here be more serene or more focused after all this time. 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 guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. And yet he stayed… normal? That word feels wrong but also right. 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.
The Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It wouldn’t shut up. 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. Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
My back was damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. Breath came and went like it didn’t care about my spiritual ambitions. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. Munindra seemed to understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or mechanical. A human consciousness, a human form, and a human mess. All of it is workable. All of it is worthy.
There is no feeling of enlightenment here; far from it. I feel tired. Slightly comforted. Slightly confused. The mind’s still jumping. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. But tonight, 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 is perfectly fine for now. It's not "fixed," but it's okay enough to just keep going, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.