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. I didn’t meet Anagarika Munindra. That’s the funny part. Or maybe not funny. 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. It often happens deep into the night, usually when my energy is low. Often right after I've convinced myself that the practice is useless for now, or maybe for good.
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. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. 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. 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
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. 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. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many others. Despite this, he remained... ordinary? That term feels simultaneously inaccurate and perfect. He didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to more info 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.
The Persistence of the Practice Beyond the Ego
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. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness upon myself. 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. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. Munindra appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
There is no feeling of enlightenment here; far from it. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. 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 human 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, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.