Anagarika Munindra and the Art of Not Rushing the Soul

Sometimes I think Anagarika Munindra understood meditation the same way people understand old friends—imperfectly, patiently, without needing them to change overnight. I cannot shake the feeling that the practice of insight is far more chaotic than the idealized versions we read about. Not in real life, anyway. On paper, it looks orderly—full of maps, stages, and clear diagrams.
But when I’m actually sitting there, legs numb, back slightly crooked, while the mind drifts into useless memories of the past, everything feels completely disorganized. Somehow, remembering Munindra makes me feel that this chaos isn't a sign that I'm doing it wrong.

Night Reflections: When the Mind Stops Pretending
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. Maybe because everything else shuts up a bit. The traffic outside is quieter. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, mixed with something dusty. I become aware that my jaw is clenched, though I can't say when it began. Tension is a subtle intruder; it infiltrates the body so quietly that it feels natural.
I recall that Munindra was known for never pressuring his students. He allowed them the space to fail, to question, and to wander in circles. That detail stays with me. Most of my life feels like rushing. A race to gain knowledge, to fix myself, and to reach some imagined spiritual goal. Even meditation becomes another thing to be good at. Another silent competition with myself. That is exactly how we lose touch with our own humanity.

Munindra’s Trust in the Natural Process
On many days, the sit is entirely unspectacular, dominated by a dense cloud of boredom. The kind that makes you check the clock even though you promised you wouldn’t. In the past, read more I saw boredom as a sign of doing it "wrong," but I'm beginning to doubt that. Munindra’s way, as I perceive it, remains unruffled by the presence of boredom. He didn't see it as a barrier to be destroyed. It’s just… boredom. A state. A thing passing through. Or not passing through. Either way.
This evening, I became aware of a low-grade grumpiness for no obvious cause. There was no specific event, just a persistent, dull anger in my chest. I wanted it gone. Immediately. That urge to fix is strong. Occasionally, the need to control is much stronger than the ability to observe. Then, a gentle internal shift occurred—a subtle realization that even this state is part of the path. This is not an interruption; it is the work itself.

The Long, Awkward Friendship with the Mind
I have no way of knowing if he would have phrased it that way. But the way people talk about him, it sounds like he trusted the process rather than treating it as a predictable, industrial operation. He trusted people, too. That feels rare. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He didn't pretend to be an exalted figure who was far removed from the struggles of life. He was comfortable within the mess.
My limb went numb a while ago, and I gave in and shifted my position, despite my intentions. A small rebellion. The mind instantly commented on it. Of course it did. This was followed by a short interval of quiet—not a mystical state, just a simple pause. Then the thoughts returned. Perfectly ordinary.
I guess that’s what sticks with me about Munindra. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. There are nights that are merely nights, and sessions that are merely sessions. Certain minds are just naturally loud, exhausted, and difficult.

I still harbor many doubts regarding my progress and the goal of the path. About whether I’m patient enough for this path. Yet, keeping in mind the human element of the Dhamma that Munindra lived, makes the path feel less like a series of tests and more like an ongoing, awkward companionship with my own mind. And perhaps that is sufficient reason to return to the cushion tomorrow, regardless of the results.