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 am repeatedly struck by the realization that Vipassanā is rarely as tidy as the textbooks suggest. Not in real life, anyway. In the literature, everything is categorized into neat charts and developmental milestones.
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. And somehow, when I think of Anagarika Munindra, that mess doesn’t feel like a mistake.

Tension, Incense, and the Unfiltered Self
It’s late again. I don’t know why these thoughts only show up at night. Maybe because everything else shuts up a bit. The traffic outside is quieter. With my phone cast aside, I can detect the lingering scent of incense, mixed with something dusty. I suddenly realize how much tension I'm holding in my jaw. Tension is a subtle intruder; it infiltrates the body so quietly that it feels natural.
I’ve read that Munindra possessed a rare quality of never hurrying the process for anyone. That he let students struggle, doubt, loop back, mess up. That detail stays with me. Most of my life feels like rushing. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. 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.

When the "Fix-It" Mind Meets the Dhamma
On many days, the sit is entirely unspectacular, dominated by a dense cloud of boredom. The type of dullness that makes you crave an end to the session. In the past, 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.
A few hours ago, I felt a surge of unexplained irritation. There was no specific event, just a persistent, dull anger in my chest. I felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. Occasionally, the need to control is much stronger than the ability to observe. And then there was this soft internal reminder, not a voice exactly, more like a tone, saying, yeah, this too. This is not an interruption; it is the work itself.

Consistency Over Performance
I have no way of knowing if he would have phrased it that way. Yet, the accounts of his life suggest he had a profound trust in the natural unfolding of the Dhamma rather than treating it as a predictable, industrial operation. He seemed to have a genuine faith in people, which is a rare quality. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He didn’t seem interested in playing the role of someone above the mess. He was comfortable within the mess.
For the last ten minutes, my leg has been insensate, and I finally moved, breaking my own rule. A minor act of defiance, which my mind immediately judged. As expected. After that, a brief silence occurred—not an enlightened void, just a momentary gap. And then thinking again. Normal.
I guess that’s what sticks with me about Munindra. The grace to remain human while engaging with a deep spiritual path. The permission to not turn every experience into a milestone. There are nights that are merely nights, and sessions that are merely sessions. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.

I still harbor many doubts regarding my progress and the goal of the path. About whether I’m patient enough for this path. But remembering the human side of Vipassanā, the side Munindra seemed to embody, makes it feel less like a test and more like a click here long, awkward friendship with my own mind. And maybe that’s enough to show up again tomorrow, even if nothing dramatic happens.