It occurs to me that Munindra’s approach to the mind was akin to a long-term friendship—unrushed, accepting of imperfections, and profoundly patient. I am repeatedly struck by the realization that Vipassanā is rarely as tidy as the textbooks suggest. At least, not in the realm of actual experience. In books, sure. In charts, diagrams, progress maps.
But when I’m actually sitting there, legs numb, back slightly crooked, with a mind obsessively revisiting decade-old dialogues, the experience is incredibly messy. Yet, through the lens of Munindra’s presence, that very mess ceases to feel like a failure.
Tension, Incense, and the Unfiltered Self
The hour is late, and as usual, these reflections only surface when the world is quiet. Perhaps it is because the external noise has finally faded, and the street is silent. With my phone cast aside, I can detect the lingering scent of incense, blended with a hint of dust. I notice my jaw’s tight. I didn’t notice when it started. That’s usually how it goes. Tension sneaks in quietly, like it belongs there.
I’ve read that Munindra possessed a rare quality of never hurrying the process for anyone. He gave people the permission to be confused, to doubt, and to repeat their mistakes. That specific trait resonates with me, as my entire existence feels like a race. 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. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
The Validity of the Unspectacular
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. I once interpreted this as a failure in my practice, but my perspective is shifting. Munindra’s way, as I perceive it, remains unruffled by the presence of boredom. It doesn’t label it as an obstacle that needs smashing. It is merely boredom—a condition that arises, stays, or goes. It doesn't matter.
This evening, I became aware of a low-grade grumpiness for no obvious cause. No external drama was needed; the irritation simply sat there, heavy and quiet. I felt a powerful more info urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. At times, that urge is far more potent than my actual awareness. But then came a quiet intuition, suggesting that even this irritation belongs here. This experience is valid. It is part of the practice.
A Legacy Without Authority Games
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 refusing to treat it like a cold, mechanical system. He also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He had no interest in appearing as a master who had transcended the human condition. He stayed in it.
My leg fell asleep about ten minutes ago. I shifted slightly even though I told myself not to. A tiny rebellion that my internal critic noted immediately—of course. After that, a brief silence occurred—not an enlightened void, just a momentary gap. 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 permission to not turn every experience into a milestone. There are nights that are merely nights, and sessions that are merely sessions. Certain minds are just naturally loud, exhausted, and difficult.
I’m still unsure about a lot. About progress. About where this leads. About whether I possess the necessary endurance for this journey. However, reflecting on the human warmth of Vipassanā that Munindra personified, makes it feel less like a test and more like a long, awkward friendship with my own mind. And maybe that’s enough to show up again tomorrow, even if nothing dramatic happens.