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 keep coming back to this weird feeling that Vipassanā isn’t as clean as people want it to be. In practice, it certainly doesn't feel organized. On paper, it looks orderly—full of maps, stages, and clear diagrams.
But the reality of sitting involves numb limbs and a posture that won't stay straight, mind replaying conversations from ten years ago for no reason, it’s messy as hell. Yet, through the lens of Munindra’s presence, that very mess ceases to feel like a failure.
The Quiet Honesty of the Midnight Hour
It’s late again. I don’t know why these thoughts only show up at night. It might be because the distractions of the day have died down, leaving the traffic hushed. 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. That’s usually how it goes. Tension sneaks in quietly, like it belongs there.
I recall that Munindra was known for never pressuring his students. 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. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
Befriending Boredom and Irritation
Some sessions offer nothing profound—only an overwhelming, heavy sense of boredom. The sort of tedium that compels you to glance at the timer despite your vows. I once interpreted this as a failure in my practice, but my perspective is shifting. Munindra’s approach, at least how I imagine it, doesn’t freak out about boredom. He didn't see it as a barrier to be destroyed. It is simply a state of being—a passing phenomenon, whether it lingers or not.
Earlier this evening, I noticed irritation bubbling up for no clear reason. No external drama was needed; the irritation simply sat there, heavy and quiet. My immediate reaction was to drive it away; the habit of self-correction is deeply ingrained. 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 counts. This is part of the deal.
The Courage to Be Normal
I don’t know if Munindra would’ve said that. I wasn’t there. 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 also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. This is especially notable in spiritual circles where power dynamics often become problematic. He had no interest in appearing as a master who had transcended the human condition. He was comfortable within the mess.
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. This was followed by a short interval of quiet—not a mystical check here state, just a simple pause. And then, the internal dialogue resumed. Normal.
I guess that’s what sticks with me about Munindra. The permission to be normal while practicing something profound. 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’m still unsure about a lot. About progress. About where this leads. 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 long, awkward friendship with my own mind. And perhaps that is sufficient reason to return to the cushion tomorrow, regardless of the results.