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. In practice, it certainly doesn't feel organized. In books, sure. In charts, diagrams, progress maps.
But the reality of sitting involves numb limbs and a posture that won't stay straight, 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.
The Quiet Honesty of the Midnight Hour
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. It might be because the distractions of the day have died down, leaving the traffic hushed. With my phone cast aside, I can detect the lingering scent of incense, mingled with the smell of old 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 remember reading that Munindra didn’t rush people. That he let students struggle, doubt, loop back, mess up. 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. Meditation often transforms into just another skill to master—a quiet battle for self-improvement. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
Befriending Boredom and Irritation
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. I once interpreted this as a failure in my practice, but my perspective is shifting. In my mind, Munindra’s presence doesn't react with panic toward a bored mind. 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. No external drama was needed; the irritation simply sat there, heavy and quiet. I felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. At times, that urge is far more potent than my actual awareness. 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 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 without turning it into a rigid machine. He trusted people, too. That feels rare. Especially in spiritual spaces where authority can get weird fast. 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. And then thinking again. Normal.
Ultimately, that is the quality of Munindra that remains in my thoughts. website The grace to remain human while engaging with a deep spiritual path. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. Some nights are just nights. Some sits are just sits. 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. However, reflecting on the human warmth of Vipassanā that Munindra personified, transforms the practice from a rigid examination into a long-term, clumsy friendship with myself. And maybe that’s enough to show up again tomorrow, even if nothing dramatic happens.