Self-Restraint
The norms of moral discipline (yama) are intended to check the powerful survival instinct and rechannel it to serve a higher purpose, regulating the social interactions of yogins. The second limb of Patanjali’s eightfold path continues to harness the psychophysical energy freed up by the regular practice of moral discipline. The constituent elements of self-restraint (niyama) are concerned with the inner life of yogins. If the five rules of yama harmonize their relationship with other beings, the five rules of niyama harmonize their relationship to life at large and to the transcendental Reality. The latter five practices are:
purity (shauca)
contentment (samtosha)
austerity (tapas)
study (svâdhyâya)
devotion to the Lord (îshvara-pranidhâna)
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” preached John Wesley, and Indic puritanism resonates with this judgment perfectly. Purification is a key metaphor of yogic spirituality, and hence it is not surprising that purity should be listed as one of the five restraints. What is meant by purity is explained in the Yoga-Bhâshya (2.32), which distinguishes external cleanliness from inner (mental) purity. The former is achieved by such means as baths or proper diet, whereas the latter is brought about by such means as concentration and meditation. Ultimately, the personality in its highest or sattva aspect must be so pure that it can mirror the light of the transcendental Self without distortion. From the Maitrî- Upanishad we learn about mental purity:
The mind is said to be twofold: pure or impure. It is impure from contact with desire (kâma); pure when free from desire. When one has liberated the mind from sloth and heedlessness and made it immovable and then attains to the mind- transcending state (amanî-bhâva), this is the supreme estate. The mind should be restrained in the heart until such time as it becomes dissolved. This is gnosis and liberation, all else is but book learning. He whose mind has become pure through ecstasy (samâdhi) and has entered the Self, he experiences a happiness (sukha) that cannot be described in words and is only intelligible to the “inner instrument” (antahkarana) [i.e., the purified mind].
Contentment, or samtosha, is a virtue praised by sages around the world. In his Yoga-Bhâshya (2.32), Vyâsa explains it as not coveting more than what is at hand. Contentment is thus a virtue that is diametrically opposed to our modern consumer mentality, which is driven by the need to acquire ever more to fill the inner vâcuum. Contentment is an expression of renunciation, the voluntary sacrifice of what is destined to be snatched from us anyway at the moment of death. Contentment is closely allied with the attitude of indifference that has yogins look upon a lump of earth and a piece of gold with the same coolheadedness.
This allows yogins to experience success or failure, pleasure or sorrow, with unshakable equanimity.
Austerity, or tapas, is the third component of niyama and comprises such practices as prolonged immobilized standing or sitting; the bearing of hunger, thirst, cold, and heat; formal silence; and fasting. As discussed in Chapter 3, the word tapas means “glow” or “heat” and refers to the great psychosomatic energy produced through asceticism, which is often experienced as heat. Yogins use this energy to heat the cauldron of their body-mind until it yields the elixir of higher awareness. According to the Yoga-Sûtra (3.45), the fruit of such asceticism is the perfection of the body, which becomes robust like a diamond. Tapas must not be confused with harmful self-castigation and fakiristic self-torture, however.
In the Bhagavad-Gîtâ, three kinds of asceticism are distinguished, depending on the predominance of one or another of the three constituents (guna) of Nature:
Worship of the Gods, the twice-born ones, the teachers, and the wise, as well as purity, uprightness, chastity, and nonharming— [these are] called asceticism of the body.
Speech that causes no disquiet and is truthful, pleasant, and beneficial, as well as the practice of study (svâdhyâya)—[these are] called asceticism of speech.
Serenity of mind, gentleness, silence, self-restraint, and purification of the [inner] states—these are called mental asceticism.
This threefold asceticism practiced with supreme faith by men [who are] yoked and not longing for the fruit [of their deeds] is designated as sattva-natured.
Asceticism that is performed for the sake of [gaining] good treatment, honor and reverence [from others], or with ostentation—that is called here [in this world] rajas-natured. It is fickle and unsteady.
Asceticism that is performed out of foolish conceptions [with the aim] of torturing oneself or that has the purpose of ruining another —that is called famas-natured. (17.14-19)
Study, or svâdhyâya, is the fourth member of niyama and a significant aspect of yogic praxis. The word is composed of sva (“own”) and adhyâya (“going into”) and denotes one’s own delving into the hidden meanings of the scriptures. The Shata-Patha- Brâhmana (“Brâhmana of the Hundred Paths”), a pre-Buddhist work, contains the following passage, which vividly describes the extraordinary esteem in which study of the sacred lore was held:
The study and the interpretation [of the sacred scriptures] are [a source] of joy [for the serious student]. He becomes of yoked mind and independent of others, and day by day he gains [spiritual] power. He sleeps peacefully and is his own best physician. He controls the senses and delights in the One. His insight and [inner] glory (yashâs) grow, [and he acquires the ability] to ripen the world (loka-pakti) [lit. “world-cooking”]. (11.5.7.1)
The purpose of svâdhyâya is not intellectual learning; it is absorption into ancient wisdom. It is the meditative pondering of truths revealed by seers and sages who have traversed those remote regions where the mind cannot follow and only the heart receives and is changed. The Sanskrit commentators on the Yoga-Sûtra take svâdhyâya to also mean the meditative recitation (japâ) of the sacred texts, but King Bhoja expresses a minority opinion when he, in his Râja-Mârtanda, equates study exclusively with recitation.
The final component of niyama is devotion to the Lord, or îshvara-pranidhâna, which deserves our special attention. The Lord (îshvara), as has already been stated, is one of the multiple but coalescing transcendental Selves (purusha). According to Patanjali’s definition, the Lord’s extraordinary status among the many Selves is due to the fact that He can never be subject to the illusion that he is deprived of His omniscience and omnipresence. The other free Selves, however, have at one time experienced this loss, when they deemed themselves to be a particular egoic personality, or finite body-mind. All Selves are of course inherently free, but only the Lord is forever aware of this truth.
The Lord is not a Creator like the Judeo-Christian God, nor the kind of universal Absolute taught in the Upanishads or the scriptures of Mahâyâna Buddhism. This has prompted some critics to regard the îshvara as an “intruder” into Classical Yoga. However, the assertion that the Lord has found His way surreptitiously into the dualistic metaphysics of Patanjali’s Yoga is not warranted. It overlooks the entire history of Pre-Classical Yoga, which was clearly theistic (panentheistic, to be precise). A more reasonable reading of the situation would be that, in his effort to furnish a rational framework for Yoga, Patanjali gave the concept of îshvara a definitional twist that allowed him to incorporate it into his dualistic system. That his solution was barely satisfactory can be gathered from the many criticisms of it in other traditions and from the fact that Post-Classical Yoga returned to the panentheistic conceptions of the pre-Patanjali schools.
Why did Patanjali pay any attention at all to the îshvara doctrine? The reason is, very simply, that the Lord was more than a concept to him and the yogins of his time. It makes sense to assume that the Lord, on the contrary, corresponded to an experience they shared. The idea of devotion to the Lord and grace (prasâda) has been an integral element of Yoga from the earliest beginnings, but especially since the rise of such theistic traditions as the Pâncarâtra, epitomized in the Bhagavad-Gîtâ.
The religious mind is naturally
bent to worship the higher Reality. As Swami Ajaya (Alan Weinstock) remarked:
As long as we are engrossed in our own needs, in “I” and “mine” we will remain insecure … Cultivating surrender and devotion replaces such self-preoccupation with a sense of our connection that sustains this entire universe. A sense of devotion and surrender opens us to experiences of being nurtured. We also learn that we have the capacity to become instruments of higher consciousness, serving and giving what we can to help others in their own awakening.2
Devotion to the Lord is the heart opening to the transcendental Being who for the unenlightened individual is an objective reality and force, but who upon enlightenment is found to coincide with the yogin’s transcendental Self. This is not spelled out in the Yoga- Sûtra, but it is implied in the doctrine that all the transcendental Selves, including the îshvara, are eternal and omnipresent; thus, even though they are spoken of as many, they must coincide with each other.
In the Yoga-Bhâshya, the mechanics of this process of devotion is explained as follows:
On account of devotion, [that is,] through a particular love (bhakti) [toward Him], the Lord inclines [toward the yogin] and favors him alone by reason of his disposition. By this disposition only, the yogin draws near to the attainment of ecstasy (samâdhi) and the fruit of ecstasy, [which is liberation]. (1.23
Self-restraint (niyama), in its five forms, is thus more than self-effort, because it entails the element of grace. Yogins do their utmost to understand and transcend the many ways in which the conventional ego-personality endeavors to perpetuate itself. But, in the last instance, the leap from individuated experience to ecstatic Self-realization is a matter of divine intervention.
Posture
The first two limbs, yama and niyama, regulate the social and personal life of yogins in an effort to reduce the production of unwholesome volition and action, which would only increase yogins’ karmic stock. The objective is to eliminate all karma—that is, all the subliminal activators (samskâra) embedded in the depths of the psyche. For this transformation of consciousness to be successful, yogins must create the right environmental conditions, within and without. Yama and niyama can be seen as the first steps in this direction. Posture, or âsana (lit. “seat”), takes this effort to the next level, that of the body.
For Patanjali, posture is essentially the immobilization of the body. The profusion of postures for therapeutic purposes belongs to a later phase in the history of Yoga. According to the Yoga-Sûtra (2.46), one’s posture should be stable and comfortable. By folding together their limbs, yogins achieve an immediate change of mood: They become inwardly quiet, which gready facilitates their endeavor to concentrate the mind. A certain group of postures—known as “seals” (mudrâ)—are especially potent in altering one’s mood because they have a more intense effect on the body’s endocrinal system. Beginning Yoga practitioners sometimes find it difficult to detect these inner changes, perhaps because they are paying too much attention to the tensions in the musculature. With sufficient practice, however, anyone can discover the mood-altering effects of the different âsanas, and then the real inner work can begin. For, as Patanjali tells us, the proper execution of posture makes yogins insensitive to the impact of the “pairs of opposites” (dvandva), such as heat and cold, light and darkness, quiet and noise.
Breath Control
“The whole adventure of Yoga is but a play of the Prânic force.”3 This quote spells out the signal importance of prâna, the life force, in the process of Yoga. When yogins have become sufficiently aware of their inner environment and are no longer distracted by muscular tensions and external stimuli, they begin to become more and more attuned to the life force as it circulates in the body. The next step consists in energizing the inner continuum—the body-mind as it is subjectively experienced— through the practice of prânâyâma. Prâna, as has often been pointed out, is not merely the breath. Rather, the breath is only an external aspect, or a form of manifestation, of prâna, which is the life force that interpenetrates and sustains all life.
The technique of prânâyâma (lit. “extension of prâna”) is the most obvious way in which yogins seek to influence the bioenergetic field of the body. But even the practice of the moral disciplines and restraints and the techniques of sensory inhibition and mental concentration are forms of manipulating the pranic force.
Although various researchers have at different times made a case for the existence of prâna, their ideas have had little impact on the Western medical establishment. Some, like the Austrian physician Anton Mesmer (the éminence grise of hypnotism) and the American psychiatrist Wilhelm Reich (the inventor of the orgone box), were ridiculed and even persecuted for their innovative ideas. Yet, the idea of bioenergy can be found in many cultures: The Chinese call it chi, the Polynesians mana, the Amerindians orenda. Modern researchers speak of bioplasma. Whatever prâna turns out to be—and much more research must be done before it will be accepted by modern scientists as reality—it is an experienceable fact for the practitioner of Yoga.
Yogins know that there is an intimate link between the life force, the breath, and the mind. The Yoga-Shikhâ-Upanishad declares:
Consciousness (citta) is connected with the life force indwelling in all beings. Like a bird tied to a string, so is the mind.
The mind is not brought under control by many considerations. The means for its control is nothing else but the life force. (59-60)
Through regulation of the breath, combined with concentration, the life force of the body-mind can be stimulated and directed. The usual vector is toward the head or, more precisely, the centers of the brain. This will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 17. At any rate, prâna is the vehicle for the ascent of attention within the body, the focusing of awareness along the bodily axis toward the brain. As the breath, or life force, rises in the body, attention ascends and leads to more and more subtle experiences. In the final stage of this process, the pranic energy is guided into the topmost psychoenergetic center (cakra) at the crown of the head. When prâna and attention come to be fixed in that spot, the quality of consciousness may change radically, yielding the ecstatic state (samâdhi).
Sense-Withdrawal
The practice of both posture and breath control leads to a progressive desensitization that shuts out external stimuli. More and more, yogins come alive in the inner environment of their mind. When consciousness is effectively sealed off from the environment, this is the state of sensory inhibition, or pratyâhâra. The Sanskrit texts compare this process to a tortoise contracting its limbs. In the Mahâbhârata, sense-withdraw- al is pertinently described thus:
The Self cannot be perceived with the senses that, disunited, scatter to and fro and are difficult to restrain for those whose self is not prepared. (12.194.58)
Clinging thereto [i.e., to the highest Reality], the sage should, through absorption, concentrate his mind to one point by “clenching” the host of the senses and sitting like a log.
He should not perceive sound with his ear, not feel touch with his skin. He should not perceive form with his eyes and not taste tastes with his tongue.
Also, the knower of Yoga should, through absorption, abstain from all smells. He should courageously reject these agitators of the group of five [senses]. (12.195.5-7)
Even though yogins practicing sensory inhibition are described as “sitting like a log,” this does not mean they are in a coma. On the contrary, when the senses are shut down one by one, the mind generally becomes very active. This has been demonstrated in experiments on sensory deprivation, such as with the help of the so- called samâdhi tanks invented by John C. Lilly. Here the subject is completely immersed in salt water in a dark, insulated container, and some subjects start to hallucinate after only a few minutes. For yogins, of course, the challenge is not to succumb to either hallucination or sleep, but to hold the mind steady on the object of concentration.
Concentration
As a direct continuation of the
process of sensory inhibition, concentration is the “holding of the mind in a motionless state,” as the Tri-Shikhi-Brâhmana-Upanishad (31) defines this advanced practice. Concentration, the sixth limb of the eightfold path, is the focusing of attention to a given locus (desha), which may be a particular part of the body (such as a cakra) or an external object that is internalized (such as the image of a deity).
Patanjali’s term for concentration is dhâranâ, which stems from the verbal root dhri, meaning “to hold.” What is being held is one’s attention, which is fixed on an internalized object. The underlying process is called ekâgratâ, which is composed of eka (“one, single”) and agratâ (“pointedness”). This one-pointedness, or focused attention, is a highly intensified form of the spurts of concentration that we experience, for instance, during intellectual work. But whereas ordinary concentration is mostly only a heady kind of state, accompanied by a great deal of localized tension, yogic dhâranâ is a whole-body experience free from muscular and other tension, and therefore with an extraordinary dimension of psychic depth, in which the creative inner work can unfold.
In the Kathâ-Sârit-Sâgara (“River Basin of Stories”), a popular collection of stories by Soma- deva (eleventh century C.E.), we find the following story which shows just how pointed concentration must be.
Vitastadatta was a merchant who had converted from Hinduism to Buddhism. His son, in utter disdain, persisted in calling him immoral and irreligious. Failing to correct his son’s obnoxious behavior, Vitastadatta brought the matter before the king, who promptly ordered the boy’s execution at the end of a period of two months, entrusting him to the custody of his father until then. Brooding on his fate, the lad could neither eat nor sleep. At the appointed time he was again brought to the royal palace. Seeing his terror, the king pointed out to him that all beings are as afraid of death as he. Therefore, what higher aspiration could there possibly be than practicing the Buddhist virtue of nonharming at all times, including showing respect to one’s elders.
The Yoga Tradition Page 49