Now, let’s take a look at how this compares to the eightfold path of Patanjali. His model begins with the twin practices of yama and niyama. These two limbs together make up the ethical and moral underpinnings of classical yoga practice. As such they relate to our relationships with others as well as our relationship with ourselves. While both words are often translated as “restraints,” the yamas involve harmonizing our social relations, and can be seen as moral disciplines, while the niyamas involve our inner attitudes and spiritual orientation and are “self-restraints” or observances that harmonize our relationship to ultimate reality.
The yamas are the “restrictions” of:1. Ahimsa: nonharming in action, thought, and speech. While extending to all beings, we must remember that it includes us too and be sure that our practice does not lead to our own harm—physically, emotionally, or psychologically.
2. Satya: truthfulness, understood to include all the aspects of right speech as taught by the Buddha: not lying, not gossiping, not slandering, and not abusing anyone verbally. In asana practice this also means to be true to our capacities and limitations.
3. Asteya: nonstealing, which means not taking anything that is not freely given.
4. Brahmacarya: to move with or in Brahman, here understood as the “higher” or ultimate reality. This can be seen as living in harmony with Dharma, the Tao, or the Way, or, in Judeo-Christian-Islamic terms, with God’s will. Brahmacarya can also mean “brahmic conduct,” which is to say behavior in harmony with the rules laid down for a priest, or behavior that imitates the condition of Brahman, which is asexual. Therefore, Brahmacarya has come to be understood as chastity, or sexually responsible behavior, free from exploitation, oppression, and aggression.
5. Aparigraha: literally, nongrasping, but often translated as “greedlessness” or “noncovetousness.” While it is often explained as the refusal of gifts, we can say that it is more the acceptance of the gifts of life as they present themselves. It is a kind of equanimity, closely allied with samtosha (contentment), one of the niyamas.
The niyamas are the five “observances” expected of a yoga practitioner:1. Shauca: often translated as “purity,” but literally meaning “to shine, to be bright;” and also “clean.” It includes personal bodily hygiene and inner or mental cleansing through meditative awareness. The four supreme efforts of the Buddha are a practice of inner shauca.
2. Samtosha: the contentment of equanimity, an easeful state of mind under all circumstances. This is the state of mind the Buddha is reputedly to have told a questioner he constantly abided in: free of anger, desire, greed, and frustration.
3. Tapas: from tap, which means “to burn, glow, or heat.” This word is often translated as “austerity” but is perhaps closer to “self-discipline.” As the Buddha pointed out, tapas must be moderate, and not devolve into mere self-abuse or neglect. Yoga seeks to remove suffering and pain, not increase it.
4. Svadhyaya: derived from sva + adhi + aya, “one’s going into,” and translated as “self-study.” This includes study and recitation of texts, as well as inner self-study and inquiry. Additionally, svadhyaya embraces the study of the great ideas that are shaping our contemporary civilization in the realms of science, art, and politics.
5. Ishvara-pranidhana, “devotion to the Lord.” Ishvara literally means “Lord,” and typically for Indian philosophy, it means different things to different schools of thought. It is always a transcendental reality however. Such devotion is perhaps a sticking point for many Buddhists, but there is no real need to interpret this term in a strictly theistic sense. In Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra, the concept of the Lord is not quite what we generally have in the West. Patanjali doesn’t think of Ishvara as a Creator Lord but merely as a special kind of purusha (a transcendent self akin to atman), free of the ignorance we all have regarding our true nature. One way of understanding Ishvara-pranidhana is to see the practice as a radical and total opening up of oneself toward that which is sensed to be greater than oneself. This can be conceptualized as God, Goddess, Dharma, Tao, buddha nature, dharmakaya (the unified, true essence of reality) shunyata (emptiness), or the cosmos at large. In many ways, this is exactly what Zen Master Dogen was pointing to when he said, “To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be intimate with the ten thousand things.”
The third limb of Patanjali’s eight-limbed path is asana. This word, most often translated as “posture,” literally means “seat,” and originally referred to the surface the yogin sat upon. It was to be firm, neither too high nor too low, level, clean, and generally pleasant.
Within the whole of the Yoga Sutra, Patanjali only has three things to say about asana. He begins by defining asana, saying, “Asana is stable and comfortable (or easeful).” The word translated as ease or comfort is sukham, that as we have seen before, is the opposite of dukkha. It was used to refer to an axle that is “true,” or centered in the wheel. Patanjali goes on to say in the next aphorism (perhaps confusingly, Patanjali’s aphorisms are individually referred to also as sutras) that asana becomes stable and comfortable “through the relaxing of effort,” as well as through samapatti, or “cognitive blending,” which can be seen as the balanced observation of the reactions of the body and breath to asana. And then, finally, in the following aphorism, he says that from this process the yogin will experience the “nonaffliction from the pairs of opposites,” such as pleasure and pain, hot and cold, etc. The sense of wellbeing that is so developed can lead the practitioner to the possibility of deeper self-understanding.
From this we see that “asana practice” was the practice of taking a comfortable seat in order to minimize physical obstructions that might impede the practice of meditation. In many of the earliest texts, the asanas described are those that serve as stable postures for prolonged sitting meditation. Over time, they were elaborated into the great variety of postures said to have therapeutic functions, which culminated in hatha yoga.
Once asana is achieved, according to Patanjali’s schema, we can open to the next limb of practice, pranayama. Patanjali defines pranayama as “breath regulation,” which involves “the interruption of the motion of inhalation and exhalation.” Pranayama literally means “the expansion of prana” (life-force or breath). Just by taking a relaxed yet stable seat, we notice a profound change in our breathing patterns. Yoga practice involves uncovering unconscious breathing patterns that limit our energy and cause various blockages, as well as fostering more healthful breathing habits.
In the Buddha’s yoga, pranayama, in the sense of breath manipulation, is not practiced. In fact, many Buddhist teachers actively discourage this practice. Nonetheless, I have found through my own experience that some pranayama practices can be a great aid in calming a very active mind, in centering and focusing my attention, and in clearing my mind if it is dull or heavy. However, pranayama can indeed be misused, and I think the Buddha’s negative experience of breath retention points very strongly to this possibility. And certainly there is no room for breath manipulation in the practice of anapanasati (awareness of the in- and out-breath), which is the leading meditation practice the Buddha offered to establish and cultivate mindfulness. Indeed, with breath awareness practice, rather than attempting to forcefully change what is happening or to create a particular experience, we are training ourselves in seeing just what is, with a mind centered in equanimity.
The fifth limb found in classical yoga is pratyahara, which is most often translated as “sense withdrawal.” It is described as the withdrawing of the sense consciousnesses (eye, ear, nose, tongue, skin) from their respective objects. Like a turtle retracting its limbs, the yogin is said to “withdraw his senses into himself.” With the senses drawn inwardly, it is said that the mind will also calm down. The fifth-century writer Vyasa, in his Yoga-Bhashya (Discussion on Yoga), the oldest commentary on the Yoga Sutra, says that “as when the queen bee settles down and the bees also settle down, similarly, the senses are controlled when consciousness is contro
lled.” The major thrust of this argument is that if yoga is the state of union, and if that union is to be experienced through meditation (the essence of yoga practice), then all the potential obstacles to that union must be addressed.
The first five limbs can be seen as all designed to tackle the various obstacles to yoga. The yamas and niyamas address the potential disturbances caused by our conscience. Asana is designed to minimize the obstacles our body can create for us when we choose to sit for long periods of meditation. Pranayama allows us to be full of energy and to breathe freely and with ease, so that our very breath supports a steady mind, and then pratyahara keeps our senses from running riot and taking our concentration along with them.
With these preliminaries to practice as our foundation, we can develop the sixth limb, dharana, or concentration (from the same root dhri, “to hold” or “to retain,” as in dharma and dharani). This is the cultivation of one-pointedness of mind achieved through the holding of attention to a single object. Dharana is a prelude to meditation and can have a wide variety of mental objects of focus, from the breath to an internalized visualization or a sound.
Deepening concentration leads to the seventh limb, dhyana, or meditation, which Patanjali defines as “the single directionality of an arising thought that directs mind to a single object of concentration.” This single directionality signifies that the mind is so concentrated on its singular object that no extraneous thoughts intrude.
(As an interesting aside, the Sanskrit word dhyana and the corresponding Pali word, jhana, are the source of the Chinese word chan, the name of the form of Chinese Buddhism that emphasized meditation practice and direct realization over scholarly understanding. When Chan first went to Korea and Vietnam, chan was pronounced son by the Koreans and thien by the Vietnamese. When Chan arrived in Japan, it was pronounced by the Japanese as zen. So the practice of Zen Buddhism literally means “meditation Buddhism.”)
Finally, the last limb is samadhi, which Patanjali describes as the “cognitive absorption of the mind, as if empty of its own form, reflecting the object of meditation alone.” That is to say, it is the state where the perceived separation between the subject and object melts away. Further, since yoga itself is both the spiritual endeavor to achieve union and the state of union itself, samadhi is, in fact, yet another definition of yoga. This is emphasized by Vyasa in the opening to his Yoga-Bhashya: “Yoga is samadhi.”
This is also the state described by the Taoist poet Li Po:The birds have vanished into the sky,
and now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.
Patanjali states that the first five limbs are the “external limbs,” and the last three—which are practiced together as one and are called sanyama (literally “constraint” or “self control”), which is most often understood as “the perfect regulation of the mind”—are the “internal limbs.” Many yoga students are under the impression that samadhi is the highest attainment of Patanjali’s yoga, but in fact he goes on to say that this inner limb (of sanyama) is itself an external limb of nirbija-samadhi (“seedless” or objectless samadhi), which is a more evolved state than the samadhi that takes the form of absorption in an object. Patanjali says of this state, which is ultimately indescribable, “Upon the ending of (even that) the mind is clear of all impressions, completely open, simply transparent, with no seeds.” This state is considered “seedless” because it is empty of the causes of affliction (klesha), namely: ignorance (avidya), “I-am-ness” (asmita), attachment (raga), aversion (dvesga) and the will to live (abhinivesha).
A fuller study of Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra will reveal numerous parallels with Buddhist thought. Whether this is due to the synchronous development of yoga with the two major traditions of Hinduism and Buddhism or whether there was truly a direct influence, we cannot know—though many make claims. Nonetheless, if Patanjali in fact did write the Yoga Sutra in the second century C.E., when Buddhism’s influence was quite strong, there may well have been some direct influence.
Despite this, there are many distinct differences between Buddha’s yoga and Patanjali’s. Foremost among these, as I have already mentioned, is the fact that Patanjali’s yoga is dualistic. As a result of this dualism, the highest liberation according to Patanjali is kaivalyam (aloneness), which only results when the yogin physically dies, dropping the finite body and mind. The yogin severs himself from nature (prakriti) and then abides in the transcendental state of pure awareness or self (purusha), just one among many other purushas.
Most schools of Vedanta, which tend to be nondual, hold to the ideal of the jivan-mukti, “the liberation in life.” Another model used to describe liberation or enlightenment, akin to jivan-mukti, is sahaja-samadhi. Sahaja means “natural” or “spontaneous” and the samadhi that is sahaja is said to be the realization of unbroken transconceptual samadhi while being engaged in external everyday activities. This Vedantic concept may have arisen as a result of tantric and Buddhist challenges to the idea of samadhi as withdrawal from the body into an inner transcendent consciousness akin to a trance state—the “stone Buddha syndrome.” Sahaja-samadhi brings the focused awareness of samadhi into the body and the world. The awakened sage lives freely in the world while never losing his awareness of the unconditioned realm of reality. Buddha’s own accounts of his experience seem to accord with sahaja-samadhi.
Living The Precepts
Recently, I was involved in a seminar on “the moral foundation of yoga practice.” And as in the many retreats I have attended or led, the discussion of the yamas, niyamas, and the five moral and ethical precepts generated a lot of reactivity: Many bristle at the mere suggestion that they “should” live in any particular way. But if we look into our resistance to the moral teachings of yoga, we find that we are reacting not to what the yogic trainings are truly saying but to something of our own creation that resembles the precepts and the yamas, rather than the actual precepts and yamas. What is really being resisted is the tradition of moral injunctions as embedded in the Ten Commandments. The perceived absolutism in these teachings arouses a typically modern resistance to authority, especially among those who may have had a bad experience within a tradition that has a morality based on authoritative injunctions and the threat of retribution. Because of this history, there seems to be an “allergy” to precepts. Nonetheless the importance of shila, morality, in any path to liberation can hardly be overestimated.
Yet the moral aspect of practice is overlooked, even by those who take up yoga as a spiritual practice, perhaps because many confuse what they think of as the “higher” experiences of samadhi with truly “deep” transformation. I once heard Georg Feuerstein say that “we wish to climb to the roof (samadhi, or even liberation) but we don’t want to take the time to build and use a ladder, much less straighten out the ground for the ladder to stand upon!” He went on to say that “straightening the ground”—laying the foundation—is 80 percent of the spiritual work, and remains so until full awakening, when wisdom arises and all spontaneously generated actions become “right.”
It is the practice of shila, as embodied in the yamas and the precepts, that allows us to harmonize ourselves and our actions with “things as they are.” “First Dharma, then moksha” (liberation) is a wonderful maxim to keep in mind here. Right action and right effort is the “work” of practice. Abhyasa, or “practice,” is the practical application of the teachings and must be accompanied and counterbalanced by vairagya—“dispassion,” “equanimity,” the practice of “letting go.” If practice is willful and unaccompanied by dispassion, we run the risk of solidifying the illusion of a separate self (or ego) rather than breaking through it, which is the ultimate goal of yoga.
In Mindfulness Yoga, the moral or ethical center of the path, comprised of right speech, right action and right livelihood, is known as shila, which is most often translated as “disposition” or “behavior.” Another term used fo
r this aspect of the path is shiksa, which has the connotation of “training.” The path requires us to cultivate the right or appropriate effort to develop strong mindfulness and concentration, which collectively make up the aspect of mental development or bhavana referred to as samadhi. And the insight developed through practice manifests as the right view or understanding and right thinking of prajna-wisdom. Of course, when we look at this threefold division of the Path, we can see that it is nothing more than mental categorization at work—perhaps useful for its ease of memorization and for the formulation of teachings—but it is in fact not the way things actually work. The various limbs and divisions of the Path are not mere stages or steps along the way: they are the various limbs that make up the body of the Dharmic path. This may seem to contradict the above idea that the moral teachings are the foundation—“First Dharma, then moksha”—but in reality there is no contradiction.
Shila, as embodied in the five yamas and the five precepts, are superficial at best if they are not the fruition of deep understanding (prajna) and concentration (samadhi). Mindfulness, effort, and concentration directed at studying and living the life of shila develop deep and expansive insight (prajna). Those who have achieved any aspect or degree of wisdom and insight manifest this understanding in their demeanor (shila).
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