In the haṭha yoga tradition, which uses powerful techniques to induce altered states of mind, there is an emphasis on being grounded in reality through the process of dropping into the present moment by uniting the sun and the moon channels of the breath. This process, which eventually can positively enhance all aspects of your life, is not as unattainable as our minds might like to imagine. In fact, it can and does happen spontaneously all the time—even if you are not practicing yoga or meditation. Whenever you have an experience of beauty, an aesthetic awakening, or when you delight in the essence or true flavor of something, whenever you are kind or when you feel a true relationship, then the two channels of breath automatically unite. Physiologically there are a number of signals that indicate you have dropped into the calm of the central channel, but because the sensations are subtle, they may come and go unnoticed. One sign is a softening and a sense of opening up through the back of the palate. This causes the eyes to become steady yet soft, and it also stimulates the mind to become focused, but without firm ideas, so that the mind’s normal tendency to grasp the active solar attitude or the more passive lunar attitude is temporarily suspended. With practice we may notice these physiological and mental states associated with the breath dropping into the central channel as they arise, and if we stay present with the feelings while observing our ego’s desire to reduce the entire experience to something we can identify and theorize about, then the yoga begins to work. We can let go and simply appreciate whatever it is that is arising, recognizing that there are always two sides to everything and that our distinct patterns of perception are usually two ends of the same stick.
Nāda Tantric Body (4)
Opening the inner ear is both a beginning and an advanced practice in haṭha yoga. Listening, while allowing the eyes to gaze without the mind forming a subject or an object, gives space to the prāṇa, and to all of the elements of the body, allowing them to unfold into their true radiant form. Nāda, sometimes represented by the sound of a conch shell, is thought of as internal pure sound that absorbs the whole attention and the mind into deep samādhi, suspending all of the fluctuations of both the praṇa and the citta. Nāda is awakened by going through all of the sensation fields of the body with the fine-tooth comb of discriminating awareness. As each of the little nāḍīs within the sense fields are cleaned out, all types of inner sounds are awakened. When the attention is held in the anāhata cakra (the heart), nāda finally begins to fully absorb the mind.
Sometimes this insight into reality through an experience of the nature of the union of opposites happens spontaneously, but the awakening is also something we can nurture through the practices of yoga. For instance, we can cultivate the physiological sensations that allow the root of the palate to open. This is achieved through the simple gesture of doing nothing, of suspending technique and deferring action in an appreciation of the present moment. It is what we do whenever we say “ahhhh” and when we pay very close attention, listening, feeling, thinking about, or using any of our senses to understand something that seems interesting and fresh. If we cultivate the physiology of softening the palate, our yoga practice transforms into a fine art in which we are able to balance different ratios of our techniques—of our inward spirals and our outward spirals within a posture, for example—to find the central channel. Cultivating this refined awareness within the body, we automatically begin to balance the rooting and squeezing tendency of the apāna with the flowering and expansive pattern of the prāṇa. We equalize these aspects of breath tastefully because we know them to be the expressions of the nature of pure consciousness, of love and relationship. This automatically stimulates within us a soft, inward smile, as if we were connoisseurs of the breath. Comprehending this idea of the union of opposites initiates the process of waking up the prāṇa and inviting the kuṇḍalinī into the central axis of the body so that it can move all the way up through the crown of the head, resulting in a sense of complete release and satisfaction. It is believed that upon this full awakening, the moon at the root of the palate—which collects nectar from the thousand-petaled lotus at the crown of the head—begins to melt and to shower down nectar into all of the nāḍīs.
It may all sound rather esoteric and complicated, but that is just the mind grasping onto the idea with the desire to have the final word and a complete understanding of the concept. The actual process of this deep connection to the central channel where the prāṇa enters into the suṣumnā nāḍī, and the stunning effect this union has on both body and mind, is a completely natural occurrence if we can only step out of the way long enough to allow it to happen. If you experience kindness either through acting kindly or by receiving kindness, if you tap into a sense of compassion or mercy, what you are actually doing physiologically is releasing the soft palate, so that a drop of compassion from the vast ocean of nectar within your own heart and mind floods your awareness, and this is the essential starting point—and the necessary finishing point—of the haṭha yoga process.
4
The Roots of the Practice
We see that all this is perishing, as these gnats, mosquitoes, and the like, the grass and the trees that grow and decay. But, indeed, what of these? There are others, superior, great warriors, . . . Kings too. . . . But, indeed, what of these? Among other things, there is the drying up of great oceans, the falling away of mountain peaks, the deviation of the pole star, the cutting of the wind-ropes (that hold the stars in their places), the submergence of the earth, the departure of the gods from their station. In such a world as this, what is the good of enjoyment of desires? For he who has fed on them is seen to return repeatedly. Be pleased, therefore, to deliver me. In this Saṁsāra (cycle of existence) I am like a frog in a waterless well. Revered Sir, you are our way, you are our way.
—Maitrī Upaniṣad, I.4
Within the yoga tradition and Indian culture in general, the gesture of offering salutations to others—to specific gods or teachers, to physical feelings and sensations—is something that is widely used as a means of bringing awareness to direct experience in the present moment. The acknowledgments serve as reminders of the interconnected relationship of all beings and of all experiences. The salutations allow the mind to release its grip on the need to know, and at the same time, they encourage the ego to dissolve. By chanting to the “great powers of the universe,” for example, we open our capacity to experience the interpenetrating meta-pattern of which we ourselves are an integral part, and also to feel the power of our breath as it relates to our mind. We are invited to look deep inside our hearts, where we start to distinguish what it is in life that really counts. Often it is not until the time of death that people return to the basic relationships in their lives as being the container for that which has held deep meaning and value for them. Chants through which we give salutations to others allow us to experience the process of appreciating that which is, rather than seeking that which we would like to be, long before we find ourselves facing our actual death. By offering our appreciation of others, we are reminded that perhaps the best way to define yoga is as a means of exploring the fundamental nature of relationship as the essence of love. In fact, it is out of this relationship to others that all of the yoga practices ultimately evolve.
In traditional yoga systems the first aspect of practice is called yama or the practice of relationship, which underscores the importance of connection to others as being integral to all expressions of yoga. The yamas are ethical principles, all of which stem from the basic tenet of ahiṁsā, or nonviolence. Him means “to kill” or “to harm,” and ahim means “to not kill, to not harm.” Perhaps a more accurate way of translating ahiṁsā is as “kindness” or “love,” which could be considered the epitome of not harming; through yoga we cultivate the capacity to not harm others by offering kindness. As we dive into our yoga practice, we begin to notice that whenever we have placed another being outside of our heart—when we have behaved without kindness—we experience an underlying discontent
, a deep sense of suffering that tends to color all of our experience, leaving us feeling guarded, overprotected, empty, and unfulfilled. Therefore the initial practice of yoga is to place back into our heart that which really matters, which turns out to be all sentient beings, whether they are humans or not—animals, creatures, or even imaginary life-forms. When all are located in the core of the heart, we find that the rest of the yoga practices not only clearly make sense, but that they are deeply satisfying and also that they are actually quite easy to carry out. Conversely, when we have placed even one seemingly insignificant being outside of the heart, we find that no matter what we do, the yoga practice essentially does not work; we are agitated, distracted, unhappy, or unsatisfied. So if you practice āsana or prāṇāyāma, if you twist yourself into a pretzel or you huff and you puff until you turn blue in the face, you will not be able to drop deeply inside of your own experience and truly practice yoga if you have placed even one sentient being outside of your heart. This is the meaning of ahiṁsā. Of course the literal meaning of nonkilling and nonharming might be interpreted to mean that a true yoga practitioner would do only good deeds and act in an absolutely sweet manner, but this is not actually so. Situations may sometimes arise in life where firm or even severe action must be taken as an act of ahiṁsā. If, for example, your child were kidnapped and beaten, the yogic response would not be to disengage and allow the situation to unfold as it might, or to try to reason with the kidnapper while your child bleeds to death on the sidewalk. Instead, ahiṁsā insinuates that one must exercise discriminative awareness in all situations that arise and then act appropriately. In this case, fitting action would be to protect your child from harm. The act of chasing the criminal down and saving your child—whatever it takes to do so—would be called for. At the same time, because the kidnapper would remain in your heart, you would act in such a way as to do the least harm possible to him or her as well. Ahiṁsā, therefore, is at the root of all relationships because as soon as we are able to reconcile our vision of others, thereby resolving our vision of what and who we actually are, then the yoga practices start to bear their fruit and quite naturally manifest as happiness.
The Sanskrit word for happiness is sukha. Kha means “space”; open, accommodating, radiant space. It can also mean a hole, like the hole in the center of something, and su means “good.” The word sukha, therefore, can mean a good, open space in the center of something, a meaning that evolved from the idea of a chariot wheel with its hole placed precisely in the center so that when it was put to use, those in the chariot got a smooth and even ride. The word duḥkha is frequently translated as “suffering,” but it also means a “bad hole,” suggesting the idea that when the hole in a chariot’s wheel was misplaced it would produce an uncomfortable, bumpy ride. When practicing, if the core of our heart is not open and truly centered, if it is not shining forth with radiance because we have closed it off to others, then our practice—and all aspects of our life—are not sukha, or happy. Instead we are filled with suffering because at the core of our being is a sense of duḥkha, or a “bad hole.” If, on the other hand, we have honest relationships with others and we embrace all beings into the core of our heart, then as we wake up into the present moment we find that we are able to penetrate into the depths of our circumstances, right into the core of what we really feel, and this is the beginning of great happiness. But of course this is not always easy. The mind is programmed at all costs to avoid the heart of our circumstances, and our present moment situation in relationship to others. It almost automatically steers clear of the unknown and vehemently shies away from the raw immediacy of pure relationship with itself and with others—the reality of the present moment.
The challenge many of us find in authentic relationship is not something that is unique to our culture, nor is it the product of our times. Avoiding relationship is something that is universally experienced among human beings, and it seems to have been a problem for a very long time. The earliest stories of yoga, in the hymns of the Vedas, arose from a prehistoric, mythical time, and in poetic rhythm and metaphor they sing about the problem of relationship and the joy of its resolution in the present moment. Since the beginning of the yoga tradition many thousands, if not millions, of people have worked with this core problem of relationship (and an open, radiant heart). Countless people have cooked the idea, refined it, discussed and argued about it. They have rejected the idea, taken it up again, and they have practiced it from every conceivable angle and under every imaginable circumstance. Slowly, as schools of thought and experience evolved, the traditions of yoga have formed. Yoga, therefore, is actually not one single thing that can easily be put into words and that has an all-encompassing meaning. Instead it is a condensation and evolution of thousands of different meanings, countless experiments in consciousness, myriad of interpretations of the workings of relationship, and endless religious visions and systems, all of which have been digested and synthesized by one another. Today we are very fortunate to be able to draw on the experience of millions of people who have inquired into their hearts and, in so doing, have developed yoga as a way of penetrating into the heart of reality.
One consistent thread within all schools of yoga is that the process is initiated through a deep, visceral understanding of impermanence. It begins with an understanding that not only are our bodies extremely temporary events but so are the bodies of all other sentient beings, and that beyond that, all types of manifestations are also temporary. Quite naturally, we may be afraid to let our minds dissolve into the obvious fact that not only are we going to die, but our children are going to die, as are our children’s children. We are all faced with the fact that our parents are going to die or have already died, as have their parents and their ancestors before them; all beings, past and future without end, are going to die. Not only that, but the circumstances in which all of these beings have lived and the environments they have created are temporary, and the very planet we are living on is an extremely impermanent event. The universe may be fourteen billion years old, but even if it endures for another trillion years, that will be just a blip in the potential of infinite time. All this is practically a truism, and we can allow our minds to unravel along these lines of thought, yet how often do we actually allow ourselves to experience this obvious fact? The teachings of yoga begin with the realization that we are in a situation that, from the point of view of our bodies, our circumstances, and our environment, is bleak. We are inviting disappointment and frustration as we hold on to something that is essentially made of sand. We are courting suffering. This can lead some people to think that the yoga tradition is very pessimistic or depressing because the only part of the teachings they hear is that we are all subject to birth, old age, disease, and death. In fact, even if you live a good life, eat certified organic foods, and exercise regularly, even if you do your yoga practice every day to the point that you are able to go into a deep trance at the snap of your fingers, still you are going to die. And in a million years, if not ten years, nobody will remember your great achievements. To the mind, which is grasping at straws, clutching for security forms that instantly dissolve, this seems like a rather negative situation to be in. But as we begin to comprehend the nature of impermanence and the universality of suffering, the effect can be quite liberating and completely grounding. We find that it is from acknowledging and assimilating the insights we have when we see that all things are temporary, that we are actually able to initiate a genuine inquiry into the practice of yoga, and more importantly, into a direct experience of the present moment. A close examination of the temporary nature of all phenomena, questioning our existence and the meaning of life, and learning to experience the actual nature of things in the present moment are the core teachings of all ancient yogic traditions.
There is a beautiful story from the time of the Buddha. He came upon a woman, Kisa Gotami, who was in a mango grove weeping with despair because her child had just died. She was so overcome by grief that
she could not even grasp the truth that her child was dead. Clutching her dead child in her arms and with tear-filled eyes, she went to the Buddha and pleaded with him to help her find a miraculous medicine that would bring her child back to life. The Buddha told her to go into the village and to collect a mustard seed from each house that had not experienced the pain and suffering of having lost to death someone they loved. In the village Kisa Gotami went house to house in search of the sacred seeds that would cure her child. Of course, in doing so she discovered that every house had experienced death, that all beings who were in relationship with others had experienced the loss of someone dear to them. She went to the Buddha and became his student. He instructed her to continue meditating on the impermanent nature of all phenomena. This touching story is a vivid demonstration of the realization of the truth of impermanence, an opportunity to recognize the fact that when we die, we are not alone. All of us are dying; it is not as if everyone else is going to be staying and having a good time, carrying on and partying for all eternity.
The realization that we are all going down the tubes of time can actually be quite a cathartic release from the sense of fear and loneliness that arises when the mind first starts to contemplate impermanence. In fact, it turns out that it is this very meditation on impermanence that allows the mind to stretch itself to infinity, into the past and into the future, just as the contemplation facilitates the joining with others in an experience of true relationship. Through this insight—even in the face of death and with the knowledge that all relationships will end at some point in time—authentic connections to others are not void, nor are they perceived as a state of loneliness. Instead through the realization of impermanence, a true relationship inspires us to return home to the seed of truth that rests in the core of our heart. Ultimately, that which sounded like the most depressing news possible when we first started to contemplate it—that there is constant change and that even this glorious universe we live in is but a blip on the fabric of time—gives rise to the greatest happiness of all. Although what initially arises from a meditation on change, impermanence, and time is a brief moment of anxiety, that discomfort quickly passes if you simply stay with the presence of all that surfaces within the meditation. You find that as you become increasingly comfortable with the experience of change, the mind becomes ever more able to reframe its perceptions and to step out of itself; and then to step out of itself and reframe again, and again, and again, and again without any limitation in any direction, spontaneously igniting an incredible sense of excitement and inspiration. The Buddha taught that there are four noble truths: first, the truth of suffering; second, that there is a cause for suffering; third, that there is or can be a cessation of suffering; and fourth, that there is a path to that cessation. These truths apply directly to the path of yoga.
The Mirror of Yoga Page 8