One extraordinarily beneficial effect of tantric practices is that they are designed to make you relax and let go; they teach the skill of leaving things alone just as they are. Tantra can reveal that reality is at the same time more subtle and complex than the mind can ever know, and that it is also far more beautiful and deep than can be imagined. The practices disclose the mind as simply one aspect of truth, and they demonstrate that the mind can neither embrace nor control life. So for the average yoga practitioner tantra is good news; it is essentially a method for presenting the perspective that life is wonderful, ecstatic, and that by its very nature it is pure joy. Tantra also allows us to look at the deeply horrible aspects of existence. It addresses the face of impermanence, the fact of death, degeneration, and ultimately the end of the cosmos. Through tantra we can look at all of this—both the joyous and the terrifying aspects of life—without grasping at them or shrinking away from them, and also without any sense of unmet desire or fear. Tantric practices reveal those things that may be considered the most horrible aspects of life, or the most blissful and intimate, those things that should never even be talked about publicly (especially with children) as a cause of great happiness. Tantra allows us to perceive and to merge with the full spectrum of life as it really is. It allows us to arrive fully within each yoga practice so that we are free of the extremes of idealism and perfectionism. Perhaps the most wonderful gift of tantra is that it underscores the sense that, in all aspects of life, we are entering a matrix that is like the arms of a great loving mother where we can be totally happy and completely at peace without having to be something or know something. Tantra becomes a method for insight into the core teachings of yoga and into the realization that things are quite interesting just as they are right here in the present moment.
8
The Yoga Sūtra
Not much is known about the actual history of the sage Patañjali, the composer of the Yoga Sūtra. Tradition considers him to be an incarnation of the divine serpent Ādi Śeṣa, the primordial residue, who has an unlimited number of heads and one tail. This same serpent serves as the couch of the god Visnu and all creation—the world—and incarnates in supporting roles whenever needed. Ādi Śeṣa is the archetype of the well-aligned yoga posture as well as the residue used as the material of meditation in deep samādhi. The name Patañjali means “fallen from prayer” or “fallen from praying hands.” One story would have it that when his mother picked up her newborn son in her hands, she was so shocked by his serpentine half that she accidentally dropped him; he fell from her praying hands. In any case the Yoga Sūtra has been so useful and penetrating in its explanations of the yoga path that people consider the author to be truly divine.
It is believed by many scholars that the Yoga Sūtra was composed at around 250 B.C.E. This was after the arising of the Mahāyāna school of Buddhism, in which there was a strong emphasis on compassion and on the nondual doctrine of emptiness. We find within the text of the Yoga Sūtra many, many terms that are uncommon within the yoga tradition yet which work well when cross-referenced with Buddhism. This in and of itself is very interesting because it is a demonstration of how the thinkers within the yogic and Buddhist systems were in contact with and were influencing one another. The Yoga Sūtra begins with the phrase “atha yoga anuśāsanam,” which translates as “now the exposition of yoga.” The word atha means “now,” and in this case it refers to the present moment, to the here and now. Beginning the Yoga Sūtra with the word now implies that we have finally come to a point where we are ready to inquire into the truth and achieve a direct experience of it. It also implies that we have already tried everything else we can think of as a means of relieving suffering—we have tried sex, drugs, and rock and roll, religion, piety, and self-improvement seminars. None of it has truly worked, so now we are finally ready to investigate the root cause of suffering and to explore the methods and the path for eliminating that suffering.
The next aphorism that Patañjali gives is a brief and useful definition of yoga: “Yoga is the cessation of the turnings of the mind” (yogaḥ citta vṛtti nirodhaḥ). The term nirodha is interpreted in many different ways. In fact it is good while studying the Yoga Sūtra to explore the various possibilities of meaning for the different sūtras presented in the numerous commentaries written by various scholars over the centuries. Nirodha can mean to make still the presentations in the mind, or it can mean the release of the agitation of mind. It can also mean the complete cessation of the presentations of the mind, implying that some of the states of deep yoga are experiences beyond thought and beyond thought construction. When this stillness of mind occurs, it is said that then the seer (which is actually pure consciousness, or in Sāṁkhya terminology, the puruṣa) stands free in its own form. In other words, there is no identification of the seer with that which is seen, that is, the constructions of the mind (the prakṛti). This is said to be the initial state or flash of enlightenment or liberation. In all other states—when the mind is looping with vṛttis—there is misperception and an identification by the seer with whatever is arising in the mind. When this happens the natural tendency is for the mind to drop into a state of grasping for or pushing away whatever it is identifying with, depending on the perceived value of the presentation in relation to the ego.
These looplike turnings of the citta, when not suspended or seen through in yoga, prevent the natural, radiant nature of pure awareness from unfolding; their misperception is the root cause of great suffering. Patañjali describes two categories for these loopings of the citta. Those that cause torment and suffering are called kliṣṭa. Others are called akliṣṭa; they are neutral and do not cause torment and suffering. This is an extremely important point made right at the beginning of the Yoga Sūtra. Many citta vṛttis are important and needed as props for meditation and as the content of intelligent thought. The tormenting vṛttis often cease thanks to the background work of those that are nontormenting. By the same token, the nontormenting vṛttis are absolutely necessary as well, and they too drop their structures and forms in deeper states of meditation. Yoga actually improves the thinking process rather than creating a catatonic state. It is important to remember that even though the deeper practices of yoga lead to states of mind in which thought comes to a point of cessation, yoga is not an antithought practice. Instead it is the refinement of the art of thinking, allowing chains of thought to unfold within an open sky of compassion and intelligence. Rather than just giving up with an attitude of, “well, thought has gotten us into all of this trouble so now we are not going to think at all,” yoga encourages clear, penetrating thinking. It is astonishing how frequently and easily this has been misinterpreted over the centuries by those unwilling to enjoy the paradoxes of thought that are revealed and observed within a healthy yoga practice.
In the next sūtra of the first pāda (chapter) the five types of vṛttis or mind processes are defined. The first is pramāṇa, true perception. These are thoughts that are correct and clear thinking, that form truthful, honest propositions about the world. Pramāṇa is associated with accurate direct perception, unambiguous logical thinking, and accepting testimony from reliable others. In contrast, viparyaya, wrong perception, is seen as misconception, misperception, or simply mistaken thought and theory. Viparyaya is a proposition formulated on misunderstanding of either external or internal phenomena. It is crucial to understand the distinction between pramāṇa and viparyaya. Both types of thought are citta vṛttis, yet as their definition indicates, not all thoughts are equally sound, nor are all thoughts equally accurate and precise. It is very important to be able to see things clearly within the practice of yoga, and if one does come up with a wrong concept, it is vitally important to be able to discover the confusion and to correct the misperception through intelligent investigation.
The next vṛtti described in the Yoga Sūtra is the mind state called vikalpa. Kal means “to imagine,” vi means “to divide”; vikalpa, then, means “divided imagina
tion.” This is simply the way the mind constructs its experience through what can be described as imagination or a combining of images and perceptions in the thought process, without any correspondence to any established substance or phenomena. Sometimes vikalpa is also used to describe the entire process of the world and the mind. From this point of view, vikalpa is all divided construction and as such is part of all mental creations, even the correct perceptions. Comprehending the idea of vikalpa is essential if we are to understand the description, within the Yoga Sūtra, of how the mind works with imagination at the root of all other states of mind, all the other vṛttis. The imagination is so vast and so deep that the mind easily becomes embroiled by it, especially if there is not a clear understanding of the mind’s tendency toward vikalpa, or divided construction.
Sleep, or nidrā, is considered to be the fourth type of vṛtti. Deep sleep and the dream state can be completely absorbing, so they are sometimes confused with the state of samādhi (absorption) or with the state of nirodha (cessation of the agitation of mind). In samādhi the mind is alert and awake; sleep, however, usually blocks these more radiant states. Unlike samādhi, a state of deep sleep is characterized by a very strong inertia, which is accompanied by strong physical sensations that keep pulling on and dissolving the mind rather than making it vital and alert. When one is beginning a yoga practice, nidrā can also be confused with a state of samādhi. You fall asleep while sitting in meditation, and you think, “Wow, that was certainly peaceful, I must have experienced samādhi!” But this type of dullness is not actually what yoga is all about. Yoga is an extraordinarily brilliant, calm, and intelligent state of awakeness. In fact, the very meaning of the word buddhi (intelligence) is to continually awaken from different shelves of awareness. Yoga is always a process of awakening and then waking up again out of the storylike loopings of the mind into the present moment.
The final vṛtti described in the Yoga Sūtra is smṛtayaḥ, or memory. Smṛtayaḥ indicates deep memories, memories that could go back within our own life, even to our childhood, or perhaps, within the scheme of the transmigration of the subtle body, smṛtayaḥ could be considered a memory that reaches from one life to another. Within this type of deep memory there is the opportunity to understand the entire patterning of one’s conditioning, and through the practice of meditation to become deconditioned from the restraints that patchy, unexamined memory imposes. Memory relates to deep core feelings as conditioning in the prāṇa; it holds many of our unconscious attitudes, anxieties, and fears. Becoming mindful of smṛtayaḥ allows the opportunity to actually make associations with our present experience, and the awareness facilitates insight into how we are programmed by associations that link back to past experience. Smṛtayaḥ allows us to let go of chains of past experience and thought that have led to faulty perception and misinterpretation of reality in the present moment. This clarification of the layers within memory is accomplished through meditation practice and by observing whatever is arising just as it is without meddling—without attempting to change or fix anything, without grasping or pushing away the memory.
The five types of vṛttis are said to be either miserable or painful (kliṣṭa), or they are considered to be not miserable or not painful in nature (akliṣṭa). When you are engaged in the practice of yoga, the vṛttis themselves (whether miserable or not) become stepping-stones for the practice. They become objects upon which to meditate without attachment, and as such they are extremely useful. When the presentation in the mind, the vṛtti, is made stable by simply observing it through a meditative quality of mind, then you are able to examine the vṛtti clearly, and in that examination you may be able to experience its true nature as something that is sacred. When it links into its background, into its immediate contexts, when it stretches on and on, connecting into everything, we can say that it is sacred. With this shift in perspective there is a natural release of the vṛtti, and in that release the insight of yoga begins. Eventually we are able to see that all states of mind, all states of being, everything that arises, is sacred. This insight into the nature of reality naturally brings us to a state of nirodha; we come into a state in which the agitation of the mind automatically ceases, as if we were stunned and awestruck by the depth, beauty, and simplicity of the ātman.
We learn from the Yoga Sūtra that nirodha is reached through the twofold process of abhyāsa and vairāgyam. Abhyāsa means the effort to practice in the sense of sticking with a repeating or replicating pattern. Through the repetition of a pattern that frames and reframes the content of the mind, a close observation of the content that can lead to nirodha is possible. Abhyāsa includes all the efforts of collecting together mind and body through yoga āsana, meditation, chanting, and prāṇāyāma, so that the workings of the mind are revealed. The other end of the stick that leads to nirodha is the practice of vairāgyam, or of letting go, of nonattachment. Once we see the patterns within the mind, rather than trying to change, fix, or alter them in any way, we simply allow the patterns to be; that is vairāgyam. We do not ignore the patterns; we do not ignore them nor do we perpetuate them by engaging with them. We give them support and space without interference so that they are allowed to play out their natural course and dissolve into their background. In this way we begin to see that yoga is a dual process of establishing patterns of practice that allow the possibility of insight to arise. Then, within that insight, we take the opportunity for complete release of the patterns that led to the insight, along with release of the very insight itself. The more complete the release of the patterns, the more we feel liberated on all levels of our being. With the insight we can feel release in our mind and thoughts, just as we feel releasing all through our body—in our navel, in the heart, we are enveloped and penetrated by it.
The next important concept presented in the Yoga Sūtra is that of discriminative awareness, or what is called viveka khyātiḥ, and this is one of the keys to full awakening within the Yoga Sūtra and within the practice of yoga. Discriminative awareness is also one of the underlying themes of the Sāṁkhya system, upon which the philosophical language of the Yoga Sūtra is based. Viveka khyātiḥ is the ability to discriminate or to discern between that which is real and that which is unreal. That which has the qualities of permanence, consciousness, and joy is real; and those things that are composite, temporary, and unconscious are unreal. The viveka khyātiḥ function of the buddhi continuously sees and disassembles the appearance of false selfhood in whatever is arising as the content of the mind. A good yoga practice helps us to cultivate this capacity for razor-sharp discriminative awareness, and it allows the awareness to manifest through a sense of pure release and nonattachment. In this clear frame of mind, when we are adept at seeing whatever is arising with a sense of discriminative awareness, the state of being called samādhi spontaneously arises. Samādhi is said to be characterized by different layers of deep focus of mind in which the thought process naturally comes together into complete concentration.
Within the Yoga Sūtra, Patañjali defines four different layers of samādhi. The first is vitarka, which means the process of deep concentration that is couched in a background of discriminative thinking. When we are in vitarka, it is as if there is an undercurrent of awareness beneath the surface of the concentrated mind—similar to the image of water flowing under a layer of ice. In vitarka there is a mental dialogue of philosophical thought going on; there is movement from thought to counterthought, and then on to other thoughts and new counterthoughts. This forms a metaphorical tube through which the attention flows as it focuses on the actual object being contemplated. In this functioning of mind, a thought can only partially frame an object; it can never quite wrap itself completely around that object, needing a counterthought to cover the angles it missed. This thought process (which is usually in relation to contemplation of gross physical objects or sensations) is like scaffolding that keeps framing the object, forming a background that allows the immediate focus of the mind to be st
ill, clear, and open.
Another deeper level of samādhi is called vicāra, which literally means “inquiry.” It is a movement into a chosen, more subtle object. Vicāra might concern those deep, slippery philosophical questions that tend to stun the mind to the point that the questions remain open-ended. It might also be a contemplation of subtle objects, such as the sense fields, rather than particular sense objects. Within vicāra, the backgrounds of things or the fine movements in emotion may even be contemplated.
An even deeper level of samādhi, called ānanda, is that in which the innate character of the mind—which by nature is joy—becomes the very subject of concentration. This joy is considered to be the quality of the open, purified senses themselves without a particular object. Attention to the deep and subtle experiences of the internal yoga body of cleaned-out cakras and nāḍīs also has this quality of innate joy, or ānanda. But remember that this ānanda is not necessarily the joy of the pure ātman; there is still the possible presence of the tamas and rajas guṇas and the operation of egotism in the background.
Deeper still than ānanda is the level of samādhi called asmitā. Asmitā is the principle of I-ness or of I-am-ness, and this level of samādhi deals with the core processes of how the mind generates experience. Asmitā, in addition to being a layer of samādhi, is the principle of mind that can turn into ignorance (avidyā) by superimposing the sense of self onto that which the mind is actually trying to think about. Asmitā is the process of forming the center around which mental maps grow. In samādhi accompanied by asmitā, no maps are forming; only the pure awareness is reflecting into the basic self-making principle, and that principle reflects back, projecting onto the open awareness the sense of “I am.”
The Mirror of Yoga Page 18