Do your practice and all is coming.
SRI K. PATTABHI JOIS
Many people come to yoga initially because they feel they have lost some connection with their body. Their body has aged or changed, or they may have had some type of health crisis that brought them to the realization that they’ve become “disembodied.” That is to say, who they see themselves to be is not reflected in the body they inhabit.
Typically, when people take their first Baptiste–style yoga class, they quickly experience a gap between the concepts and beliefs they have about their bodies and what is actually happening in their physicality. Some believe they are stiff and discover they are far more flexible than they thought. Some think they are strong and are surprised that the strength they have acquired doing bench presses at the gym doesn’t directly translate to strength on the mat. Others may believe they are completely lacking physically, only to discover they can do far more than they imagined.
Regardless of where you fall on the spectrum of disconnect, the first goal of the yogi is to re-enter your body. Part of that process is simply remembering that you have a body in the first place (which you may not have given thought to in a long time), and that it has treated you quite well, sometimes in spite of neglect or even abuse. The goal for the novice practitioner may not be to become a great yogi but rather to refocus their attention on their physical existence in space. This is what it means to do the work as a beginner.
Doing the work takes you out of wishing things to be different in your physicality or in your life and enables you to reap the greater rewards of yoga. You do the work on the mat and source that work from within yourself, and that allows for a fuller natural expression of your values, interests, and desires. Your work forms the asanas, which become the vehicle that activates your energy and sparks you back to life. On the surface, you are learning yoga practices and techniques, but underneath, you are intimately getting to know your own physical nature. Doing the work means bringing your mental theories, energy, and physical body together in harmony.
Yoga practice is distinct from most other personal growth methods because it comes from the premise that what you seek is already within you and won’t be found by attaining some outer goal. Ultimately, it’s a journey to the core of your own being. In the work of yoga, the outer point of the body is the doorway to access that which you are seeking within you. The work is to keep peeling away the layers of the onion to get to the heart of you.
There are many metaphors we can use for this. The lotus flower, for instance. The lotus flower is already there, hidden in the mud, obscured by the excess covering it. It doesn’t need to be created or invented. The mud gets washed away, and suddenly there is the flower. The work to be done is to remove the layers that cover it. You don’t have to add anything to your being; rather, you want to subtract and slough away some things. The work in that way is quite simple.
The question from there becomes: What steps do we need to take to do that work?
The original source of and creator of yoga, Patanjali, created eight steps, or “limbs,” of yoga. They are:
These limbs are set out as steps because, just like climbing a ladder, there are levels, one after the next, that are the sequential path to elevated growth. Yoga offers us the steps of that ladder, and our job is to take each step and make the climb.
These steps are also referred to as the eight limbs of the tree of yoga. Limbs because they grow out of the uniqueness of the body’s energy, and, just like your physical limbs, are applied to the individual’s needs in the moment. These limbs are connected to the greater whole, and not necessarily linear. For example, my hands, feet, brain, and so on don’t function separately from one another. They are organically connected, even though they perform separate functions. If my brain stops working, my hand or foot will stop moving because all the parts of my body are unified.
I always appreciated Patanjali’s practicality in saying that we need both the linear steps and the organic application of the techniques in order to work holistically. You can put your attention on one step at a time, or on all of them, and that allows the limbs to grow organically, too. The linear steps and the more flowing, organic aspect of the limbs work together as a whole.
Mastery in yoga happens only when all eight limbs are discovered, embodied, and lived as a natural self-expression. But the work of yoga begins with the first three steps of yama, niyama, and asana. These give us our work and direction in the practice and take us out of wishing for physical transformation and into the action of creating it by our own energy and direction.
Yama is translated from Sanskrit to mean “self-restraint.” But this English translation actually changes the meaning of the word yama as it is used in the context of yoga practice. Yama doesn’t actually suggest constraint or repression in any way. The way Patanjali used the word meant to direct one’s energy in ways that affirm life rather than waste or destroy that precious life force. Yama doesn’t mean to repress your energy, but rather to direct it. Your habitual practices either direct your energy toward expansion and being a yes, or not.
The opposite of yama would be to have your energy traveling in a million different directions. It’s the same energy—the same life force—only, without yama, it’s scattered and thus diluted or even squandered. I’ve been in classes with newer teachers whose sequencing is overly creative because they are trying to impress the class or be entertaining, but as the student I’m left with the experience of moving all over the mat without real direction. It feels as though I’m moving uselessly, and that squandered energy creates frustration. This same kind of experience of having no direction can create the same kind of frustration in my life off the mat, as well. Without yama, we deplete our energy and are left with the experience of exhaustion without fulfillment.
Doing the work of creating self-restraint first requires that you give direction to your life energies. As we all know, our life energy has limits, and if you do not harness it, you cannot manifest all that’s possible. Our life energy can be directed both on the mat and off in such a way that it becomes the doorway to limitless possibility.
Yama allows us to realize our innermost desires by directing our energy to fulfill them. On the mat and in life, you begin with yourself. To give direction to your desires and to move your energy in that direction means that you need to accept at the level of your bone marrow that you have free will and, therefore, responsibility for the direction you give your energy. We are all responsible for the actions we choose to take in the pose, and in life.
One of the three themes of Baptiste Yoga is You Are Ready Now. This means you begin with yourself, from within, and intentionally give direction to a pose. You create yama. Yama is the true north of your inner compass, moving you toward the thing you are a yes for.
In general terms, self-restraint on the mat means that you are becoming more centered by pulling in all the parts of your body toward centerline and integrating holistically into your body’s core. From that core, you move your energy outward through your extremities in a beautiful, natural expression that brings you joy. You use yama when doing the work in a pose by being intentional, moving consciously, mobilizing and gathering your energies and expressing them with purpose, and orchestrating all your parts toward a unified direction.
True north alignment works much in the same way off the mat. Once you give direction to your life, and you are a yes for what you want to create, a deep sense of your own center immediately springs from within you. Direction (yama) creates the center, and then the center gives direction; both are mutually fulfilling in practice and in life.
Don’t just wish for a direction. Instead, as if your whole life depended on it, do the work of getting clear for yourself what that direction is. That is the first step of yoga practice. It sets you up to take the second step up the ladder, which is niyama.
Niyama means “focused observance.” This means that your life and practice have discipline and order to them. Niyama is the practice of regularity, but without rigidity. Unless you have a disciplined regularity in your practice, you will be left with just random impulses and instincts, and yama and asana will go out the window.
Sometimes people confuse discipline with “no freedom,” but consider that discipline in the practice frees you from default thoughts and habits dominating your life. For instance, if you develop a discipline that you get on your mat every weekday morning for 30 minutes as soon as you awaken (or whatever your preferred routine looks like), then that habit becomes ingrained—you don’t have to think about it. You don’t have to constantly rearrange your schedule and juggle your priorities, because that’s a set practice. If your yama is directed toward being a yes for your practice, then any default habits like, say, hitting the snooze button, have no space to take hold. Through discipline, you are given a freedom in body and being, a freedom to choose the direction of your life consciously and harness your energies to fulfill it. It is not a stretch to say that only the yogi who has regularity and discipline in his or her practice can hope to one day become a master.
The third step on the ladder is asana, which means “posture.” The work to bring this step of yoga alive happens only by building off the first two steps. When you have the direction and the discipline—the regularity of getting on your mat—then you can cultivate powerful asana.
In every posture, the goal is to find the balance of effort and relaxation. Never restlessness. Whether in Wheel, Dancer’s Pose, or seated in meditation, you want to create that balance. The novice yogi usually cannot sit still for 5 or 10 minutes in meditation without experiencing a total body restlessness and revolt. Typically, discomfort and pain of some kind arises in different points in the body, and the yogi resists or darts. When you sit still to meditate, however, you can get objective, measurable, and observable feedback on how far along you are in your yoga practice. If restlessness grabs hold, it’s a signal that there has not been much practice of the first two steps of yama and niyama. Sitting still and relaxed in the seat of all postures is the true meaning of the word asana.
Doing the work in yoga practice means taking the steps and not skipping the ones you don’t like. The limb of asana comes to life organically only to the yogi who does the work of organizing and purposefully directing their life energy and through a focused observance, which gives regularity; it is then that a whole world opens and a new kind of possibility emerges. Then you will notice, quite suddenly, that you can sit relaxed and still where in the past you could not, because your body now knows that you are a disciplined person. If you want to sit still in meditation, you will, because your body has been trained not to resist that. You can sit not because you are lucky, or particularly laid-back, but because you did the work. Your body will know what it is to relax and be at ease, where before it knew only restlessness. When you can be relaxed, the stress of life drops away.
There are three elements we must ground ourselves in when doing the work. The first is our capacity to awaken (and reawaken) our idealism. The second is our ability to be intimate in how we interact with our poses and practice. And the third is our willingness to choose depth in the face of the ever-quickening pace of modern life.
The culture we live in has forsaken idealism for cynicism, sold out intimacy for consumption, and sacrificed depth for speed. As a result, we find ourselves disconnected and disembodied. When we lose idealism, intimacy, and depth in our work on the mat, we end up doing poses purely on a cosmetic level, pushed along the modern-day yogic conveyor belt of “mastery” and motivated by outward forms and appearances. We fall out of touch with our center and act as if we are at the effect of our practice, rather than its cause.
There is a compelling tendency among novice practitioners and teachers developing their skills to quickly race past the fundamentals and move on to more elaborate and sophisticated poses, practices, or techniques. Understandably, novice yogis love to demonstrate risk, cleverness, and originality in poses and sequences, probably because they can be dramatic, fun, and awe-inspiring—especially in a room full of eager yogis.
This is the novice yogi’s curse, however, be they a new student or a new teacher. The curse is manifested as a practice laced with frivolous adornment and weak fundamentals. It is marked by a lack of depth and intimacy, and, ultimately, delayed mastery. If you have ever had the opportunity to be taught by a true master of yoga—or of any discipline, really—you have likely been struck by how simple and fundamental the instruction was. Stripped of pretense, it is grounded in what truly matters. A true master knows that wisdom is both beautiful and powerful in its simplicity.
From time to time when traveling, I drop in to yoga classes in different cities, and rarely these days do I see taught the fundamental and essential principles of Tadasana—the physical pose of whole-body integration that, when created consciously, embodies true north alignment. Asana is present, but yama and niyama are missing, and so the depth is naturally absent.
It is natural for teachers to want to teach fancy poses. The urge to quickly move away from the basics (and after all, what can be more basic than Tadasana?) and toward advanced movements arises out of the natural desire to impress students with one’s skills and knowledge. But make no mistake: it is a novice teacher who does that. Teaching a tripod headstand where there is not yet a classical headstand, or teaching a standing drop-back into Wheel Pose where there is not yet a firm grasp of shoulder and pelvic integration is a colossal mistake. This rush to advancement puts you, and the student, at risk for injury. It also delays your honest advancement and glosses over the deeper body work that would give depth to the movement. In short, it stunts your practice.
On the other hand, if the instructor insists on the basics—really insists on them—you will immediately recognize that you are learning from a master teacher. The most effective teachers do the least amount of teaching, and allow you to discover things for yourself. You will not be bored or overwhelmed; you will be inspired. I promise this will always be true. When taught effectively, you will quickly come to recognize the power and potency of your fundamentals of true north alignment, breath, flow, and drishti. You will advance in every measurable way, past those not blessed to have a teacher grounded and committed to the basics.
So what do you, as the student, do when you find yourself on your mat, being taught by a teacher who does not bring the yama and niyama to his or her teaching? You bring it yourself, to your own practice. You bring the commitment to directing your energy to whatever you are a yes for. You bring the focused observance—the discipline. You bring in true north alignment, breath, flow, and drishti to each pose in your practice. Come from a place of surrender and trust in yourself, and have faith in your own capacities.