yoga sutra 1.1
atha yogānuśāsanam
Now the instruction on yoga begins
The very first sutra simply states Patañjali's aim: to present the authoritative teaching on yoga. Like all of the sutras, it can be read simply at face value, as a straightforward statement of intent; or it can be unpicked and explored to reveal many other levels of meaning. The term atha, meaning “now,” is a traditional way to introduce sacred texts and conveys both authority and a sense of an auspicious beginning. It also suggests immediacy: “Now!” It is a call to action—to listen to and receive the teachings and to put them into practice. The phrase yogānuśāsanam consists of the words yoga, the subject under discussion, and anuśāsanam, an authoritative teaching that is passed on from one person to another. The choice of the word “instruction” in our translation is deliberate here; instruction may be read as both a teaching and as something practical. The Yoga Sūtra is both: a teaching on the nature of being—and particularly the nature of mind—and an instruction manual on how to work with our minds to reduce our experience of fear, dissatisfaction and suffering.
What do you understand by the term “yoga”? Ask yourself, honestly: what does the word bring to mind? Physical postures, breathing exercises, meditation, philosophical ideas or a way of living? Perhaps a mixture of all these? Today, yoga is such a common term that we rarely stop to question what it means or where the word came from. For us, working within this tradition, “yoga” is a technical term referring to something very specific, so let's start by exploring the word itself.
The entry for yoga in a classic Sanskrit-English dictionary1 is one of the largest in the book and contains a multitude of definitions, many of which (on the surface, at least) have little to do with the practices we are discussing here. Even in the context of a practice system, yoga has been used to describe a wide variety of techniques and ideas over the centuries in India. When new yoga students begin to develop their interest in its history and ideas, it is common, and perhaps naively reassuring, to assume that yoga is a definitive, timeless and complete body of wisdom that has been transmitted faithfully without change since the dawn of time. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Although there are certain shared themes, there are very few (if any) ideas, definitions and practices common to all modern schools of yoga—let alone those that have flourished and faded over the course of history. The development of yoga is complex, and the proliferation of different forms of yoga in the West over the last 50 years has made it even more so. It is perhaps better to think of the term “yoga” as a common word that has been used at different times and in different contexts to refer to quite different things.2 This is particularly important if you are reading this book having studied yoga within a different tradition, and already have ideas about the meaning or significance of the word. It may be presented differently here, but that doesn't necessarily mean either definition is incorrect.
The word is most commonly derived from the Sanskrit root3 yuj meaning to “link” or “join together,” in the sense of yoking two things together. Many Indo-European languages (including English) are related to Sanskrit, and thus the root yuj has a direct connection to the English word yoke. Because Sanskrit developed within an agricultural culture, many of its words have their origins in ideas associated with such a context. Yuj was originally used to refer to the yoking of two oxen together so that they could be used for plowing, or to draw a cart. Two principles (in this case, the oxen) are connected in a way that allows them to interact to produce a useful outcome. When applied in a personal sense, there can be a yoga whenever an individual links themselves to something, or engages in a specific activity, in order to achieve a desired outcome. This principle applies almost universally to the contexts in which “yoga” and other words derived from the root yuj are used, even in quite ordinary or mundane usages. Thus, for example, yoga can be used in the context of putting on a suit of armor. By employing the armor, one gains a certain invulnerability to attack. Similarly, yoga can be used to describe a magic trick: performing a trick in the prescribed way produces the illusion of magic. Both of these are examples of the use of the word “yoga” in a non-spiritual context.
In the context of yoga as a practice, or transformative process, this is perhaps the most universal principle and one we should not forget: in yoga, we place ourselves in relationship to something in order to produce a positive effect. We yoke ourselves to a practice, a discipline, an object of meditation, a yoga posture or a breathing technique in order to bring about a positive transformation. But: no relationship, no yoga. Similarly: no transformation, however small, no yoga. What we might link ourselves to, what type of practice we might engage in, and what techniques and qualities we bring to the practice form the scope of the rest of this book.
Yoga is frequently translated as “union,” but here, this is rather misleading. To us, “union” suggests two things becoming one, whereas central to the idea of “yoking together” is the fact that the two things remain two things. They are united only in the sense of being linked, and it is in their interaction and relationship that there is yoga, not in them merging together inseparably.4 This, for us, lies at the very heart of yoga and is fundamental to our approach to the subject—both as teachers and as practitioners.
We have already suggested that the fundamental meaning of the term “yoga” is to engage in a relationship with something to bring about positive change. But what are the qualities that we need to bring to this relationship? The short answer to this is that we need “to take support” on whatever it is that we are linking to. “Taking support” is a slightly awkward phrase, but it is useful. As the leading term in our subtitle, the question of support—what it is, where it can be found and how we take it—is crucial. It's worth spending a little time getting this cornerstone laid, since it, quite literally, supports everything that is to follow.
Think of how you use a walking stick. It is a literal “support” that allows us to do something that otherwise might be difficult or impossible (assuming we have difficulty walking). So let us consider the steps (no pun intended!) in using the walking stick. First, you need to have an intention: the desire to walk better and to use the walking stick for support. Walking sticks don't pick you up—you have to take the initiative. The next step is learning to use the walking stick: there is some technique involved. Thirdly, you have to lean on the stick and allow it to support you. This may seem obvious, but in fact is a critical step in our analogy. Unless you actually lean on it, have confidence in its strength and stability, and really give yourself to it, it can't support you. Finally, you have to be willing to accept what it can give you in order to step forward. Using a stick may feel awkward or unnatural at first: it takes practice to develop your technique and build a good working (or walking!) relationship with it.
We can use this analogy to understand the practice of yoga as “taking support” or “benefiting from a supportive relationship.” To do this requires the following steps:
In modern yoga classes, “supports” tend to mean equipment—blocks and belts, for example. In this context, however, supports could include: yoga postures, breathing techniques, meditation practice, the observance of certain disciplines, cultivating our relationship with the Divine, repeating a sacred word or phrase, adopting certain attitudes, or having a special relationship with a teacher. These and other such supports will be explored in the following chapters.
In India, lineage and tradition are greatly valued. Teachings that are ancient and have stood the test of time are prized, and teachers in India are often at pains to emphasize the purity and longevity of their lineage. The oldest sacred texts, the Veda,5 are said to contain everything that needs to be known and are considered to be the source for all orthodox spiritual teachings.6 They are collectively classified as śruti (literally, “that which has been heard”), which means that they are understood as divine revelation—“heard” in the deepest states of contemplation. All subsequent teachings are seen as elaborations, stemming from these most sacred roots. Although modern scholars and historians might take issue with such a claim, what is important here is the idea of the pure transmission from teacher to student from an authentic source.
The term anuśāsanam indicates that the teaching of the Yoga Sūtra is such a tradition. It both has authority and has been transmitted faithfully through paramparā. Paramparā (literally, “from one to another”) is a word used to indicate the lineage of the tradition and the key lineage holders. However, paramparā also evokes the idea that the teaching must be transmitted from one person to another in all cases. The human relationship is essential for effective teaching—it cannot simply be learnt from a book (such as this!). Thus we return to the idea of a supportive relationship, in this case the relationship between teacher and student. This relationship should allow the student to learn the ideas and practices offered by the tradition, and also to flourish and grow as their practice deepens. The paramparā from teacher to student is, therefore, another yoga (in the sense of relationship), and it is present in every teaching situation—from the mundane to the most profound. Through our lives there have been teachers at every stage, beginning with parents, teachers at school, mentors and colleagues at work . . . the list goes on. In the yoga tradition, the quality of the relationship between teacher and student, and the teacher's ability to discern what is appropriate and of value to the student, is acknowledged as one of the most important factors in making the practice effective.
Atha—“Now”—not only conveys authority and marks an auspicious beginning, it also suggests an immediacy and a presence in the here and now. It is a call to see things as they truly are without the coloring of the past or thoughts of the future.7 A fundamental premise of yoga is that our minds are rarely clear lenses through which we encounter the world, but instead are full of distractions, memories and projections that color our view of both the world and our place within it. The purpose of yoga is “to clear the lens” so that we encounter the world fully in the present, just as it is, without distraction or distortion. We could somewhat creatively say that the whole of the yoga project is encapsulated in the very first word of the Yoga Sūtra: atha—being entirely present and aware of what is.
Being present with a totally clear and stable mind is not easy, as anyone who has tried to meditate will know. Our minds are full of habitual patterns, memories, desires and fears, and countless concepts through which we make sense of the world. This is natural and what makes us human. However, all these thoughts and the feelings that arise in connection with them are also the source of much distress and misunderstanding about the true nature of ourselves and the world around us. The Yoga Sūtra presents a complex psychology to explain how our minds work and suggests that through practice we can make the mind more stable, more present and less distorting. Then we are less prone to distraction, less concerned with memories from the past or worries about the future, and we see ourselves and our world with more clarity. The payoff, Patañjali suggests, is that we will be able to live more peacefully and wisely, and reduce the distress in our lives. To be in a state of atha, moment to moment, is thus to be in a state of yoga.
So how to begin such a journey? The answer is NOW. Atha demands that we put the teachings of yoga into practice, acknowledging the reality of where we are right now and being realistic about the steps we need to take. This requires us to “pick up the stick,” to commit to the practice and begin the journey from where we are. It also requires that we learn how to take some steps and choose the right supports for the journey—and this almost inevitably means that we will need a skillful teacher to help guide us on our way.
Sādhana: Learning to be still
To become fully present, we have to learn how to pay attention to ourselves. This “paying attention” does not mean simply giving free rein to our various likes and dislikes, but instead requires us to become alive to the sensations within our bodies, the patterns of our breathing and, perhaps most importantly, the ever-changing contents of our minds. In modern life, with all its demands, variety and overwhelming sensory stimulation, it is easy to find ourselves simply responding to and negotiating the external world, with little attention to what is going on inside. But just as we move about in an external world of sensory input, we also have an inner landscape that we can explore. This inner landscape is a world of subtle physical sensations including many of our normally automatic processes, such as breathing and digesting. And then there is the bubbling cauldron of thoughts, judgments, memories, fantasies and emotions that we call the mind. Exploring our inner landscape may be a strange and unfamiliar process in the beginning. We may start by feeling or noticing very little at all. However, with practice, it becomes increasingly vivid and familiar. We can train our inner sensitivity. In a similar way we can learn to observe the processes that arise in our minds and, as we do so, we notice certain patterns of thought and behavior that were previously unconscious.
This process of cultivating inner awareness is something that yoga shares with many other meditative disciplines. It is difficult if too much is happening around us, so it is usual to sit still in a quiet space where there are minimal distractions. It's tricky to watch a movie and focus on the details if the screen is unstable. By keeping the body still and our minds relatively quiet, it's as if the screen on which our personal movie is being projected is being held stable.
We may sit still in meditation, work with our bodies during a posture practice or focus on our breath during a breathing practice. In each case, we are cultivating our sensitivity to our inner landscape and processes. We generally start our yoga journey with the emphasis on postures and movements, but the intention is always to deepen our inner awareness. This is the primary reason why movements are performed slowly and smoothly, or postures are maintained for some time: it is easier to attend to subtle inner sensations, observe the breath, and notice thoughts and feelings that arise. For the same reason, the points in a posture practice where the body is still, between movements, are perfect places to cultivate such an awareness and actually practice being still. Therefore, a good starting point for our discussion of practice is to appreciate that stillness is part of the practice.
“A good starting point for our discussion of practice is to appreciate that stillness is part of the practice.”
Being still is not easy, and for most of us it is an unfamiliar state—we react, respond and fidget our way through life. Beginners in a yoga class will often focus well as they are guided through a movement or posture but afterwards will rearrange their clothing, scratch an itch or look around the room. In doing so they easily lose their calm and focus and miss the opportunity to really experience the effect of what they have just done. Telling students to simply return to a point of stillness can make a big difference. This still point is an important part of the practice itself, and it takes discipline and awareness to actively resist “scratching the itch.”
There are points of stillness throughout the practice. We use “transition” postures as starting and completion points for the different postures; these can be used to practice stillness. We shall meet them in more detail in Chapter 3.
There is an important principle in cultivating stillness: we need a light touch. If we are making too much effort, or if there is tension in the body, being still can be exhausting and counterproductive. Can we be still without being rigid? Can we stand with a sense of lightness and stability with a minimum of effort? Although our principal goal is simply to notice and be with what is, this is also an opportunity to let go of any obvious patterns of holding and tension. It is usual to start a practice with a short period of samasthiti (assuming we are going to begin with standing postures), as a way to ground ourselves in the present moment—atha—as well as to orient ourselves towards what is to come. At times we could even extend this simple standing for a few minutes; it is surprising how challenging and yet grounding this can be. Similarly, it can be useful to stand for a minute or two at the end of the standing postures, as a way to experience what has changed through the standing work—listening to the resonance of the postures in the body. We can use still points for the other posture groups as well, such as kneeling after prone backbends, or resting quietly on the back for a few moments after a lying posture.
Samasthiti can also be used at the very end of a practice as another reference point. This is a little more unusual, but very useful as it gives us an opportunity to see how our basic standing posture has been changed through the practice. Such changes may be quite subtle, but again our awareness of the changes can become more sensitive with practice. We sometimes say that yoga can change both our sense of being (how we experience ourselves in the space that surrounds us), and our quality of seeing (how we perceive that space). Standing for a minute or so at the end of the practice can give us a moment to explore both, asking ourselves questions such as, “How am I standing? How connected is my pelvis to my feet? How free does my head feel? Do things around me look more vivid? “What sounds can I hear?” As we quiet the body and refine the senses, the contours of our inner landscape come into gradual focus, allowing us to explore our engagement with yoga ever more fully. Our being, the very way that we stand, has changed, and that changes our seeing. However modestly, each time we practice, we stand afresh, both present in the Now and linked to the ancient tradition of yoga.
