yoga sutra 1.30
vyādhi-styāna-sa
śaya-pramāda-ālasya-avirati-bhrāntidarśana-alabdhabhūmikatva-anavasthitatvāni citta-vik
epā
te antarāyā
Sickness, stagnation, doubt, carelessness, lethargy, indulgence, confusion of perspective, failure to progress and slipping back are interruptions on our journey towards a state of yoga
In our movement towards a state of nirodha, Patañjali recognizes that there will inevitably be setbacks—sometimes brief, sometimes protracted. Because of the play of the gu
a, it is the very nature of our minds to fluctuate. Even if sattva is dominant and we are clear for a while, there is always the possibility of unexpected roadblocks on our journey. The word that Patañjali uses for these roadblocks is antarāya, which we could usefully translate as “interruptions” or “obstacles.” They come between us and our goal. They are “internal” rather than external; that is to say, they originate in the mind rather than from outside. Unlike the kleśa, these interruptions are neither necessarily pervasive nor universal; instead they are seen as intermittent. There will be times in our lives when they manifest, other times when we are free of them. The kleśa, on the other hand, are an ongoing part of our lives. Antarāya are manifestations of imbalance, when tamas and/or rajas have become exaggerated and sattva has been eclipsed and obscured, resulting in disturbance and blockages in our systems.
At first glance, Patañjali's nine antarāya appear to be a random list. Although it is not traditional to do so, if we look at them in groups of three, a pattern emerges. The first group, comprising sickness (vyādhi), stagnation (styāna) and doubt (sa
śaya), arise from confusion with support. The second triad, comprising carelessness (pramāda), lassitude (ālasya) and indulgence (avirati) all indicate a misuse of energy. Finally, confusion of perspective (bhrāntidarśana), instability (alabdha-bhūmikatva) and slipping back (anavasthitatvāni), the third trio, are really about losing clear direction. These interruptions have the effect of becoming disturbances in our minds (cittavik
epā
) and can result in certain symptoms in body, mind and breath which we shall explore in this chapter.
As is common in the Yoga Sūtra, Patañjali here presents us with a list—in this case, nine obstacles. We could see these as simply a list, with each having the potential to arise independently. However, we shall present them here as a sequential process whereby each has the potential to give birth to the next. Both perspectives have validity.
Although the word vyādhi is often translated as “sickness,” not all sickness is necessarily an obstacle; indeed, sometimes sickness can be transformative, a catalyst that propels us further along the path towards clarity and even emancipation. If we look more closely at the word, we can unpick certain nuances which are not immediately obvious. Vyādhi comes from the root dha, meaning “to place” or “to support.” The prefix vi here means “away from,” thus vyādhi implies we are cut off from our support; we are displaced and out of touch with ourselves and, in this sense, we suffer from “dis-ease.”
Healing—to make ourselves whole once more, to reestablish balance—is what is required, and the Indian medical system of āyurveda seeks to do just this. Two essential concepts in āyurveda are prak
ti and vikti, and understanding these helps us to understand vyādhi. In this context, prakti is our innate constitution, it is our state of balance and wellness—and each of us has his or her own unique prakti. Yet through lifestyle, diet and environmental factors, this state of balance can become disrupted and we move into what is called vikti, a state of imbalance. For many of us, for example, our heady electronic worlds cut us off from ourselves and we live in a fabricated palace of ideation as divorced from life as we are from the production of the food we consume from supermarkets. Although we often become habituated to our vikti, we feel very good when we return to our prakti; it is like coming home. Sitting quietly in nature, with little mental chatter, we can begin to realign, to breathe differently, to become more “in tune” with ourselves. Āyurveda is about returning ourselves to ourselves when we have drifted away from our natural harmony and balance. There is no morality implied but rather an acknowledgment of our tendency to become divorced from our true support: our very Being. When we have “returned to ourselves” we become svastha, firmly established (stha) in ourselves (sva). This is a profound state of mental and physical well-being and is the term used in āyurveda to mean “health.”
Interestingly, the state of samādhi can be understood to be vyādhi's polar opposite. Samādhi (it has the same root dha), meaning “total integration,” is the very state we seek to cultivate in our practice of yoga. Sometimes in modern yoga classes there can be an excessive emphasis on physical alignment, but in samādhi this alignment is far more profound and operates on all levels: here we are truly aligned with both ourselves and the reality of the Universe.
Because vyādhi has taken us away from a state of balance, we try to rectify this situation by creating some stability, but often use “false supports.” The next obstacle, styāna, means “stagnation” and comes from the root stya meaning “to stiffen.” When we are removed from our essential support and in a state of vyādhi, we cling to what we might call “false friends”—old habits and memories that give us a feeling of stability or certainty. However, this clinging creates a rigidity which fears change and can manifest as a loss of motivation, a feeling of complacency, or even simply a certain dogmatism and lack of openness. In styāna, we cling to the past and may become dull, fearful, or angry towards anyone or anything that challenges us.
For a support to function as a support rather than an addiction, we need to be free in our relationship to it. In styāna we become glued to our support. Interestingly, vairāgya1(“letting something be”) and styāna can look similar—a certain indifference to, or rejection of, new possibilities. However, this would be to confuse the dullness and indifference that arise from the complacency of styāna with the openness of vairāgya; they are certainly not the same thing! Styāna shuts us down, with excessive clinging to ideas and viewpoints being one of its symptoms. In this sense styāna, which is often characterized by a rigid defensiveness, can be seen as the very opposite of vairāgya.
śaya: DoubtLike so many words, the literal translation of sa
śaya as “doubt” does not really do the term justice and can easily lead to misunderstanding and a rather crude view of the Yoga Sūtra. Sometimes, doubt is useful—we need some hesitation, some pondering, to counterbalance any tendency towards naivety or unthinking zeal—but this is not saśaya. Peter Hersnack said that saśaya “is that which consumes its own support”.2 It eats the very ground upon which we stand. Once the certainty of styāna becomes challenged, it becomes easy to lose all sense of stability and we lurch from one thing to another.
The root of the word is śi, meaning “to rest.” Resting implies we take support and we can let go. Sam, like the English word “sum,” means “bringing together”; thus, saśaya can be thought of as “simultaneously resting in two places.” This is problematic. In order for us to move in any direction, we need to be secure in our support. When we are secure in our support, a direction becomes clearer—and even if we are not completely clear about where we are moving towards (direction), we need to know where we are moving from (support). Then, sometimes slowly, a direction may reveal itself.
If we understand saśaya as “taking support from two different places simultaneously,” we can see how this has the potential to confuse the direction immensely. A direction cannot become clear when we are jumping (physically or mentally) between two different “givens,” and this is how saśaya consumes its support; it erodes the baseline from which we move.
The confusion and doubt of saśaya is the state of the hero Arjuna at the beginning of the Bhagavad Gītā. Arjuna is about to go to war, and yet on the eve of the battle he falls into despair and his thoughts become confused and conflicted. His duty as a warrior is to fight—and yet he finds himself facing his own family and teachers. Should he fight for a just cause or should he lay down his arms and be killed? The great warrior is reduced to a feeble state; his doubts make him barely able to lift his bow, his body trembles and he is consumed by great mental anguish. Doubt is often crippling, and its resolution is sometimes complex—Arjuna's perspective is carefully realigned by his teacher, K
a, over the rest of the text. This is a journey involving harsh words, gentle coaxing, analogies, direct teachings, praise and admonishments.
For us to move forward, we need the opposite of saśaya: confidence and trust. In Sanskrit, this is known as śraddhā. All healing requires śraddhā; it enables us to take some risks, to make mistakes and to persevere. Whenever we learn something new, and persevere with that learning as we take another tentative footstep forward, we have śraddhā. It is the fuel that powers us out of our habitual orbits and into the unknown—although we all have our setbacks and our challenges, śraddhā keeps us learning and evolving.
This second triad concerns the consequences of misusing our energy. When we have good support in place, our energy can be directed and take us far. However, when we use our energy as the support, it burns up—and we eventually burn out. Our energy is not topped up and increasingly we need to rely on “false supports.”
When we have plenty of time, money or energy, or we are suffering from extreme doubt, we can become indulgent and careless. Launching ourselves into a new endeavor or experience can be a way of overcoming indecision, but we can misspend or overspend without necessarily noticing or caring. The root of pramāda is mad, which means “intoxicated” or “drunk.” In such a state, it is easy to squander our assets and live on borrowed or dwindling resources. We become increasingly hasty and reckless and our obsession encourages us to neglect our other responsibilities. But this way of living has consequences. If we survive on borrowed energy, we still have to repay the energetic debt—and often with considerable interest.
Pramāda is about being intoxicated in some form. This might be physical but, equally, we can be impatient for an outcome, overly hasty or neglectful. Sometimes, this very feeling of intoxication becomes a sort of false support: we get habituated and then addicted to “the buzz.” Of course, this means we are not living in the moment. Instead we are running on adrenaline and are too “wired” to take time, to take notice, to breathe.
This is the hangover—we have used up our energy and now we are “spent.” The root as means “to shine.” The state of ālasya is a state of dullness: we feel lackluster, idle and exhausted. Āyurveda describes ojas as the final product of good digestion. Ojas is a substance that confers immunity, good digestion and general health. In one who has good ojas there is a glow, a natural brightness in the eyes and a radiant quality to the skin, and a sweetness in their nature. However, when we misuse our energy, abusing our lifestyle and diet, the production of ojas is severely compromised and we experience the state of ālasya. Our skin and eyes lose their luster, we look tired and dull, and we lack enthusiasm, fortitude and happiness.
When one is feeling dull, a common, if not wise, solution is indulgence. Avirati completes this three-part cycle—from pramāda (intoxication, in whatever form) to ālasya (depletion and lethargy), and finally to avirati, stimulation and indulgence to get going again. Avirati refers to this overindulgence or intemperance. When our supports are totally external, we often find the need for stronger and stronger stimuli to motivate us. The root of the word is ram, meaning the “enjoyment of pleasure.” The prefix vi means “against” and “a” makes this a double negative. Thus, avirati is “not stopping ourselves indulging”; it is the desire to (over)feed our senses. When we are out of touch with ourselves and lacking sensitivity, we need gross stimulation just to feel alive—and the process is addictive.
The third triad explores how our direction can become confused, unstable or elusive, and out of our reach.
The word bhrānti means “wandering off” or “wavering” and in this context it means both false and unstable. Darśana is a “viewpoint”—so bhrāntidarśana is a skewed perspective, something which is “a bit off.” Of course, this can happen at any time, but if we see this as a cyclical process which is preceded by the first six antarāya, it is not surprising that our understanding is muddled because our energies have become depleted from ālasya and have been artificially stimulated (avirati) so that rajas predominates: a “perfect storm” for confusion.
To reach a goal is labdha, thus alabdha is for that goal to remain unfulfilled. This is often because of a refusal to take a vital step, for whatever reason. For example, there may be a lack of trust or self-confidence, or a reluctance to move out of our comfort zone. There may also be inadequate preparation. Bhūmi is “ground,” and bhūmikatva means “having the qualities of the ground.” If the ground has not been well prepared, it cannot provide us with the optimum support for reaching our goals. This is really about proper vinyāsa krama—the intelligent steps we make in our chosen direction. Of course, if the steps are muddled or problematic, we are much more likely to fail. Here, our direction is lost. Patañjali reiterates this point in YS 3.6, tasya bhūmi
u viniyoga
: yoga should evolve in stages (bhūmi).3
The term bhūmi also relates to our physical nature, our “earth,” our embodied being. It is not uncommon for us to know something intellectually but for it to stay just that—knowledge that remains at the level of theory. In YS 1.3, Patañjali describes a state of embodied Being (dra
u avasthānam), and for yoga to really mean something, our insights and our practices must inform and slowly transform our very being in the world. This takes time to evolve, and a slow and gradual process of transformation is required in order to avoid alabdhabhūmikatva. It is not uncommon to give up prematurely, to somehow sabotage our success, even if our preparations have been sound. It is important to remember that yoga is a slow burn that requires diligence, patience and faith. Embodiment takes time.
In the middle of this rather daunting word is sthiti, a word we know well which means “stability.” In anavasthitatvāni, the quality of stability eludes us and even if we reach a goal, we cannot maintain it and we slide back. As we saw in the previous chapter, yoga-kema is an important principle here: it means the ability to maintain where we have reached. Often people make good progress at the beginning of their yoga career and are struck by revelations and new experiences. But the honeymoon period ends, and eventually disillusionment may set in. It's worth repeating: yoga is a long journey. There will be times when circumstances are such that we need to simply tread water, to wait until conditions are better for progress. The journey is not a straight line and there will be many plateaus along the way. Just as there are fallow times and growth spurts in the life of a plant, so it is in our practice. Sometimes we are ill, or our family situation is such that practice needs to be “put on the back burner.” And sometimes this can be for years! At times it would be easy to simply give up, but the important teaching here is that maintaining some link, keeping the flame alight so that it can grow when circumstances are more conducive, is essential.
yoga sutra 1.31
dukha-daurmanasya-a
gamejayatva-śvāsa-praśvāsa vikepa-sahabhuva
Emotional distress, negative thinking, unsteadiness in the body and disturbed breathing patterns arise with these disturbances of mind (antarāya)
The obstacles presented in YS 1.30 manifest through the channels described in YS 1.31. These are the symptoms of our yoga journey having been interrupted. As we have seen, classical Indian philosophy sees no body–mind split, because both body and mind are part of prakti. We might go as far as to say that the body is the grossest manifestation of the mind; our bodies reveal something of the mind. This is obvious when we consider posture and expression, when our bodies involuntarily communicate something of our mental attitude.
In the same way, our breathing is intimately related to our state of mind, and of course the health of our body. Here Patañjali states that antarāya gives rise to emotional, cognitive, physical or respiratory symptoms. We may feel distressed and restricted (dukha); we may be plagued by negative thoughts (daurmanasya); we may find our bodies shaky and unstable (a
gamejayatva); and finally our breathing may be short, erratic or compromised (śvāsa-praśvāsa).
The first symptom, dukha, is an experience of restriction. Physically, this might be a feeling of tightness in the chest or heart, but it is primarily an emotional experience, cutting us off from our ability to feel joy. The second symptom, daurmanasya, literally means “bad mind.” Here our thinking is muddled and we see the world through a fog of gloom which poisons our perceptions. When we experience disturbance at the physical level, we may become unsteady or start to tremble: this is called agamejayatva, the third symptom. Finally, śvāsa-praśvāsa is a disturbance in our breathing: we may breathe rapidly or erratically and we may inadvertently hold our breath or gasp. These are symptoms of disruption on the energetic level and this disturbance may also manifest in our pulse.4 Of course, how we feel may affect how we breathe, how we think or how we hold ourselves; they are all interrelated. But often one channel is more obvious and is the driver of the others.
Patañjali presents nine solutions to the problems arising from antarāya. In some ways, the suggested practices in the first chapter of the Yoga Sūtra are little hints, and many of them are elaborated in considerably more detail both in the second chapter, where Patañjali discusses yama and prā
āyāma, and also in the third chapter where various possibilities are presented as objects for contemplation. These include friendliness (YS 3.23), aspects of our energetic system (YS 3.39–48), the light of perfected Beings (YS 3.32) and many aspects of the universe, including the sun, moon, and pole star (YS 3.26–3.28), each of which has an internal corollary in our own systems. Fundamental to all of the practices is the reduction of excessive tamas and rajas, and the cultivation of sattva gua. We cannot emphasize this enough: when tamas and rajas are able to fulfil their positive functions, tamas provides support, rajas give energy to the direction, and sattva, the feeling of spaciousness, increases. But when they are in excess, tamas and rajas are simply impediments.
Below, we look at sūtras YS 1.29, and then 1.32–39 in more depth where Patañjali suggests some ways to reduce the effects of antarāya. Note that he is not prescriptive, but rather offers a number of alternative practical solutions (this is indicated by his use of the word “vā,” which means “or”).
yoga sutra 1.29
tata pratyak-cetanā adhigama api-antarāya-abhāvaśca
(From a devotional attitude) we move inwards and obstacles do not arise
Before presenting the antarāya, Patañjali makes some interesting observations about the cultivation of a devotional attitude (īśvara praidhāna).5 First of all, in YS 1.23 he says that this is an optional path: he neither demands it, nor does he give form to īśvara (sometimes translated as God, but here we can say “The Highest Power”). Īśvara is simply the object of devotion. He goes on to say in YS 1.29 that this practice will result in two things: a flowering of inner awareness (pratyak-cetanā) and also that there will be a lack of fertile soil for obstacles to grow in (antarāya abhāva). Of course, this is not to say that anyone with faith will remain free of sickness, doubts, indulgence, confusion and the rest. However, arising from īśvara praidhāna is a profound feeling of connection, of “being held,” and this feeling releases us from a mind-set which is the breeding ground for rajas and tamas. At its purest, īśvara praidhāna promotes sattva;6 we are able to move on and thereby remain relatively light, and free of antarāya.
yoga sutra 1.32
tat pratiedha-artham eka-tattva-abhyāsa
Focus on one thing at a time
The cultivation of a stable awareness is perhaps the single most important practice in Patañjali's yoga, and focusing on one essential principle (eka-tattva) at a time is paramount. It is both the means of refining one's awareness and also the fruit of the practice: it requires sattva, spaciousness, to be supported and stabilized by tamas and given energy and direction by rajas. In such conditions, our ability to stay with our chosen focus is immense. However, the antithesis of this state is multitasking, “channel-hopping” as it were, from one thing to another. This is the normal state of affairs and is exacerbated by digital media and modern lifestyles. Unfortunately, the consequence of such flitting is more than simply instability, agitation and the inability to focus. A stable mind is also a happy mind, while an unstable mind is distressed. With the gua out of balance, an unstable mind is a natural breeding ground for antarāya. We cannot emphasize enough: yoga is a slow process and it takes patience, commitment and perseverance—but like a ripening fruit, it has a sweet taste. There are many possible practices in yoga and it is easy to feel overwhelmed or distracted with the multitude of possibilities. This sūtra offers very simple and sound advice: come back to one important principle or focus, and then stay with it.
yoga sutra 1.33
maitrī-karu
ā muditā-upekāām sukha-dukha-puya-apuya-viayāām bhāvanāta citta prasādanam
Cultivating friendliness, compassion, happiness and equanimity to those who are happy, unhappy, virtuous or not virtuous will clear the mind
We could easily write a whole chapter just on this sūtra, since it contains such important advice. Indeed, Patañjali's teachings here are a direct echo of those of the Buddha, whose “four virtues” (known as the brahmavihāra) are the cornerstone of Buddhist practice and ethics. Patañjali emphasizes that we are not alone; we exist as part of different networks and how we act within these networks will radically influence our state of mind. The whole approach to relationships is considerably expanded in YS 2.30–2.39,7 but Patañjali succinctly gives us four attitudes to cultivate in four different arenas. Towards the happy (sukha), we can be friendly (maitrī); towards the unhappy (dukha) we can be compassionate (karuā); towards the virtuous (puya) we can display goodwill (muditā); and towards those who are behaving unethically (apuya) we may show some equanimity (upekāām). By cultivating these qualities (bhāvanāta) the mind (citta) becomes clear (prasādanam).
This sūtra highlights the importance of yoga practice off the mat—it needs to inform our relationships and our conduct, lest the focus we cultivate on our mat is dissipated by our interactions and our being in the world. The stable and spacious quality of sattva can easily be unsettled or obscured by disdain, contempt, jealousy or hatred.
yoga sutra 1.34
pracchardana-vidhāraābhyā vā prāasya
Or explore your exhalation and the pause after it
Although Patañjali goes on in YS 2.49–53 to elaborate on his teaching of prāāyāma in considerable detail, here he is introducing the idea that breathing practices, in particular the exhalation and subsequent pause, are key factors in stabilizing the mind and aiding the health of the body. The exhalation and subsequent pause8 are intimately linked to the energy of apāna vāyu whose function is to “clear out,” cleanse and help us move on. These aspects of the breath most directly address our blockages, be they physical, mental or emotional, and it is therefore unsurprising that Patañjali emphasizes their practice as a way to reduce antarāya.
yoga sutra 1.35
viaya-vatī vā prav
ttir utpannā manasa sthiti-nibandhinī
Or consider sense objects
Although some of the traditional commentators understand this sūtra to refer to quite esoteric experiences which transcend ordinary sensations,9 we can usefully see this sūtra to apply to readily accessible experiences. Very simply: stability of mind arises from carefully attending to our sense perceptions. Becoming overwhelmed by obstacles and interruptions moves us away from our true supports and we become increasingly cut off and isolated. It is the opposite of svastha, where we are grounded in ourselves and feel embodied. One of the most direct portals to come back to the present moment is to focus (pravtti) on the objects of the senses (viaya-vatī), and this focusing brings a profound steadiness (sthiti nibandhinī) to the mind (manas). Here Patañjali uses the term manas to discuss the mind rather than citta, because manas is that part of the mind most intimately linked to the senses. This is the deliberate practice of cultivating presence by focusing on the now—it, quite literally, “brings us back to our senses.”10 This practice has become hugely popular through the contemporary practice of mindfulness, which is used therapeutically in many situations—for example, as stress reduction, anger management and for depression.
yoga sutra 1.36
viśokā vā jyotimatī
Or (focus on) a pure light which is free from all pain and suffering
As with the previous sūtra, this has been interpreted by some of the traditional commentators in quite an obscure manner. Vyāsa alludes to the subtle body and esoteric anatomy, including visions of the sun, moon, planets and precious gems arising from focus on the heart. While these may be quite valid, we can think of this sūtra more simply in terms of gua: jyotimatī means “luminous” and “full of light” and is synonymous with sattva. One of the qualities of sattva is that it is joyous and therefore free from pain and suffering (viśokā). There is a part of us that remains untouched by our suffering and pain. By cultivating sattva gua and focusing on the heart (as Vyāsa says), we can access that transcendental aspect of ourselves to help navigate our way through or around antarāya.
yoga sutra 1.37
vīta-rāga-viaya vā cittam
Or (focus on) someone who embodies a mastery of their passions and desires
We all have the potential to be moved and inspired by, for example, our family and friends, fictional characters in novels or films, or those who have overcome adversity and gone on to achieve something remarkable. Heroes and heroines in the classical myths of all cultures inspire us to transcend our limits and push our boundaries. Although it is easy to become jaded and cynical—we love to knock our heroes off their pedestals—it is also important to acknowledge the many people who have shown us something of value. A picture, memory or idea of someone special can be such a touchstone, helping us move past our blockages with stability and clarity of mind. Here Patañjali suggests that we can find such inspiration by focusing on someone who embodies the qualities of equanimity and who is not pulled by their passions and desires (vīta-rāga).
yoga sutra 1.38
svapna-nidrā jñāna-ālambana vā
Or explore your dreams and the state of dreamless sleep
The exploration of both dreams (svapna) and dreamless sleep (nidrā) is a common theme in classical Indian thought, and they have been the subject of much speculation. In some of the Upani
ads, for example, the Mā
ūkya Upaniad, dreams, dreamless sleep and the waking state of ordinary consciousness are contrasted to the consciousness of one who has achieved liberation (moka). Dreams, dreamless sleep and waking consciousness are all variable because they fluctuate with the gua, and they are all states that can be observed or experienced. This is in direct contrast to that of cit or purua, whose state cannot be observed and whose awareness remains constant because it is unaffected by gua. Purua is that which observes the other states.
Even though there are similarities between dreaming, dreamless sleep and waking consciousness, dreamless sleep is given a special significance because it is a state of citta vtti nirodha, albeit an unconscious and therefore a “tamasic” one. Dreamless sleep is, as we know, a vital part of maintaining our well-being and without it we quickly succumb to various health problems, both physical and mental. It helps us to “wipe our systems clean” and refreshes us for the next day. In this sense, it has some similarities to various practices from yoga, especially the deep meditative state of samādhi.
From ancient tribal cultures through to modern psychotherapy, dreams are given special significance—they may be prophetic or simply shine a light on some aspect of our lives. They can be like mirrors to our waking states, reflecting what is unconscious and thereby allowing us, at least to some extent, to become transparent to ourselves. Many stories from religious traditions hinge on a dream or a vision—from Noah's Ark and Mary's immaculate conception in the Bible to the transmission of lost texts to Krishnamacharya11 in the yoga tradition. Sometimes they can be disturbing, although what Patañjali suggests here is that the meanings and insights they offer (jñāna) may reveal a path around the blockages caused by antarāya and towards a place of stability and inspiration.
yoga sutra 1.39
yathā-abhimata dhyānād-vā
Or focus on anything that brings steadiness
This sūtra reveals the pragmatism and openness of Patañjali's teachings. As we have seen, he does not demand adherence to a particular religious tradition, to a particular path or to a particular doctrine. Desikachar often pointed out that yoga (and by that he meant yoga grounded in the Yoga Sūtra) should make a Christian a better Christian, a Muslim a better Muslim and an atheist a better atheist. These teachings are about promoting healthier, happier and clearer lives, and anything that is agreeable (abhimata) can become an object of our meditation (dhyāna) and help us to become steady. It is easier for our minds to focus on something agreeable or interesting, and it is this very process of focusing which, as we have seen, brings both steadiness to the mind and relief from disturbing thoughts. If, for example, drawing is your passion, that can help you to stabilize. Indeed, any focus can act like an anchor, steadying us in a sea of conflicting forces.
Sādhana: Variations and modifications
In many modern yoga classes, we often find students struggling to emulate their teacher, or an idea of what the posture should look like. How far should the feet be apart? Should my hand face forward or backwards? A common question from students is “what is the classical form?” But as Mark Singleton points out in Yoga Body,12 one of the unexpected consequences of the advent of photography was exactly this development of standard and ideal forms in āsana. It is far more difficult to define a “classical” form of āsana by looking at the earlier illustrations and paintings.
Likewise, the descriptions of āsana in classical texts such as the Haha Yoga Pradipikā (HYP) are rather vague and, without a teacher, it is difficult to know how to practice. For example, the HYP describes the bow posture (dhanurāsana) thus:
“Having caught the toes of the foot with both hands and carried them to the ears by drawing the body like a bow, it becomes dhanurāsana” (HYP 1.27).13
A tall order for anyone to follow!
Before āsana were photographed, all teachers could work with was the actual person in front of them; there was no external blueprint to aspire to. Indeed, one of the hallmarks of both āyurveda and yoga is that we are all individual: what is right for one person may be inappropriate for another. There is no “one-size-fits-all” approach to Indian spirituality.
Patañjali is very open about his solutions to antarāya: you could try this, or if that doesn't work—how about that? Hence all those or's in the sūtras above. Similarly, in the Bhagavad Gītā, Ka extols the virtue of many different paths to yoga, many different practices. He acknowledges that different people, with differing potentials, interests and circumstances, will need different approaches to spirituality. It was this very principle that first attracted us to the work of Desikachar. As we saw in Chapter 3, postures (indeed, yoga itself) should be adapted to the individual, rather than the other way around. The important point in relation to āsana is to understand the principles of form and function: what are we trying to achieve in this posture, and how can we best adapt the form to respect that goal? We have already discussed the concept of rakana14 and we can appreciate that such an approach protects both the function of the posture and the practitioner. This is usually done by adapting or modifying the āsana. For example, bending the knees and side-sweeping the arms in uttānāsana closes the hips and reduces loading in the back (fig 6.1).
Modifications bring us towards a posture. For many, trying to achieve the “final form” of a posture without making certain changes could lead to little benefit at best and serious injury at worst. Āsana modifications are an extremely effective tool in negotiating obstacles we may face in our practice. In other words, just because we can't touch our toes does not mean we cannot practice āsana! As Krishnamacharya is reported to have said, “where there is breath, there is hope.”
Variations, on the other hand, are usually performed in order to add interest, or work with a specific idea. Variations take us away from the usual function of a posture by introducing a new element which is not essential to the posture. In this case, we are adapting the form of the āsana in order to experience a new sensation.
Most variations involve placing the limbs into unusual positions. There are many arm variations which can be applied to a whole range of postures. We may place the arms in a reverse prayer position, place the hands on the shoulder blades, or cross the hands behind our head. We may also put the arms in a “gomukha” position, linking hands behind the back with one elbow up and one elbow down.
Similarly, we can place the legs into a variety of positions in āsana that may otherwise require the legs to be straight or symmetrical. For example, we may wish to work with lotus posture and so we can add the half-lotus leg position to other seated postures as a way of preparing the legs, hips and knees (ardha padma paścimatānāsana, fig 6.2).
Although slightly less common, another way of creating variation in āsana is by changing the alignment of the spine. When the spine is in neutral or in flexion, we can introduce a twist (parivtti) to intensify the posture and bring in a new experience, for example, in parivtti tāāsana (fig 6.3).
Variations can help to push our practice and deepen our involvement at both the physical and psychological level. Variations can also be very helpful in overcoming obstacles, for example, when we become stale and our practice lacks interest. They are there to help us see something from a different angle, to explore new avenues and keep us enthused and fresh.