[10]
The Middle Path of Love
IN THE FINAL CHAPTERS of the Gītā, Kṛṣṇa is fully revealed, not only as tangible manifestations like the taste of water or the brilliance of the sun and not strictly as the terrifying wheel of time manifesting as monstrous heads crushing others in their jaws nor the warmonger we may have written him off to be as the story began. But here in the end, having offered sometimes direct, often subtle, and always profound teachings on the nature of life, Kṛṣṇa is represented in his purest and most sweet form as love itself; the capacity that exists within each and every one of us to endure and to flourish. Love is the ultimate expression of interconnectedness. It is an act of open reciprocity. Our ability to thrive is therefore rooted in relationships, so it is no wonder that most of us feel happiest when we have healthy relationships with others and are connected to the world around us. The funny thing is, though, that our ideas about love or relationships are often a cause of suffering. This happens when our image of what it means to be in love, what a relationship looks like, or how another “should” be in “our” relationship doesn’t match what is unfolding. Instead of trusting the limitless shared reservoir of love that is within us, the truth that we are all interconnected is obscured by our mind states, illusions, and attachments to sense objects and outcomes.
If we are to begin to wake up, we don’t have to believe that Kṛṣṇa is a historical figure or that the story of the Gītā should be taken literally as an unchangeable dogma in order to begin to experience the visceral sense of the vastness of what Kṛṣṇa signifies. Kṛṣṇa, who is considered to be everything that manifests and who holds all beings in the core of his heart, symbolizes interconnectedness and our inherent capacity to love boundlessly. He, and therefore we, are pure consciousness itself interlinked through our true nature, which is this basic goodness and tenderness of heart—compassion. When we put aside preconceptions, habituations, and prejudices, we automatically experience this deep sense of interconnectedness and on a gut, visceral level we find we have connected to who we have always been and who we will always really be; it’s like coming home.
This is what frequently happens for people when they first begin practicing yoga because their curiosity about yoga has opened them up to see what’s actually before them without the shadows and shadings of their presuppositions and habitual behaviors. Reconnecting to this primordial understanding we find the familiar territory of self—in both the personal and global sense. This is our natural state and is where we find true, lasting happiness. Happiness is our birthright, yet for so many, whether in crisis or not, it can seem unattainable. The teachings put forth in the Gītā show us that even though goodness, happiness, and compassion, just like love, are natural states for us, we must work with integrity, in a spirit of generosity and kindness, if we are to find them. Lasting happiness requires that we, like Arjuna when he woke up on the field of action and dharma, stand up and meet the circumstances and difficulties of life. This takes work, steadiness, and alertness during the continual cycle of waking up to the present moment. Defining and inquiring, holding on and letting go, we take decisive actions based on a trust in the nature of change and the power of relationships.
In chapters 16 and 17 of the Gītā, Kṛṣṇa reinforces the notion that critical to this process of waking up is the art of discriminating awareness—the ability to see through illusions of mind (both one’s own and those of others). Until this point in the text Kṛṣṇa has offered Arjuna endless details about how the world works, and he has pointed out pitfalls and given Arjuna advice on to how to proceed. Seeing that Arjuna is progressing on the path, in chapter 16 Kṛṣṇa broaches the subject of intention gone awry, something that can obscure clear vision like nothing else. He details the characteristics of those who are of “divine” nature and those whom he calls “demonic.” Truly divine beings hold all others in the very center of their heart. They are the very few who’ve achieved enlightenment. Others who have consciously and sincerely chosen to pursue a selfless path toward enlightenment but aren’t quite there yet (which is true of most spiritual seekers) are also considered very dear to Kṛṣṇa and on their way to becoming divine. Throughout the Gītā, the importance of good intention is underscored, and here too we are reminded that selfless, sincere intention is key and more important than outward gestures of piousness or of following dogma.
But now, for the first time in the text, Kṛṣṇa emphasizes the fact that there are those who are evil by nature, who absolutely lack good intentions. Still, he does not reject these beings. He does not remove them from the tender embrace of his heart, nor does he support their misguided and destructive means and actions. Instead, he offers them compassion, knowing they live in a state of confusion and personal suffering. In this teaching he is clear with Arjuna that waking up to reality means to exercise intelligence and discernment, especially when encountering this sort of being. We must see them for who they really are: though they are evil, they are also divine manifestations and Kṛṣṇa teaches that one should practice upekṣānam, or equanimity, when encountering this type of being. This means we should not buy into their delusion or act in ways that perpetuate their ill will or harm they may cause. Using discriminating awareness, we should, when the opportunity arises, do what needs to be done to prevent them from causing harm, but at the same time, we must keep even those who are evil in our hearts.
The practice of upekṣānam may seem impossible, especially when we encounter a truly vile individual who causes great harm to others, such as some politicians, murderers, or slick-talking tricksters, to name a few. How can we keep them in our hearts? There are tricks like visualizing in vivid detail a deity, such as an image of Viṣṇu or whatever realized being speaks to us, and then imagining we hold them in our heart. They, being divine, have all beings in their heart so, by default, when we embrace them, everyone in their heart is now also in ours! Or we might practice metta—offering loving-kindness—to the one who is evil and in so doing get a glimpse of their suffering, which can create space for them within our core.
Like everything else we’ve encountered in the Gītā, there is no one technique that will always work, but what is always true is the question, “What do we risk if we do not hold all beings in our hearts?” The instant any individual (or any part of the world) is pulled out of our hearts we create separateness—avidyā, or the foundation of ignorance and the root cause of suffering—and our action contributes to an inevitable karmic cascade of misery. Finding some way of holding even evil beings within our heart with a sense of compassion and equanimity is the only path toward healing and lasting happiness. For beginners perhaps we contemplate the teaching from the Gītā that we are one with Kṛṣṇa and that he has an infinitely large heart. Like Kṛṣṇa, we hold even those who are difficult, even demonic, in our hearts, but we see them as clearly as possible in the light of love, always looking again and asking what actions we can take that will best serve the whole. We are careful to remain grounded and not be overwhelmed by them by overly empathizing with them to the point that we lose sight of our own core values, intention, and ability to act with compassion. Yet we hold all others tenderly in our heart in a spirit of kindness and compassion. Easier said than done, but it becomes easier with practice and with support from others. Importantly we must remember that, while holding all beings in our heart, we always practice discernment—seeing everything as clearly as possible.
Kṛṣṇa explains that we can recognize the demonic because not only are they absolutely rajasic or bound by a knotted mess of tamasic and rajasic drives, but because they are filled with ill intent and deceptiveness. Those who are demonic have a self-serving, self-absorbed, destructive nature that is fueled by lust, anger, and greed. In modern terms, these individuals would be labeled narcissists, sociopaths, and psychopaths. For those who are driven by demonic delusions there is little chance of change because there is no desire to change. They see flaws in the system, in others, and in patterns of nature but are incapable of considering that something might be wrong with them, so why should they change? It’s helpful to remember that this demonic form is not something relegated to the dark corners of abnormal psychology that only a few may brush up against but rather something that most of us will encounter at the very least once in our life, so it is very important to be able to recognize it. Those with ill intent have been around forever, and the potential to express the demonic manifestation is something we all have seeds for and could potentially fall prey to as well.
Perhaps Kṛṣṇa left this teaching until the end because without first familiarizing ourselves with the classic patterns of human nature that may create obstacles on the path of enlightenment, such as becoming trapped in our beliefs about our dharma or attached to the rituals we imagine will bring us something of value, we could not differentiate between innocent confusion and deep-seated bad intention. Ill intention is where self-serving, demonic tendencies arise and, if left unchecked or ignored, as in the case of narcissists or psychopaths, things deteriorate quickly, as these people drive wedges of divisiveness between themselves and others and within systems so that an impending sense of separateness, fear, and contracted defensive behaviors in themselves and finally, in others, arise.
This is what happens in cults, when a leader becomes carried away by their own greed and delusions of grandeur and convinces followers to “drink the Kool-Aid” even at their own expense. It happens in business deals or politics where an ill-intentioned yet charismatic leader, using all the right words while tossing confusion onto the path of unsuspecting others, turns out to be a con artist ripping their friends off for great sums of money or causing other irreparable harm to the world. Even in the yoga world, or on other spiritual paths, this pattern arises far too often. You find your way to yoga and have a profound experience that after some time of study and practice (hopefully more than a couple of years), you feel compelled to share with the world. Suddenly you’re teaching others who are saying, “Wow! You know so much. You healed my aching back. Please, let me touch your lotus feet.” And even though secretly you know it was the yoga itself and not you that healed them, and that you don’t know much at all, you start to believe what the students are telling you. From being completely neurotic and impoverished, you’ve become practically a billionaire with limousines taking you everywhere—helicopters, if you’re in a hurry. But, of course, you’re not attached to it at all. Right! The teacher buys into their own fabricated story, and what seemed years and years ago to be a sincere yoga practice has transformed into a closed narcissistic loop in which the teacher believes the praises and flattery the students are giving. It’s a loop so tight that when the words of the students don’t reflect the teacher’s illusion of their own greatness, there is no room in the fold for those naysayers: “Get rid of all the mirrors that reflect my demonic face and the curled lip of insidious greed for power. Instead, I want only the injured or confused students who’ve come to join my cult.”
This has not happened once in history, or even twice; it’s happened millions of times and is a potential inherent in all of us. The fierce forms of demons represented in Indian and Buddhist art show this potential, as do characters such as Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth, who commits herself to evil and is driven by extreme greed and envy, or certain twenty-first-century moguls and politicians whose entire drive in life is the pursuit of their own power, wealth, and glory with total disregard for others and the planet. Kṛṣṇa emphasizes the importance of learning to recognize this type of person and warns that without the ability to discern fully and recognize evil, there is potential to be profoundly harmed by the abuse and disregard perpetuated by a demonic leader, teacher, or businessman (to name just a few manifestations) who becomes infatuated by their own glory at the expense of those around them.
If we don’t recognize the lack of moral integrity that leads to this when it presents itself in others or in our own private thoughts, the outcome is always disastrous. It is a temptation to all of us that is kept in check when we sincerely inquire and study and find and maintain a healthy relationship with a good teacher and participate in a healthy saṅgha that gives clear feedback. Refraining from constantly seeking people who agree with our perspective or garnering praise from our teacher that we’re the best student ever and maintaining a practice that requires looking ever more closely at the teachings and at ourselves are imperative if we are to avoid our own demonic potential. This is perhaps the most important impact of a healthy yoga practice; it keeps us embodied and grounded in our own experience and within the context of our relationships to others. We then remain steady rather than being swept away by emotions, thoughts, sensations, and desires within the ever-present churning of change that is life and time.
Having warned Arjuna of the demonic downfall of those who allow ego to rule, Kṛṣṇa then reiterates that everything that arises is a function of the guṇas acting on the guṇas, including our own experience of the world. To see clearly and cultivate the ability to recognize the contextual, dependent, relational, and interpenetrating pattern of the guṇas (even demonic tendencies), we need a clear picture by which to distinguish and differentiate between the guṇas—the sattvic (good), rajasic (passionate), and tamasic (dull) characteristics. Of course nothing is composed of only one aspect of the guṇas—only sattva, for example—but rather manifests in a unique ever-changing pattern as a combination of the three qualities. However, because one characteristic is usually most prominent, we can begin to learn about the guṇas by observing whether something is predominantly sattvic, rajasic, or tamasic, and this gives us a foothold to clearly assess and perceive what we encounter. With this we then refine our inquiry.
Noticing the moment-by-moment pattern of the guṇas unfolding within whatever it is we are observing, we can hone the skill of releasing our overlays of mind and ego to look more closely and to see ever more clearly. We notice the pattern: tamas, fixedness, is booted into action through rajas, or opposition. This stimulates the unfolding of sattva, synthesis, which eventually becomes stuck and stagnant, turning into tamas once again. Close observation reveals that everything—including the guṇas—is in constant flux and exists in an atmosphere of relationship or context; even the guṇas are in an endless relationship with each other. So here, toward the end of the text, Kṛṣṇa offers list upon list of specifics as to how the nature of the guṇas is revealed in objects, individuals, actions, and thoughts. Familiar with the characteristics of tamas, rajas, and sattva we are equipped with specifics that facilitate our ability to assess things quickly and with more accuracy, so we can act skillfully, not with the motivation to gain something from our actions, but with trust, intelligence, and openness, seeing the background and the foreground of our experience more clearly. When we see everything, including ourselves, as an integral part of the process—the symphony—of the guṇas, we can enjoy the moments we meet and this magnificent orchestra of life unfolding within the circumstances at hand.
Returning to the story of the Gītā we see that now Arjuna has the necessary building blocks of discernment. He can finally “stand up and fight,” face his crisis by weighing the pros and cons of different actions he might choose to take. He could follow his dharma as a warrior, he could run away from the battle out of fear and confusion, he could avoid the situation through ungrounded bhakti or blind ritual, or he could assess the situation clearly and act with intelligence and integrity. He knows that every action, counteraction, nonaction—even every thought—has karmic consequences and that attachment to the rewards he may imagine to be associated with his actions (even altruistic desires) is poisonous. He has come to understand that discernment does not stop with simply seeing the pattern of the guṇas, and he knows he must release his preconceptions about everything, even about the nature of the guṇas themselves and the illusion of what and who he imagines himself and others to be. Only with this level of self-reflection will he be able to navigate intelligently through the impossible dilemma he faces. He sees, as we should too, that maintaining this level of trust and honesty is not easy, nor should it be. It is a vulnerable process of placing down the boundaries of ego that keep us “protected” and then stepping willingly to dissolve into the paradoxical experience of being at once completely independent and absolutely interdependent.
Here, by the end of the text as Arjuna inches closer to insight, we watch him waking up to meet his own unique strengths and predispositions that will guide him through difficulties moment by moment. We may begin to see that his situation belongs to all of us, that the way through his or any crisis is an ongoing process of awakening, holding on and letting go, over and over again on more and more subtle levels with the aim of acting responsibly, intelligently, openly, and with compassion—keeping all others in the center of our hearts—even in the face of uncertainty. Just as Arjuna will finally decide the best course of action to take on the battlefield, we too are invited to pause, to get grounded in an embodied sense of the present moment, to recall that our true nature is one of happiness and love, nested in relationships. We are encouraged to inquire deeply into our self and our service to others as we face with courage and clarity the present moment, along with the inevitable difficulties and dilemmas that will be tossed onto our path.
Ever since the beginning of the story, when Arjuna felt the vibrations throughout his body from blowing the conch shell, an experience that brought him to his senses and snapped him into an embodied understanding of what it meant to step onto the battlefield, he has been waking up. Slowly he has been realizing that he is something far bigger than his own perceptions and conclusions. He has learned to suspend his impulse to act reflexively and instead to pause and inquire when faced with difficulty. He does so again here at the end, yet this time something is very different: he does not ask for certainty—to know which of two things is better. Instead, this time Arjuna wants to know the difference between the two forms of nonattachment saṁnyāsa and tyāga. He is beginning to let go of the need to know. This is a vitally important skill that is cultivated through contemplative practices, the ability to quell the ego’s need to know for certain. When we practice yoga or meditation we learn to observe the process of change that is always unfolding before us to reveal the present moment. The more closely we watch this pattern of change the easier it becomes to be comfortable with the fact that we can never know anything with 100 percent certainty. And this need to know without a doubt has troubled Arjuna since the story began. Yet now, he is shifting his grip on certainty, asking Kṛṣṇa to help him juxtapose concepts by looking more deeply at what it means to let go of attachments. This demonstrates to Kṛṣṇa that Arjuna is not only maturing and releasing attachments to his ideas, but that he is starting to trust on a profoundly deep level the process of truth unfolding that is revealed when one watches the present moment closely. He is finally beginning to experience the virtue of unhindered inquiry, which leads to discernment and, at the same time, he has been contemplating the difficulty of putting things down. It is so challenging to truly set things down, yet if we cannot release our feelings, thoughts, emotions, and sensations—even our ideas about these things and what it means to set them down—then we are incapable of deeply, innocently trusting life. Without release and trust, lasting happiness is impossible.
One of the things we learn from a healthy yoga practice is that putting things down, or vairāgyam, is the essential final step in every action we take. From the outset of the Gītā, Kṛṣṇa has emphasized the importance of letting things go, nonattachment, the nyāsa in vinyāsa. Every modern-day yoga student can chime in with the platitude that they are not attached, but we’ve all experienced the very same hesitation Arjuna has felt at the thought of truly letting go. Within our yoga practice perhaps the most important part is the end, when we set it all free, when we put down and completely release the practice no matter how it unfolded. Perhaps it was a phenomenal practice where every pose flowed effortlessly and angels chimed in as we followed the wave of the breath. Or maybe it was a tangled mess of mind, body, emotion, sensation, and resistance that started the moment we thought about rolling out the mat or setting up the cushion. Nonetheless we set it down, we offer it into the fire of pure awareness. The offering is a gesture of insight into the fact that “we” didn’t practice. Just as we didn’t actually turn on the light in the kitchen when we flipped the switch, our very own practice was a manifestation of the guṇas acting on the guṇas.
If we hold on to the residue from the practice, or cling to the illusion that the practice is healing us or how our practice will catapult us into yoga stardom (which we find out when we get there is just one of the rings of Dante’s Inferno where lust, greed, anger, fraud, and so on rule our so-called yogic existence), then we aren’t actually practicing at all. If we cannot set the entirety of our practice down, including self-concepts and their background, then we are practicing with attachment to the fruits of our actions. Attachment to any aspect of the practice means the practice is essentially useless and will eventually cause suffering as it transforms into just another means of separating ourselves out from the world. At the end of practice we sincerely offer the good that has come from the practice that it may be of benefit to others. We give it away; all of it. This is joy. This is what it means to let things go without attachment. Arjuna is beginning to see this, but still he needs clarification between terms used to describe this act of nonattachment—saṁnyāsa and tyāga.
Ultimately both terms are quite similar and in the Gītā are used somewhat interchangeably because they both mean putting things down. But there is a subtle important difference. One who has taken the vows to be a saṁnyāsīn consciously gives up all worldly attachments. In the context of Indian culture, being a saṁnyāsīn is part of the ashram system and is very ritualistic, pointing to one’s status in the culture. Being a saṁnyāsīn is an order in life, like gṛhastha (householder), brahmacarya (a monk or student), vānaprastha (one who retires at the end of a long life to the woods to do yoga and reflect on the meaning of life), and so on. When the vow of saṁnyāsa is taken you give up your name and all of your possessions. If you’re a Brahman, you even take off your sacred thread. Basically you’re acting as if you were dead. With the release of all worldly trappings, including your own personal and cultural identity, there is a focus on reflecting deeply both on the traditional teachings and the embodied experience in order to release habits of mind and ego. As with everything, sometimes becoming a saṁnyāsīn goes terribly wrong, interpreted not as a way of enriching the background of life but instead as the opportunity to do nothing at all and to distance oneself from the world or to enjoy the high status it gives. These types of wayward saṁnyāsīn do nothing to support others yet rely entirely on generosity for their own existence. This one-sided approach is a complete misunderstanding of karma, or work, and confusion about what is intended in taking the vow of saṁnyāsa. It is a waste of time and quickly turns into an empty, ritualistic gesture of ego.
What Kṛṣṇa encourages is not the ceremonial saṁnyāsīn, who only theorizes about putting things down, but instead a giving up of actions that is motivated by the intention to release everything completely—and this is tyāga. The subtle distinction between tyāga and saṁnyāsīn, therefore, is that with tyāga one gives up of the fruits of all actions for the benefit of and in service to others. It is a refinement of saṁnyāsa, a high state of continuous mindful giving up of fruits. Giving up actions prompted by desire, duty, standing in life, theory, or training or putting things considered to be distractions aside would be called saṁnyāsa. Kṛṣṇa, who is enlightened, but chooses to come back again and again in order to help others, is the epitome of what it is to be a tyāgi.
This most transformative form of tyāga is a malleable approach of responding to circumstance. It is letting go, then observing closely to let go more deeply again and again in a continuous wave pattern. Residue from this type of release resides in every corner of our experience, in our nervous system and awareness, as a fully embodied experience. Thinking that nonattachment is a good thing to strive for is one thing, but living with nonattachment embedded in one’s approach to life is something completely different because it is anything but an idea or a calculated act of release. Like so many of the aspects of practice and understanding discussed throughout the Gītā, tyāga is an unfolding, a process of responding skillfully to circumstances, and at its root is that tyāga is initiated from a heartfelt desire to act for the benefit of the others.
Tyāga is release, but it is important to remember that tyāga is rooted in action, so sometimes while practicing tyāga we are consciously holding on to things—otherwise how could we set them down? The nature of the untrained mind is to unconsciously latch on to anything it happens to perceive as solid or catchable. Not only could this mean grasping onto sense objects but also holding on to ideas, conceptual understandings, and so on. When we hold on to things instinctively rather than consciously choosing to pause within an unending process of change, we become trapped by familiar patterns of body, speech, and mind that draw us into a world of conditioned existence. Trapped on the wheel of saṃsāra and suffering we hold on desperately until something more attractive comes along or until an outside force causes us to release our grip. But if we are practicing tyāga, even though we may hold on at certain points, at just the right moment, we let go. Like the tide entering a shallow cave by the seashore, rolling in to fill every obscure corner and crevasse of the complex landscape then flowing evenly back out as the water subsides, our ability to let go of attachments is in a perpetual rhythm of ebb and flow. Tyāga in this way is a full-bodied experience responsive to the guṇas acting on the guṇas, and it has a feeling of receptive stability and compassion without resistance. When practicing transformative tyāga “we” disappear, integrating fully with whatever is arising almost as if we were that cave by the shore with welcomed tides of change washing through every corner of awareness.
Here at the end of the Gītā, having given Arjuna the tools he needs to take skillful action no matter what the circumstances, Kṛṣṇa’s final teaching is simple and subtly sublime. It is the elegant directive to find strength in one’s true nature by staying awake and standing up to meet circumstances as they arise, the same advice he gave to Arjuna when the story began. We’ve learned by now, however, that what he means by standing up and fighting isn’t the unilateral advice to stand up and kill, but instead to stand up and identify the seeds of the demonic that Arjuna (all of us) has within; the potential for greed, anger, lust, jealousy, and so on. Instead of discerning that his dharma as a Kṣatriya should solely inform his actions and that he should engage in battle and killing, Kṛṣṇa is advising Arjuna to wake up to the moment and act with intelligence, conscious of his full circumstances with an awareness of the fact that his actions (or inactions) will impact the whole. This final teaching from Kṛṣṇa is to release all dharmas and become absorbed by the truth of love.
So far in the Gītā, surrender has been used in the sense of not becoming stuck in one’s identity or ideas, attachments, beliefs, actions, or motives for action. We’ve seen that surrender is a type of karma, or work. It is not a complete collapse or helpless release but a directed, skillful action that sets aside egotistical illusions that keep us stuck, separate, and suffering. Now here, in the final teachings, Kṛṣṇa refines the idea of surrender to mean “to take refuge.” This is significant because it insinuates that the type of surrender required is not only an act of release but also the process of letting go in the context of deep mutual respect and trust. Refuge means “to take shelter”; it is a place or person providing sanctuary and protection from danger, trouble, or unhappiness. Like surrender, refuge requires letting go, but it also involves letting in. Refuge infers a relationship and that there is interaction, communication, and respect between the one taking shelter and the place or person in whom one finds safety. Refuge is only possible when we allow others in and embrace the fact that everything is interconnected. In other words, when Kṛṣṇa says “Come to Me” he means surrender to—trust and take refuge in—the seat of our shared true nature, that of openhearted compassion.
The space for this connection already exists within all of us and is nourished by relationships that are built upon good intention, motivation directed toward the benefit of the whole rather than the individual, and honest, open communication. This final teaching is not only essential if we are to find happiness but carries with it a huge responsibility—to trust, to be trustworthy, and to be able to discern if trust in another is merited, so we know when and where to find and share safe refuge in the form of unobstructed love.
As the Gītā opened we found Arjuna on the battlefield, in a crisis of conscience, faced with the seemingly impossible dilemma of taking one of two courses of action, each of which seemed flawed: to fight for a cause he believes in, knowing great harm will come to many he loves and respects, or to collapse in dismay, sidestepping the problem, his responsibilities, and his integrity. In the beginning these are the only two options he can imagine. As the story progresses and he rides waves of thought and emotion while allowing himself to trust his beloved teacher and friend, he starts to see that the picture is not as completely black and white as he first imagined. Perhaps there is a middle path.
This same confusion of seeing only extreme views when encountering any crisis or dilemma is common to most of us. We may initially feel isolated, ineffectual, and alone and that our options are extreme and limited. Access to our internal resources, such as creativity and compassion, begins to dry up and there’s likely to be a pervasive feeling of panic and a sense of being so overwhelmed that we must protect or separate ourselves if we are to survive. This inclination to cling to ideas and emotions as if they are a matter of life and death, especially in times of change, is not Arjuna’s alone. It is a natural response that the uncertainty inherent in change can trigger. We might feel in crisis at the end of one phase of life as we move into another, the end of a career or a relationship, for example. We could be engulfed by feelings of fear when one of our well-worn patterns of behavior transforms into another, even if the transformation is healthy, such as finding a path out of depression or breaking an addictive substance abuse pattern we’ve used to cope with stress.
Crises, by definition, are times of change that mandate letting go and trusting the unknown. They are times where the well-established, functional (and ill-functioning) aspects of the ego must take a back seat to the context of the situation and, as such, crises can pose a threat to a strong ego. This is why many begin practicing yoga but just as the practice starts to work, they abandon it. When yoga is practiced well there is a letting go of everything, including our ego, which can lead to an identity crisis. And this is one reason Kṛṣṇa repeatedly reminds Arjuna that yoga isn’t for everyone. But if we persevere with a yoga practice we become familiar with the feeling of finding a sense of balance while not really knowing for sure what will come next. We learn to trust the process of change. We can release illusions of “knowing” and “control” so that as our concocted pictures of a stable reality shift, we do not find ourselves in a state of crisis. This is important because when we feel we are in crisis, rather than in transformation or transition, there is a tendency to feel alone and contracted to the point that our vision of possibilities becomes extraordinarily limited, and our actions become directed from a place of fear, self-doubt, and the perception of separateness. In this state ego identification and inflation, anger, lust, greed, attachment to dogma, rigidity, and all sorts of isolating and destructive qualities prevail. However, if we suspend our theories and take refuge in the process of life unfolding moment by moment, then we have the possibility to tap into the intelligence of interconnectedness. From this point of steadiness we can then access the sort of tri-ocular vision that Arjuna experienced when seeing Kṛṣṇa’s universal forms, so that we too can see into the core of existence and the meaning of life. From this perspective we may see that, though change may be uncomfortable, within it—even if it feels like a crisis—there is opportunity for courage, attentiveness, release, love, and above all, evolution. Crisis is a call to remember that we are strong and unique but not separate and alone. It is an opportunity for communication and relationships to flourish and intelligence to blossom and a time to trust the strength found in compassion. This is bhakti. This is what it means to set everything down, to fully surrender, acting with nonattachment to personal gain as we take refuge in the power of compassion so that we may sincerely work together for the benefit of others.
Kṛṣṇa’s teaching “Come to Me” is often considered the final teaching of the Gītā. It’s a beautiful message, yet if you stop there it could lead to a superficial or dogmatic interpretation of the entire text: “I surrender to the deity Kṛṣṇa and will, at all costs stand up and fight!” Or the New Age counterpart to that, which is equally dogmatic: “It’s all love, it’s all one, and I’m just surrendering to bliss—riding the wave of love.” However, if you read on just a little further, there are two strong reminders that these sorts of approaches miss the underlying point of the text altogether.
After inviting Arjuna to take refuge in him, Kṛṣṇa, says, “And so this wisdom, the ultimate secret of secrets, has been revealed by Me to you. Contemplate it deeply so there is no residue and act as you choose” (18.63). In other words, when he suggests that Arjuna take refuge in him as love, instead of setting up a power dynamic (you are surrendering to me) he offers trust and freedom of choice in return. He implies that Arjuna knows all he needs to know and is now trustworthy; he is ready to use his intelligence to act skillfully. Kṛṣṇa shows Arjuna that he trusts him but then just as a worried parent might say, “Have a great time and call if you need anything!” when they send their child off to university for the first time, Kṛṣṇa too qualifies his statement to his beloved student with the reminder, “Fill your mind with Me, loving Me, sacrificing to Me, make salutations to Me. In this very way you will really, truly come to Me. I declare this, for you are precious to Me. Give up all dharmas and take refuge in Me alone. I will set you free from all evils. Do not worry” (18.65–66).
So here at the end of the text Kṛṣṇa, who has revealed himself to be everything that manifests, becomes very, very human once again. In doing so he demonstrates the importance of fully expressing oneself while carrying no pretenses of power or superiority into our relationships with others. This teaching about relationships is vital. It is especially relevant in a world where it is becoming increasingly common for superficial platitudes and clever sound bites to be tossed out in a spirit of self-promotion or self-gain and where working for the good of others often plays second fiddle to karma aimed strictly toward one’s own imagined advancement or fame.
Kṛṣṇa’s ultimate teaching is an invitation into the insight one gains from the direct experience of our commonality. Yet he warns that this teaching, just like the practice of yoga, is not for everyone; it is “secret.” In doing so he is not saying that the knowledge of interconnectedness should be confidential. Instead, he cautions that the information might be misinterpreted, in which case it could do more harm than good. So the teachings should be shared prudently. He adores those who teach the truth he expounds upon in the book and is happy when the wisdom is openly offered, but still, he points out, it will remain hidden—a secret—because it will not be understood.
Like many truths of life, this deep wisdom is likely to remain hidden before our very eyes until we are ready to see it. Kṛṣṇa advises us that although insight into the meaning of life is founded in relationships, it is rooted to earth through the context of a sincere pursuit of truth. Flaunting devotion or speaking of this to others who resist, who have no desire to do the work necessary to listen and connect deeply outside of their own egocentric perspective, is therefore ill-advised. This is a final reminder to any of us who are sincerely pursuing an understanding of the truth. We must be willing to be honest enough with ourselves and to cut through our own illusory game of separateness and survival to admit we have our own pesky ego hovering in the background, forever looking for a way around even the most pure teaching such as this. We must always give up knowledge—our egocentric perspective—and look again.
With this final teaching Kṛṣṇa, again like the worried parent, asks Arjuna, “Listen to this, O Son of Pṛthā. Have you heard this with one-pointed concentration of mind? Has your delusion caused by ignorance been dispelled, O Conqueror of Wealth” (18.72)? In the next verse, Arjuna replies that his delusion has been destroyed. He adds that by Kṛṣṇa’s grace, what we can see is Kṛṣṇa’s supportive, careful, and respectful teaching, he has gained smṛti, and he no longer has doubts. Doubt, of course, is what struck Arjuna down when he first arrived on the battlefield, and uncertainty has plagued him throughout most of the rest of the story, so this is a huge sign of Arjuna’s evolution.
Smṛti is often translated to mean “memory,” but here it means “the mindfulness that is accessed through meditation.” In meditation we examine things moment by moment. Smṛti infers that we re-cognize, or rethink, everything. With practice, meditation not only enhances memory but other aspects of perception such as focus, insight, and inquisitiveness as well. This is the power of a contemplative practice. Its impact is to, on a subconscious level, gradually build clarity, fostering dissolution of delusion (misperception) so that seeds of doubt are naturally resolved.
When our minds are delusional, we are like those in Plato’s cave who were chained so that their heads could not turn and who saw only the shadows of forms on the wall projected from behind. But once we begin to see things more clearly, we can never go back to our previous delusions of mind. It is this level of life-changing, paradigm-shifting perception that the Gītā offers us, and that Arjuna has finally experienced through the teachings laid out before him in the text. Being able to use the double-edged sword of discriminating awareness to look more closely at our perceptions and conclusions so that we can discern with increased levels of clarity and therefore choose to act skillfully with integrity and intelligence is the path through any crisis. This capacity for discernment is the essential fertile ground upon which a sense of the truth of interconnectedness can flourish. Once we begin to really truly see—to embody—this insight we can then let everything go. Trusting the process unfolding around us, we can safely take refuge in the vast spaciousness of kindness, love, and compassion that is the actual interpenetrating order of the world.
This then is the official conclusion of the teachings put forward in the Gītā. Yet there is an interesting twist in the telling of the Gītā that appears even after the formal story ends. When Arjuna says he can take action with confidence, Sañjaya, the one narrating the story, mirrors Arjuna’s statement. Sañjaya tells Dhṛtarāṣṭra (the blind king to whom he is speaking) that he is completely enthralled by the detailed telling of the story, the profound teachings and the step-by-step instructions Kṛṣṇa has presented in the text. Sañjaya says, “In this way I have listened to this wondrous dialogue of Kṛṣṇa and the Son of Vāsudeva and the Son of Pṛthā, the great being, making my hair stand on end. By the grace of the poet Vyāsa I have heard this ultimate secret yoga from Kṛṣṇa, the lord of yoga, narrating it himself right before our eyes. O King, as I contemplate again and again this amazing and sacred dialogue of Keśava and Arjuna I am thrilled every moment, again and again. And mindfully recollecting again and yet again the extremely amazing form (rūpa) of Hari, my astonishment is huge and I am thrilled again and yet again. It is my thought that wherever there is the lord of yoga, Kṛṣṇa, and the Son of Pṛthā, the archer, there is beauty, victory, well-being and certainly morality” (18.74–78).
It is no coincidence here that Sañjaya also describes the idea of smṛti (using the term saṁsmṛti, which literally means “complete mindfulness”) when he says that he will look again and again, just as in any yoga practice we watch closely what is arising, then look again. This is so we may not only see the surface of what is “before our eyes” but so that we look with the quality of discriminating awareness and an intention of discerning what will best serve the whole.
So rather than Sañjaya’s message being one of surface adoration for Kṛṣṇa and the story of the Gītā, the use of the word saṁsmṛti here implies that the intention of the original poet in telling the story of the Gītā was that the one listening to the story—be it Sañjaya or any one of us—should always look again at everything that arises in life: our crises, our joys, our complexities, and simple everyday wonder. We should see as clearly as possible, draw conclusions based on our understanding of the context of the situation, which is understood through cultural, personal, and theoretical fragments of the story that is before us, and then put it all down. We should offer our precious conclusions and our most skillfully crafted knowledge, along with everything else, into the fire of pure awareness as we look again. In this way, we contemplate what is before us openly and honestly, in context of relationship, keeping all beings in our hearts and with a spirit of setting things free. As such there is no residue, and we can fully embody a dissolution into the limitless spectrum of love’s light so that the ultimate secret of secrets—wisdom—is born.
This is the teaching of the Gītā that can serve us as we travel our unique and auspicious path through this lifetime, knowing we are intimately intertwined with everything else in search of a mutual awakening. Changes come, emotions bubble up, insights arise, habits slow us down, deaths arrive, sorrow and joys abound. And life goes on. We are faced with crises along the way. They are always part of every journey, yet it is in the moments of crisis that we find opportunities to wake up to deeper, more connected, kinder, and more compassionate levels of awareness and behavior. Step-by-step, action-by-action, thought by counterthought, and breath-by-breath there is always the possibility of waking up; coming home to the truth of who we are and what it is we are truly here to do. It is at this point, when we take refuge in the profound interconnectedness of life and embrace the freedom of releasing concepts and constructs—our ego—that transformation is nourished. It is here too that the brilliance shining out as love, as bhakti, resides.
divi sūryasahasrasya bhaved yugapadutthitā |
yadi bhāḥ sadṛśī sā syād bhāsastasya mahātmanaḥ ||
If a thousand suns rose at once in the sky, such a brilliance might be the splendor of this great being (11.12).