When the practice of prāṇāyāma cleans the nāḍīs and allows the mind to concentrate easily in meditation, the apāna can drop strongly and evenly through the four corners of the pelvic floor. This balances and then suspends the flow of the inner breath through the iḍā and the piṅgalā. The pressing together of prāṇa and apāna in the navel chakra (nabhi chakra) creates a type of inner heat that causes the kuṇḍalinī to uncoil from her grip, which blocks the entrance to the suṣumnā nāḍī. When prāṇa begins to flow in this central channel it balances and opens, from both below and above, all of the chakras that are strung like flowers on a thread. The spreading cobra hoods over the crown of the head represent the complete unfolding of the great power of the universal intelligence that holds the mind suspended effortlessly in its natural state of pure awareness.
This kind of internal imagery encourages us to observe both subtle and more blatant effects of the breath. In addition to affecting the way you feel physically, the flow of the prāṇa makes a difference in how you map out an awareness of the core of the body, and it influences the type of thinking you do—more practical or more abstract—as it impacts different tendencies of mind. It is said that when the left nostril is more open and the moon channel is stimulated, you become more receptive; you might be more melancholy and are likely to have thoughts that are pluralistic in nature. You might have more of an appreciation for the fact that in the night sky there are millions and billions of suns or stars. Conversely, when the sun channel is stimulated through the right nostril, it is believed that you become more active and that your perspective will likely be dominated by perceptions of the one rather than the many. In this case you are more likely to engage in the world around you, making plans with decisive confidence. Of course, with close observation you will notice that just as you think you have understood the underlying pattern of your breath and how it is affecting you, the dominant nostril shifts sides, and the quality of the breath, and all of your theories about it, change. It is just like when the sun rises at dawn: we forget about the beauty and wonder of the nighttime stars, we grab a cup of coffee, and make a list. Depending on which channel of breath is more dominant, you either become too externally oriented or too internally focused. A true yoga practice occurs when you get the two channels of prāṇa balanced, leading to a spontaneous sense of harmony between inner and outer focus and states of mind. The foundation of a haṭha yoga practice becomes the act of observing your breath flow shifting and balancing so that you can track its effect on changes in the patterns of your awareness and in how you imagine yourself and your world. Notice any sunlike temptation to reduce your observations to just a theory. Instead, stay with the open, vibrating quality of the breath and everything within it.
Many of explanations of the qualities of breath and the nāḍīs found in Indian texts are filled with rich imagery similar to that found in Greek mythology, for example, the caduceus. If you contemplate these images, you might find that they stimulate within you feelings associated with energy flow through the nāḍīs that the images represent. Of course it might not happen (especially if you really want it to), but you can always experiment to see if there is any truth to the idea of an image stimulating physical feelings. As human beings we sometimes become so excited about our theories, our blueprints, or conceptual systems that we superimpose our concepts onto the real data with which we are presented. You should never take anyone’s word for theories like this—that the channels of breath represent the sun and the moon, or that they are either masculine or feminine, or even that there are channels of breath within the body. Instead, consider these constructs and ideas as an invitation to explore for yourself. If you observe the flow of the breath in your own nostrils, you will probably notice that it shifts from side to side over the course of the day. In fact, it is quite common that every hour and a half the flow of the breath shifts from being dominant on one side to being dominant on the other. You may find that the side that is more open is more stimulated, and also that there is more sensation in the nostril and sinus passages on that side of the body. On occasion you may observe the two sides merging or dissolving into the central channel. Your own body is a convenient and rich resource for experimentation and for understanding the principles and theories presented in haṭha and tantric yoga texts.
It is interesting to note that the Haṭha Yoga Pradīpikā, an important medieval yogic text, presents the idea that one should not practice meditation with focus on the core of the body during the day or during the night. This makes it sound as though you are off the hook and that you do not really need to meditate at all, but that is not the meaning of the statement. Rather it is code language for the idea that you cannot truly meditate on the core of the body if the iḍā and the piṅgalā are out of balance. Through the focused and consistent practice of yoga āsana and prāṇāyāma, the iḍā and the piṅgalā automatically become balanced, which allows for the potential of the opening of the suṣumnā nāḍī and a full connection to a profound and deep meditative state of mind. Hence, the word haṭha (ha meaning “sun,” ṭha meaning “moon”) refers to the sun channel and the moon channel becoming balanced or conjoined so that the central channel is opened for meditation practice. The relationship between the sun and the moon channels, like the relationship between day and night or the left and the right wings of a bird, is endlessly fascinating. There are entire systems of divination and ancient medicine based on the theory of the joining of opposite patterns, such as the flow of breath in the channels of the body. Many of these systems of thought include the belief that it is good luck to carry out certain activities when one of the two opposing patterns—perhaps the sun or moon channel—is dominant. All of this could be considered to be old wives’ tales or folk medicine, but who knows? How feelings, sensations, thoughts, and activities change when the breath flow in the nostrils is dominant on one side or the other is, at the very least, an interesting idea and something to experiment with, to observe within your own practice.
One common yogic practice is to purposely switch the dominance of one side of the breath over to the other side. It is very easy to do; you simply lie down on the side that has the more dominant flow of breath, and use the upper arm on that side as you would a pillow for resting your head. The restriction of the circulation in the shoulder area on the side you are lying on reflexively causes the sinuses on the opposite side to open so that the flow of breath, the svāra, switches sides in dominance. This reflex is built into the body; it is quite fascinating. Even if you have a deviated septum, the air flow shifts dominance over the course of the day and during this simple exercise. With a deviated septum the physical sensations are more subtle, so you must be more observant of obscure shifts in the breath, but you can still control the flow of the breath and track the svāra. Another traditional practice that is used for bringing a sense of balance into the body is to consciously switch the flow of the svāra from side to side several times in a row, in order to bring it back into a point of balance. We find that when we do yoga āsana and prāṇāyāma this balance naturally occurs, and at the end of a good practice there is a sense of internal balance, as if the breath is flowing evenly between the iḍā and piṅgalā or possibly that it is resting in the suṣumnā nāḍī. If you practice yoga regularly and this level of balance does not come quickly, it could be an indication that you are getting ill, but it is more likely a sign that you are not practicing with internal form and awareness. Again, as with all of the practices, these are simply indicators to be observed, reference points for awareness, as you cultivate a sense of deepening the practice.
When you do find balance of the breath, if you have even a glimpse of uniting the complementary principles of the sun and the moon channels, something very interesting begins to occur at the mūlādhāra cakra, which holds the root of the breath channels in the pelvic floor. According to yogic theory, the two streams of breath are allowed to unite when we remove the blockage that is between them. This obstruction is
called the kuṇḍalinī. The root of the word, kuṇḍa, means a “coil,” leading to the word kuṇḍalinī and conjuring the image of a coiled serpent lying asleep right at the base of the breath in the pelvic floor, in the very spot where the prāṇa and apāna are attempting to unite. This “coiled serpent” (or the energetic feeling that this serpent represents) interferes with the interpenetrating relationship of the sun and the moon channels, and it also inhibits their ability to enter into the suṣumnā nāḍī. The skillful practice of haṭha yoga removes this blockage, allowing the two aspects of the breath to unite and flow easily and unobstructed into the central channel so that deep levels of meditation or samādhi can spontaneously arise. This arising is considered to be the freeing of the prāṇa, which can then be referred to as the Prāṇa Devatā, the goddess Prāṇa, liberated to flow evenly in the central channel. Indeed, under these circumstances the breath is free because it is no longer restricted by our preconceptions and our desires and the entire complex of core and habitual feelings, thoughts, and sensations we hold in the body. When the prāṇa finds its way to the central channel and is set free in this way, it radiates out through the rest of the body, just like the sun, casting out light and releasing radiance continuously. It is also believed that at this time, the vibration of the prāṇa in the nāḍīs that are peripheral to the central axis ceases. In other words, the breath becomes still and concentrated in the central channel, allowing the mind to settle so that the patterns of the agitation of feelings, thoughts, and sensations that are associated with the prāṇa moving through the rest of the body (the peripheral nāḍīs) also settle. As a result, the normal world-constructing, world-interpreting activities of the mind are temporarily suspended, and the mind enters into a state of awe and pure attention, which is focused along the central axis of our being. At this point, it is believed that the internal breath, the kuṇḍalinī, uncoils and stands up straight along the central axis—just as a coiled snake lifts up straight out of its coiled state when alert.
This spiraling and uncoiling action of the breath is truly the meaning of prāṇāyāma, which is a joining of the two words, prāṇa and ayāma. Yāma means “to constrict, to control,” so ayāma, the opposite, means “to set loose,” “to free or extend,” “to expand or unfold.” Prāṇāyāma is the practice of breathing exercises in which we extend the length and the smoothness of inhaling and of exhaling to discover any difficulties in the patterns of the prāṇa and the apāna. After some practice, prāṇāyāma becomes a deliberate suspension of the breath that allows the mind to become extremely focused and calm, since it is the movement of the breath that actually makes the mind move. Gradually through our prāṇāyāma practice the suspension or retention of the breath becomes easy and spontaneous and starts to have a deep effect in the core of the body. An immediate result is that the nāḍīs become purified, and the inner ear opens so we are able to listen very, very deeply. In that listening we learn to give space to all of the other elements of the mind and body so that we can observe them without bias. This is how prāṇāyāma works; it releases the bonds that restrict the prāṇa, setting the breath free. The feelings and sensations associated with the awakening of the breath are sometimes compared to a very thin, beautiful chain of lightening. There are many metaphors describing the delicacy, precision, and beauty associated with the releasing of the bonds of the breath, the awakened suṣumnā and the movement of kuṇḍalinī along the central channel. Some practitioners visualize different forms of their preferred goddess or god standing up through their entire body, making every sensation or extension of their mind an aspect of the divine body, down to the most precise and intricate detail.
Because these images of uncoiled snakes and vibrating gods or goddesses standing upright at the base of the pelvis are so vivid and colorful, the idea of the kuṇḍalinī awakening is universally appealing. It is also very easy for the mind to understand the images and to hold on to the ideas they represent. In fact, the kuṇḍalinī rising is such an attractive image that we may hold too tightly to our vision of it, and in so doing avoid the actual experience if we happen to encounter it. It is important to remember that the process of yoga is really the observation of what is, not the reduction of what is to our theory about it, or to our images of what we would like it to be. Kuṇḍalinī is a metaphorical description of what could be a direct experience of reality in the present moment, but if our image of the snake awakening along our central channel is so wildly appealing that we grasp it, hang our imagination on to it, put it up on a pedestal, then we short-circuit any chance we might have of actually experiencing the prāṇa entering the central channel. When we practice yoga we get tastes of this—both the grasping and the release—just as we encounter snippets of the actual experiences that yoga can stimulate. In fact, the mystical experience is something that many, many people have, whether or not they do yoga. But if they have no context in which to explain their experience, either they forget about it or they try to fit it into their favorite imagery, beloved religion, or interpretive system, rather than simply observing the whole experience as it is. The joining of prāṇa with apāna, the appearance of kuṇḍalinī, or the spontaneous arising of a mystical experience are all aspects of existence that yoga can contextualize and ground in the actual experience of everyday, ordinary existence so that we can become more present, more authentic, and more compassionate.
Within the haṭha yoga tradition, the awakening of the central axis is, by definition, the end of the manifestation of time and space. It is actually the process of finding the deepest, true root of the mind. At times, this spontaneously happens during a yoga practice; the normal external conceptualization process of the mind instinctively stops, at which point the yoga actually begins to work. So the kuṇḍalinī, even the yoga practice itself, may not be what you think it is. This is because the mind likes to take its experiences and hand them over to the ego, which then wants to package everything for its own purposes. This is very normal; everyone does it. If we have had a mystical experience we may associate and confuse the things that were the content of the mind at the time we had the mystical experience with the experience itself. This is the natural degeneration of an ecstatic state of mind into a dull state of mind, and it happens all the time. When we are first practicing yoga we may get little shots of current through the central channel, little “ahhhhs!” little feelings of inspiration. But because the entire system of the nāḍīs is not yet cleared and cleaned through the practice of āsana and prāṇāyāma, our experience of the movement of the breath and energy in the central channel is fleeting. Nonetheless, the mind quickly interprets our experience and tries to bring it back into the ego structure in order to make sense of it, as a means of giving it a context. Consequently, many people will believe (or claim with glee) that their kuṇḍalinī has awakened because they have had a taste of it, or because they believe the imagery to be true and they consider the idea of an awakened kuṇḍalinī to be fashionable, not because they have actually had an integrated mystical experience. Sometimes if this happens to us as yoga students, our yoga teacher, out of a sense of kindness, may encourage us and say, oh yes, that is kuṇḍalinī awakening, when in fact every sensation and every feeling in the entire universe is kuṇḍalinī. The symptom of a true awakening is that one has the astonishing realization that the entire universe is merely the vibration we call prāṇa, and that all of our experience is in its essence empty of any permanent form and is empty of separateness from everything else.
Some say that when the kuṇḍalinī awakens the entire universe disappears, which sounds like a good indicator for recognizing a true awakening of kuṇḍalinī. Perhaps a more practical and significant way to understand the kuṇḍalinī is to remember that all haṭha yoga practices are extremely real and grounded, so that if a yoga practice does not encourage a sense of grounding, then it is not being practiced correctly and an actual awakening of the kuṇḍalinī is not possible. When you
practice non-exotic, everyday yoga—looking deeply at the ordinary experience, becoming more honest and more kind—there is a great sense of relief. You are freed from fantasy, freed even from contrived associations with the image of kuṇḍalinī as a snake arising within you, and freed from ego-centered notions of the cakras. This approach to yoga is grounded in an understanding and experience of impermanence. It invites you to come into the present moment and intuitively know what is truly essential, so that you connect instinctively into a state that is called jñāna, or “wisdom.” You experience a sense of discriminative insight in which you do not confuse the word that represents something, or the image of that thing, with the actual thing itself. For example, you experience someone you love—your spouse, your child, or your dog—as a deep and wondrous being, but you do not project onto them your habitual labels, your needs or desires. Essentially, when you experience discriminative insight, you do not pull anything out of its background. Instead you see everything, including a being you love, just as it is, and your perceptions are not clouded by an overlay of theories, preconceptions, and expectations. Discriminative awareness is a form of intelligence that can be experienced as a sense of razor sharpness of the mind on all levels of consciousness and knowledge. When you experience this form of wisdom known as jñāna, it is accompanied by what is called vairāgyam, or complete nonattachment. This is because when things are seen as interpenetrating manifestations of the whole, you are quite naturally filled with a sense of respect and awe for all different levels of manifestation. This is true whether what you perceive is experienced deep inside your own heart or as not part of you at all. So discriminative awareness and complete nonattachment are the two symptoms of actual awakening that occur spontaneously through a steady and internal yoga practice. If both of these states do not manifest naturally as you practice, then you are having what would be considered a distorted reflection of the yogic processes. It can still be a magnificent experience, but it is not the complete yogic experience and it is not the actual awakening of kuṇḍalinī, the dissolving of the entire world in the vision of empty, open awareness.
The Mirror of Yoga Page 7
