The most popular metaphor for the puruṣa-prakṛti relationship (or perhaps more accurately, their lack of relationship) is that of the sun and a flower. The sun, puruṣa or pure consciousness, simply shines. This sunshine causes the flower—which is the perennial symbol of prakṛti—to open and to turn toward the sun. Here the metaphor is not really dualistic, because the sun has some influence on the flower. Unavoidably, some quality is being given to puruṣa that inspires, wills, loves, or stimulates prakṛti. The mystical experience that was described poetically in the Vedas, and then philosophically in the ātman-Brahman teaching of the early Upaniṣads, is defined in the Sāṁkhya system as when the puruṣa simply sees prakṛti as prakṛti without identifying with and latching onto any identification with what is seen and without naming the perception. Prakṛti simply is creative energy. In fact, any of us at any time could engage in a completely proper Sāṁkhya meditation by just acknowledging that whatever we think, feel, see, touch, smell, taste, or hear—that any and every thing we are capable of perceiving is prakṛti. A constant sense of discriminating awareness that all layers of the perceived are only prakṛti allows the complete unfolding of the flower of prakṛti. However, it is very difficult for the mind (filled with idolatrous images of puruṣa) to hold the insight that prakṛti is a unified, hierarchical field of creative energy, empty of puruṣa and without connection to puruṣa. To complicate matters, in order to make such a meditation truly fall in line with the deeper intention of the Sāṁkhya system, we must understand that our mental mantras or the phrase “all is prakṛti” is, in and of itself, also prakṛti.
Though the Sāṁkhya system can sometimes seem confusing, it essentially offers encouragement to really look when we are looking. Within the Sāṁkhya model, when we are able to observe our present experience as being prakṛti, then we can finally suspend the infinitely exhausting process of theorizing and philosophizing about our experience. We can drop fully into our immediate experience, and this is the foundation of all mystical experience. We see right from the beginning that the Sāṁkhya system (and in fact all of the early yoga philosophies) is an attempt to expose false self or false puruṣa. These systems are vehicles that are to be abandoned just at the right moment so that the vehicle itself becomes part of the fuel for the process of awareness rather than the focus of our awareness. To the beginner the Sāṁkhya system appears to be an uncompromising dualistic system in which puruṣa is totally separate from prakṛti. As novices we might think that the puruṣa is liberated when we imagine the distinction between a solid, ego-like, human-shaped puruṣa floating above an elemental, dead, mechanical, and always shifting prakṛti. But this is a beginner’s theory and is part of the mind’s attempt to categorize, label, and solidify the two distinct parts of the dualism so that one side is bad (temporary) and the other side is good (permanent). The actual dualistic axiom of Sāṁkhya works to constantly deconstruct any image or idea of puruṣa. Puruṣa is not a thing, not a noun, not a verb, and not even a function. That prakṛti cannot define or pin down puruṣa keeps prakṛti open, moving, and fresh. Perhaps the reason Sāṁkhya philosophers stuck to this apparent dualism, at no point conceding the obvious fact that prakṛti and puruṣa are not two separate “things,” is that they wanted us to be able to experience even the most subtle states of mind as being empty of ego, empty of self, empty of puruṣa. If we capitulate too soon in our understanding and say, “Oh yes, puruṣa and prakṛti are ultimately the same thing,” then we inevitably wind up identifying with some aspect or layer of the mind right in the midst of an arising experience, at which point selfness, separateness, puruṣa-ness gets projected into the woven fabric of prakṛti. In this way we establish ego, which short-circuits the actual mystical experience and derails us from having a truly deep insight into the actual nature of consciousness.
Within the Sāṁkhya system it is said that the ground from which the universe of our experience unfolds is called mūla prakṛti. Mūla means “root,” and prakṛti of course means “creative energy.” In this original state, prakṛti is said to be like a clear, bright, empty mirror that simply reflects pure living consciousness. Balanced, fully integrated mūla prakṛti reflects contentless consciousness; it reflects only puruṣa. Any imbalance—a seed, a flaw—makes the root prakṛti generate the world and our experiences of it. The basic building blocks of the Sāṁkhya universe, the cosmos of our direct experience, are called the three guṇas. Guṇa means a “strand” or a “rope,” and it is said, within the Sāṁkhya system that these three strands braided together generate the process of prakṛti, the process of constant change, continual transformation and evolution. Everything at all levels of manifestation is said to be a different combination of these three basic energetic threads of creation. The term guṇa has been interpreted in many different ways. Some define the guṇas according to their separate physical characteristics—one strand being bright and balanced, one having movement and interaction, and one being fixed and full of inertia. However, if we look at the guṇas as merely physical properties that we experience in the outside universe, then we tend to exclude the more important subjective psychological properties they each have as part of our feelings within our internal landscape. A more complete and accurate understanding of the guṇas connects the inner world of our perception, thought, and mind state with the outer physical world.
The three guṇas are sattva, rajas, and tamas. Sattva is associated with principles of synthesis, harmony, knowledge, intelligence, happiness, and goodness. Rajas is the energy of antithesis, passion, activity, motion, desire, and sorrow. Tamas is the quality of thesis, inertia, fixity, dullness, darkness, illusion. All three are constantly in dynamic tension with one another. Their relationship is somewhat like an ongoing game of rock, paper, scissors, because in all that occurs in life, one guṇa—one of the strands—gets on top, but no one remains on top since none of the guṇas are of fixed substance. The guṇas, therefore, are a means of describing the process of evolution or change and impermanence. Every experience we have is composed of the transformation of the three guṇas, and it is said that the activities of the guṇas are the unfolding of eternal time itself.
Tamas can be understood to be the past, that which has been determined and is history; it is the objective situation, the given, your lot in life. Tamas refers to all aspects of experience that have a predominantly fixed or tamasic quality to them. One way to understand tamasis as that which is given to us with no effort. Rajas can be understood to be more closely associated with the future; it is desire, projection, externalization. Sattvais the synthesis of the position of tamas and the counterposition of rajas. It is ultimately the understanding of selflessness and is considered to be the present moment with the quality of awakening; it is the process of consciousness unfolding. Sattva transcends the tension between past and future, between what has happened and what the mind projects as the possibilities of what could happen. It can be cultivated to the point of such clarity that it becomes like a clear mirror for the light of puruṣa. When the processes of prakṛti are observed without interference, sattva is the naturally occurring state of affairs.
As the threads of sattva, rajas, and tamas intertwine within our ever-changing experience we find our perceptions and our moods dominated by one or another of the three guṇas. Often we find ourselves in a sattvic mood, and in that state of being we tend to do things that in turn are labeled as sattvic: we eat sattvic foods, those that have a balancing effect on the body, or we engage in sattvic activities, like being kind. When we are first in a sattvic mood our perceptions are clear and bright. The feelings of joy, love, compassion, empathy are right up near the surface of our awareness, and virtually everything we experience stimulates one of these “good” and satisfying feelings. Consequently we behave, think, and react in ways that reflect this sattvic state of being. But after some time spent in a sattvic mood—and it can be a long or a very short period of time—we become desensitized
to the joyful stimulation of the sattvic state, and usually without even being aware of it, we reduce the good state to a formula or image and begin to drift off into a state of complacency, dullness, boredom, and inertia; the state of tamas sets in. Our senses become lifeless, we are drawn to lackluster activities, for example, sticking to routines or eating foods that make us feel thick and heavy, and we become sluggish, unmotivated, or uninspired. Again after some time (if we are lucky) this dull state of being becomes intolerable and it stimulates the rajasic guṇa to kick in; we become very eager to do things, almost anxious to act. Passionate or angry, our actions are fast and not always well thought through, and we are drawn to nourish the body in ways that reinforce our ability to stay zealous—like having another cup of coffee. This rajasic quality breaks up the dullness and the inertia that set in when we fell into a tamasic state. It can draw us back into a sattvic state if we are able to remain fully conscious and harness our rajasic energy skillfully, funneling it into a state of calm, clear thinking and action. But if we remain rajasic for too long, we become imbalanced and maybe even aggressive, unthoughtful, attached to the formulas of opposition, and ungrounded, which eventually results in burnout that propels us back into a tamasic state.
The effect of this ever-changing, cyclical pattern of the guṇas is that we are always in transition. The yoga practices teach us to cultivate awareness in all of these different states of being so that we remain fluid, alert, and able to transition from one to the next skillfully. We learn to do this by remembering that the nature of a harmonized, sattvic state is similar to a piece of fruit: it will ripen and become heavenly just before it starts to overripen and rot. But unlike a piece of fruit, our states of being are completely renewable; the sattvic feeling of contentment becomes a vibrant rajasic state of being, which (if we stay alert) again becomes sattvic. Of course, once again after some time, the sattvic state becomes too peaceful, decays into a dull or tamasic state, which is finally interrupted by a burst of rajasic energy, and the cycle continues. This pattern of the guṇas occurs not only in our moods; as is pointed out in the system of Sāṁkhya, it is considered to be the underlying process of change in all perceivable experience inside and outside of our body.
Even though the sattvic state is harmonized, compassionate, selfless, and joyful, and it might seem that the “goal” of the practice of yoga is to make you purely sattvic, paradoxically this is not so. For a state to be truly sattvic, it must have at least in its background the elements of tamas and rajas, and it must occur spontaneously. If you become attached to the idea that being in a constant sattvic state is most desirable, and you then try to become sattvic, either you will wind up rajasic in your pursuit of sattva or you will become upset at the inevitable decay of your happy sattvic state into a sleepy, dull, fixed tamasic state. In either case you will suffer deeply. You may not recognize yourself as being in a constant state of attempting to sculpt all situations as you strive to be sattvic, but if you do not fully cherish and look upon with equanimity the other states of being, you will never be truly sattvic, completely fulfilled. It is common for beginning yoga students to become so attached to the idea of a sattvic state that they become stuck pushing or pulling on the tamasic state of mind that is at the edges of sattva. The apparent paradox in this situation arises because if you are not a little attracted to a sattvic state when you practice yoga or sit down to meditate, then you have no motivation to practice at all. If you are not on some level yearning to have a good practice, then there will be no practice at all and no chance to observe how silly the mind is when making goals for practicing. Practice exposes how the mind works through both useful and hurtful ego games. When the mind creates an ideal of the sattvic practice, then instead of truly being present with experience as it spontaneously arises and transforms, you compare everything to the ideal, making it impossible to observe any uncomfortable tamasic state. You find yourself in a rajasic state; your practice is filled with grasping, frustration, and a need to achieve the ideal. It is ironic that we can understand the cyclical nature of the guṇas within all experience, but that we so often grasp onto the desire for a sattvic state. An overestimation of our own purity makes us reject and condemn any useful rajas in us, so that we do not even notice it when we become stuck in a tamasic state of being. Herein lies the paradox that surrounds the guṇas. We find that the practice of yoga frequently presents paradoxes (philosophically, emotionally, mentally, and physically) that place us in double binds that seem ironic and impossible to navigate. If we are fortunate enough to be in a sattvic and alert state when one of these paradoxes arises, then we can see that such double binds are inevitable and that they are actually at the root of some of the great depth of life’s experience, and perhaps we can also even see that they are a little bit humorous.
It is possible for the mystical experience to occur through our insight into one of these paradoxical situations, when we truly comprehend that all experience is simply the three guṇas acting on each other. This can occur if, when a happy or a sattvic state arises, that very state becomes the object of our attention. We can witness the state as it naturally disintegrates into dullness, but we observe the disintegration, we do not identify with the breakdown or the tamasic state itself. Instead we are able to observe this shifting of the guṇas as the natural pattern of change. Then when the passion of the rajasic state naturally arises, when ideas surface that start to stir things up again, at that point we understand that what is happening is simply the guṇas acting on the guṇas. In this way we are able to appreciate the process of life happening, and there is an actual opportunity for the spontaneous awakening of a mystical experience. If, on the other hand, we do not understand that all experience is the intertwining of these three braids of prakṛti and that change is the natural outcome of that interdependent relationship, then we become extremely attached at certain phases of our experience and repulsed at other junctures, which eventually leads us to regret the very process of transformation itself.
5
Buddhi and Context
One way to look at the Sāṁkhya universe as it blossoms out of the effect of the guṇas interacting on each other and on all things, a universe that revolves around the interplay of the prakṛti and the puruṣa, is to compare it to a dark chocolate confection with a creamy filling. The further you go into that piece of candy the sweeter it gets, and at the very center is the essence, an intensely delightful core. In the middle of the Sāṁkhya universe is the most lovable spot, a seat of clear intelligence where the higher sattvic functions come to balance. In the absolute center of this seat is the resting point or gateway of the puruṣa. All of this can be visualized as a maṇḍala or a yantra representing the Sāṁkhya universe with all of life, experience, all mind states, and each of the guṇas vacillating around the exterior, pulsating in toward the very center resting point of puruṣa. The part that is closest to the center and to puruṣa is called the buddhi. The word buddhi, derived from the verbal root budh, “to awaken,” is best translated as “intelligence.” It is the principle of awakening, the ability to step outside of a framework, as if we were waking up from a dream. Buddhi is the first thing to evolve out of the essence of the root mūla prakṛti, and is often symbolized as being like a creeper, wrapping itself around puruṣa, just as a vine entwines a post. In another sense, buddhi is like a close cousin of both puruṣa and prakṛti—the missing link that ties together the vast open and pure quality of puruṣa with the more specific, object-centered quality of prakṛti. Buddhi is the very nature of the sattva guṇa, and it is perhaps the most important (though possibly also the most difficult) aspect of the Sāṁkhya system to understand.
The buddhi can be defined as the “context maker” because true intelligence is the ability to discover the real meaning of things by linking them into their contexts. Buddhi receives input from the senses, the mind, and memory, and then draws the outline or frame of that given input in order to put it in context. The Sā�
��khya system teaches that our experience is both given to us (in a passive realistic sense) and subjectively created (in an idealistic sense). Buddhi sees relationships between objects; it reveals their background and allows that knowledge to continuously interface for whatever purpose the buddhi chooses to serve. In the long run it is the buddhi that actually allows you to understand and to fully experience you as you: puruṣa as puruṣa. When integrated and awakened, “she” (or buddhi in feminine personification) exists for the purpose of revealing puruṣa, as a striker exists for a bell or as a lover for the beloved. Her purpose, however, is more often diverted toward the ego or what is called the false puruṣa. Buddhi’s potentially brilliant functioning becomes dull and clogged by deeply held needs and fears that come from a basic ignorance that sees some parts of prakṛti as separate and permanent objects. Splayed out by visions of myriad sense objects, buddhi keeps becoming fixed by the contexts it creates or by the relationships it discovers between the forms. When the mind latches onto the partial meanings derived through its clogged up “context maker,” it easily loses sight of the fact that in every instant of every experience it is only the guṇas that are acting on the guṇas. Waking up, cleaning up the buddhi function, therefore necessitates a continuous reevaluation of context, a reframing of our frames of reference, an ongoing, working meditative intelligence so that we can comprehend that everything we perceive is prakṛti.
The Mirror of Yoga Page 10
