Within a metaphorical representation, the Sāṁkhya world can be represented as a vehicle or chariot that the puruṣa rides around in. Eventually the gross aspect of the vehicle, our body, falls apart and dies, and the subtle information-holding aspect, a subtle body of buddhi—ahaṁkāra, manas, and subtle senses—then transmigrates to another vehicle until that body too dies. Another popular analogy represents prakṛti visually as a circular flower or maṇḍala. In such graphic representation, the puruṣa sits at the very center and experiences through the buddhi and prāṇa the various petal-like layers of the buddhi, ego function, and mind, which form our transmigrating subtle body. The next layer of the flower is the physical body and senses. These petals, located nearer the rim, interface with the petals of the outer world and with other beings, which form the outermost rim of petals. Each of us sits within our own slightly unique prakṛti maṇḍala or flower. Each flower is the whole world and therefore is both uniquely individualized while at the same time containing all of the other flowers. Remember that our individual subtle mind and gross body experience is represented as the more inner circles or our maṇḍala. The center of our own maṇḍala is in the heart, where riding on pillows of prāṇa (breath) or buddhi (intelligence) sits the puruṣa. When the heart is polished through deep meditation and devotion it becomes like a pristine mirror, reflecting the clear light of pure consciousness.
The flowerlike maṇḍala of prakṛti is in a constant state of change, folding back on itself, unfurling, and then refolding again and again. Petal by petal, layer by layer, the pattern folds back into its source so that it completely hugs the core, and then we open the pattern back up again. This, in fact, is how the process of yoga can work; the more layering and folding we do, the more deeply we are able to dissolve into and benefit from the effects of the yoga. The innermost shells of our prakṛti vehicle are the subtle body, where the most cherished aspirations, deep emotions, and commitments are, and where any control or choice from the ego principle might originate. Inside of this innermost circle of our maṇḍala is placed a dot, a bindu, which literally means “droplet.” From this bindu, this point, time and space are said to unfold and then to enfold again and again. In the unfolding of time and space, buddhi, ahaṁkāra, and manas are revealed, and it is from this unfolding of these three aspects of mind that we experience the universe. Within the physical flowerlike maṇḍala of the body and senses, we may even experience pulsations that expand outward from the bindu followed reflexively by a response back in toward it. These pulsations, out of and back into our deepest core, pass through the subtle body, which both colors the pulsations and is also changed by them.
The bindu is surrounded by shells of deep emotion, feelings, aspirations, dreams, and memories. Along with the bindu experience, these shells normally remain hidden below the level of our awareness. The outer accessible shell is the everyday awakened awareness, the screen of our consciousness. Thoughts, sensations, and forms make their loops through this screen of awareness, arising from unperceived depths of the mind and then returning to those same hidden roots of the unconscious mind. This system is dynamic: the conscious mind—the surface—moves or responds in a way that will affect the hidden core; the core in turn throws up new material onto the surface of awareness. In a dull, semi-awake mind, the response of the conscious mind is to accept or reject content based on the ego structure. This reaction to the content merely adds on to the growth pattern of the unconscious conditioning. When the intelligence begins to wake up, the conscious mind becomes sensitive to the dynamic interplay with the unconscious mind; first as awareness of feedback from the body, mind, and the environment; and later as a pulsation, or perhaps even as a dance of mindfulness with what is unmanifest or out of sight. The greater portion of the mind and the world must and will remain out of sight or hidden. There is a cryptic saying from the Upaniṣads: “The gods love what is out of sight.”
Maṇḍala of Prakṛti (5)
This representation of the maṇḍala of prakṛti shows that all of its structures eventually break apart and dissolve back into undifferentiated energy. The maṇḍala represents our entire experience, both internally and externally, of the world and the mind. The gross external elements, their mental representations, the thoughts and ideas we have about them, our body and the gross or subtle bodies of even the highest and most subtle beings, are all part of this interconnected maṇḍala of creative energy. The pattern in the outer courtyard of the maṇḍala is that of a tortoiseshell. Traditionally the tortoise represents the underlying paradox of a support for all creation. Does the tortoise have another tortoise under it, or is it floating in empty, open sky?
With training in yoga, there is no fear of the hidden and no need for certainty. The buddhi stimulates continuous awakening with a limitless freedom to reframe experience by discovering links between the focus and the horizon (the manifest and unmanifest). This underlying intelligence—the context maker—not only allows linkings that define and redefine relationship, but it also allows us to wake up or to move away from one context and into another. With intelligence turned toward puruṣa, there is the ability for an ever-deepening understanding of all perceptions so that the whole system becomes open and free. When the buddhi does not function well, it serves the false ego and is splayed out by the appearance of separate sense objects and conflicting needs. In this case our prakṛtic flower is simply a dream machine in which there is no awakening from the different fantasies of the mind and no ability to actually ascertain reality. The most important aspect of prakṛti, therefore, is the buddhi. In fact, all that we actually experience—the immediate surface of all internal or external sensation as well as thoughts, theories, and intuition that more exists behind the surface of our experience—is buddhi.
Buddhi is like an enchanted mirror. When ignorance prevails, the mirror presents the phantoms of endless forms and stories. The puruṣa identifies with those as in a bad dream. When the deepest talent of the buddhi is switched on, when we have discriminating awareness, which is called viveka khyātiḥ, then forms in the mirror are seen as interdependent with their entire background: they are seen as being empty of self, empty of puruṣa. Through the process of discriminating awareness we appreciate that we are always in intimate contact with buddhi, with the innermost and softest layer of the flower of prakṛti. This appreciation points out to us that ultimately the essential nature of our experience of prakṛti is simply the very nature of puruṣa, or of open pure consciousness.
Prakṛti is ultimately an empty mirror, reflecting the light of puruṣa. Or we could say prakṛti is the light shining through the open, empty nature of puruṣa. At this point we no longer have any image or metaphor for puruṣa, for pure consciousness. Puruṣa is not a thing, not a separate man or woman, nor an impulse, magnetism, or quality of any sort. Philosophically the concept of puruṣa has functioned as a meditation tool to keep the prakṛti open. Since puruṣa always slips out of any category of definition and is not a “thing” that can oppose prakṛti, the question arises as to whether the Sāṁkhya system is really a dualist system. Many schools of philosophical thought that came along after Sāṁkhya have asked the question, if puruṣa and prakṛti are completely separate, how then can they influence each other? And if everything that is perceived and thought is actually prakṛti, how do you even know or think about a puruṣa? Within the Sāṁkhya system all events and all phenomena, no matter what they are, are interrelated. This is so because everything within the Sāṁkhya system is part of the braiding of the guṇas of prakṛti and is open and empty of separate self. Consequently, when we describe the nature of prakṛti as complete openness, we end up describing puruṣa. It is enough to make the head spin! It is why Sāṁkhya philosophy is so difficult to stick with, so easily criticized, and it is also why Sāṁkhya is rejected by those who try to hold onto its meaning too literally and attempt to make the puruṣa into a thing, a symbol, a personification, or a form.
The problem with dualism is that it creates an unbridgeable gap between spirit and the world or, on a lower level, between the body and the mind. The gap is useful in order to understand concepts, but if we become too strict and unyielding in our thinking, we begin looking at the world as useless, miserable, impermanent, and bad. More often we even see the body as bad. Prejudged so, body and world are not really worthy of or interesting enough for our deep contemplation and appreciation, and we abandon our digging into the well of understanding Sāṁkhya.
It is said that the function of prakṛti is to reveal puruṣa, just as a mirror reveals whoever is gazing into it as themselves. It is also said that out of this mirroring of puruṣa through prakṛti, complete release or pure consciousness naturally radiates. At the end of the Sāṁkhya Kārikā, which is the main text on Sāṁkhya philosophy, there is a beautiful verse in which the puruṣa reveals that there is nothing more wonderful than prakṛti when she has been seen. This establishes a metaphor in which prakṛti is imagined to be an exquisite female dancer, moving gracefully, with absolutely no self-awareness at all, and puruṣa is the passive male observer. When prakṛti notices that she is being observed as herself, she becomes shy, which is actually her essential nature, and she ceases to dance, which causes her to unmanifest, at which point the flower of prakṛti is said to become smooth like the surface of a mirror. When prakṛti stops dancing in response to being seen, puruṣa is liberated and simply rests in his own true nature. This metaphor is to exemplify the process of yoga as one of simply watching things as they arise. We watch with a completely open mind, with undivided attention, awe and appreciation. The Sāṁkhya Kārikā explains:
As a dancing girl ceases to dance having exhibited herself to an audience, so prakṛti ceases to manifest having exhibiting herself to puruṣa. . . . My opinion is that nothing is more modest than prakṛti: knowing that “I have been seen,” she no longer comes within the sight of puruṣa. Thus, puruṣa is never bound, nor is he released nor does he transmigrate. Prakṛti, the support of the manifold creation, transmigrates, is bound and is released. . . . Thus from the practice of discriminating awareness is produced the wisdom: “I am not,” “nothing is mine” and “not I,” which is complete without residue, pure, and absolute. (Verses 59, 61, 62, and 64)
The puruṣa is empty of self, so the puruṣa is not a puruṣa (even though to conceptualize it, it had to be seen for just a moment as a thing). This paradox is good news. The dualism of Sāṁkhya is reconciled with the nondualism of the Upaniṣads. With continuous discriminating awareness there is no need to jump to conclusions about what we are observing and no need to look for or make an image of the puruṣa. In fact, now we can even witness the very thought that there is a “we” observing as “we” dissolve into the heart of the situation. If the mind begins to close and we start to draw conclusions about whatever we are watching, instantly that which is being observed becomes shy, and the true nature of the object we are observing disappears from view. Instead it transforms into a reflection of our direct experience in the mirror of our own mind.
Genuine deep yogic states, therefore, are those in which something appears in an unobstructed form. It is extraordinarily difficult for any of us to be able to maintain an unobstructed awareness of any experience because when an observation first registers, our own mind covers it, and the true unobstructed nature of that which is being observed instantly disappears. However, as we deepen our yoga practice, we find moments in which our instinct to understand, label, define, categorize, and judge that which we are witnessing can be suspended so that we simply see what we are seeing. This intensity of openness and awareness, the need for consistently refolding our awareness back on itself as we continuously reawaken our senses, summarizes the entire process of yoga.
As we have seen, an understanding of the system of Sāṁkhya can be elusive. The mind grasps it, then you blink and instantly the mind slips back into confusing puruṣa with prakṛti, forgetting the interlacing and supportive quality of the guṇas and the vital importance of buddhi and manas. It can be helpful once again to imagine the system as a geometric diagram, shaped like a flower with petals folded closed toward the center. If you take the center of that diagram and pull upward on it, as if you were pulling open a vegetable-steaming basket or the flower itself, it will unfold and will start to form the cakra system as used in the internal visualizations of the haṭha and the tantric yoga traditions. Another useful way to imagine a use for the Sāṁkhya system is to place a hole in the center of our flower or maṇḍala image. This way there is no “thing” in its very center, and you begin to understand that the wheel of Sāṁkhya is actually empty, that at its core is space. Looking at Sāṁkhya in this way you can easily draw a parallel to the Buddhist perspective in which all of the components, all of the elements of the universe, are in their deep essence empty of self.
The influence of other schools and mythologies has made the puruṣa-prakṛti model personable and easier to understand. Since nondualism ultimately considers the world itself to be the ātman (the Self), prakṛti was no longer represented as unconscious, purely mechanical, dead energy. She became a vibrant goddess, and puruṣa is discovered to be the lover of this goddess. They are not two: each is without self and has as its essence, as its heart, the other. They are not one: their interplay generates joy and constant discovery of the moment of their linking together. This apparent upgrading of the Sāṁkhya philosophy directly demonstrates how the mythologies of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa, of Sītā and Rāma, of Śiva and Śakti are easily formulated. Each of these famous pairs of divinities within Indian mythology are in the most intimate relationship with each other; in the heart of Kṛṣṇa rests his beloved, Rādhā, and in Rādhā’s heart is her true love, Kṛṣṇa, and so it is too with Sītā and Rāma, Śiva and Śakti. This interdependent relationship allows us to experience the world on all levels inside and out as a combining and recombining of these two, who are like the two ends of a stick, not really two. This can be experienced immediately as the interdependent wave of prāṇa and apāna in our yoga practice. The two play together, they interpenetrate and occasionally come into suspension or union. This working metaphor of deep interconnectedness expands our understanding of our core emotions, allowing us to really grasp the richness of our being through relationship with the other.
In this light we can see the Sāṁkhya universe to be beyond but not opposed to historical views of the world. The beginning of time is defined as the present moment, not some 13.7 billion years ago at the time of the big bang. The beginning of the universe is right now, right here in the present moment. Our universe, from a Sāṁkhya perspective, is simultaneously being given to us just as it is being created by us. It is constantly expanding out from the present moment and then returning back into the present, moment by moment. What is even more remarkable about the Sāṁkhya universe is that you can actually experience this perspective through your own body; it is not simply a theoretical model of the universe to be understood cognitively through study. Instead it is an understanding of the direct, vibrant, pulsating nature of the creative energy that we are always immersed in. All of the different practices of yoga, therefore, bring the universe of prakṛti to life as direct and immediate experiences rather than as simple descriptions that are to be written in notebooks and memorized.
We find, therefore, that the study of yoga might include examining the history of different schools of yoga. It might also involve studying different philosophies and contemplations about yoga that the seers have made over thousands of years of practice. But primarily in yoga we are studying our own immediate experience, and the Sāṁkhya system is like a road map that helps you observe your own experience very closely. In that sense the Sāṁkhya universe begins now with your own circumstances, with the present sensations and feelings and thoughts you are experiencing, just as they are. But the universe also ends right now by fully and openly—without an overlay of theory and preconce
ption—observing those very same things.
6
The Bhagavad Gītā and the Unfolding of Love
I bow to the Madhava, the supreme bliss, by whose grace the lame can cross mountains and the dumb can speak eloquently.
—The Gītā Dhyānam, verse 8, a collection of eight verses that glorify the Bhagavad Gītā
All of the different schools and philosophies of yoga are rooted in a composite of traditions that stretch back beyond five thousand years. In ancient times teachers would have periods of formal teaching followed by an intermission. During these breaks either they or another teacher would tell stories that exemplified the teachings in order to pass the essence of their message along in a fashion that more people would understand. Those listening to the storytelling could relate the tales to their own experience, to their feelings, and their lives, which allowed them to intuit the meaning and to grapple with life’s deeper significance and underlying philosophical paradoxes. Eventually these stories and myths were bundled together into longer narratives that meander through the different attitudes, viewpoints, and methods that comprise most of the different schools of yoga. Classical myths from all cultures function as metaphors for life, and some are even layers upon layers of metaphors. They serve to awaken awareness deep inside the core of your being by stimulating certain emotions, experiences, and archetypes that may be forgotten or overlooked during daily life. Given this metaphorical format, it is important not to take mythology too literally, but it is equally important to allow the insight inspired by the stories to be absorbed. Soaking up the message from mythology is like learning from a good theater production—you must buy into the story, believe the characters and problems to be real, and emotionally ride on the action of the story line in order for it to work. In the West we are familiar with the stories of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the mythological epics that grew out of a storytelling tradition in ancient Greece. These epic tales were part of people’s daily lives long before the great philosophical schools arose within the Greek culture. In a similar fashion the Mahābhārata grew to be the great Indian epic, told again and again over generations. Mahā means “greater” or “extended.” Bharata means the “greater land of the ancient king Bharat” (in fact, India today is called Bharata). The Mahābhārata, therefore, is an expansive collection of stories relating to the ancient kingdoms of India. The Mahābhārata is not one myth but instead a compilation of myths that fit together; they are woven so intricately as one that it becomes almost impossible to step back and identify any particular part of the myth as the final frame of the story. It goes on, merging subplots into the main plot, circling out to new narrators and back to old ones. It is interesting to imagine an even bigger version of the Mahābhārata as the story of everything, in which we might even find the stories of our own lives—those same plots and subplots that go around and around in our own minds. Next time you notice your mind creating a proposition, a narrative, or a story line, know that from this point of view, your self-image is simply a character in a subchapter of the extended version of the Mahābhārata!
The Mirror of Yoga Page 12
