The Mirror of Yoga

by Richard Freeman

  These four types of concentration are considered to be saṁprajñāta samādhi, that is, samādhi with a seed or samādhi that has some content in the mind. These types of samādhi are different from asaṁprajñāta samādhi, or samādhi without content, which occurs in the gaps that appear when observed content is released or dropped. Within the Yoga Sūtra, a mind state with seeds of some gross or subtle structure and a mind state without seeds of thought structure are the two general terms that describe the different forms of samādhi. With this distinction, we realize that the true nature of the mind is to concentrate naturally in samādhi and then to let go into not-knowing. Through the practice of yoga we learn to concentrate in such a way that the mind can take on whatever pattern of sensation, feeling, or thought is present. It is as if the mind were a clear jewel; when placed against any background the jewel reflects and refracts whatever is there without bias. In the same way, a clear mind perceives without breaking the perception into subject and object. In so doing the mind can relax its duties of categorizing, theorizing, and understanding, and it can simply hold the arising form of whatever it perceives as sacred. When any particular form of mind is perceived as sacred, it is then released. That release forms the gap in which there is the opportunity to gain true insight and to experience pure awareness—not dependent on a structure and not dependent on a form. Of course, for even the skilled yoga practitioner or meditator, another form appears almost instantly in the mind. The mind then reformulates itself, perhaps on a more subtle or a deeper level. But again, after samādhi forms, that particular new formulation is released. This cycle of the concentration of mind goes deeper and deeper, more and more subtly within the practice of yoga. It is in the gaps—between the forms that arise—that the insight can occur. So samādhi, true and deep concentration of the mind, the ability to really pay attention to what is happening, is the basic tool of yoga. The catch is that the insight of yoga comes only when you are able to release the image on which the mind has concentrated; thus our concept and understanding of samādhi itself must be released so that the practice can continue.

  Patañjali defines samādhi as when the object of concentration appears as if empty of self form. This means that the object is a composition of its extended background. It is not separate; it has no ego or self, and it is impermanent. In this way the deeper ego function has nothing to identify with in contemplation. The release of the empty object is natural; it is not a rejection of, or a need to be free of, the object. The “catch and release” cycle of samādhi gives birth to discriminating awareness, which sees the distinction between permanence and impermanence. This awareness gradually causes the reassessment of our whole body, mind, and sense of the world, and it is through discrimination (viveka khyātiḥ) that insight comes within a yoga practice. Knowing this, we can then recognize that samādhi itself is not the goal of yoga; it is instead the primary tool of yoga. As Patañjali points out, if there is identification with the citta vṛtti, with the presentation in the mind, then that is not the state of yoga.

  Through yoga we cultivate the ability to take the presentation in the mind and to look at it very, very closely through meditation and eventually through the process of concentrating the mind, through the layering of samādhi. We can experience the insight that there is nobody in the state of mind—our own state of mind—there is nobody in the vṛtti. In this way there is no longer identification between the seer and the presentation in the mind, between puruṣa and prakṛti, between pure consciousness and perceptions of mind. Training the mind to rest within this seemingly paradoxical state of insight becomes a practice in and of itself, one that should be approached systematically. It is actually quite simple: whenever there is a presentation in the mind as you are practicing, you simply observe whatever it is that is arising—a feeling, a thought, a sensation. Eventually you are able to take any presentation of mind, and by looking closely you are able to recognize that it is not you. There is nobody there in whatever is presenting itself; there is nobody there in any particular pattern of feeling, thought, or sensation that arises. All of your perceptions are empty of self form. This kind of observation in which the seed patterns of our concentration are released is conducive to the arising of a state of samādhi, and should be practiced through the breath, the body, the sensations, and the mind as continuously as possible. For some rare people the process is quite easy and the release into a state of liberated mind occurs spontaneously. However, most of us do not enter into samādhi without great effort made toward that end.

  Samādhi without content, asaṁprajñāta samādhi, could also be called the gap samādhi, suspension samādhi, or residue samādhi. Unless you fall easily into the gap, Patañjali says that the state is preceded by five means: śraddhā, vīrya, smṛti, samādhi, and prajñā. Śraddhā is the practice of faith and trust, which would mean being able to rest and be happy in a state of not-knowing. Vīrya is vigor, as in strength and intensity. The text goes on to say that in order to cultivate trust, one should practice with great vīrya, which means we should practice with great enthusiasm, an enthusiasm that comes by having an open heart during the practice of yoga āsana and prāṇāyāma. So trust and a willingness to sit with and attentively observe whatever is arising as it unfolds, and to be able to rest in the unknown with great vīrya, is at the root of samādhi and the liberation that is attainable through yoga. Smṛti is memory, which allows the perception of long-term patterns and the ability to see many points of view on any topic. Smṛti enables us to learn the lesson of impermanence, and samādhi is the ability to zoom in on anything and to see that it is empty of self form. Prajñā is the discernment and wisdom about the interpenetrating nature of all phenomena that arises from samādhi. It is the clear perception of the ātman in all things.

  Patañjali also recommends Īśvara praṇidhāna, surrender to God or to Īśvara, as another means to asaṁprajñāta samādhi. Surrender carries two connotations here. One is that of passive surrender in which the practitioner works to simply let things be as they are—again a sense of trust is foundational to this. In this meaning of Īśvara praṇidhāna, you cease interfering with things as they are arising. You practice this type of surrender within the context of your own body, by ceasing to interfere with your breath, your senses, and then with the whole flow of your mind and emotions. Knowing that all of these are somehow connected to Īśvara, coming from Īśvara, or really are Īśvara, you can, with practice, completely accept your actual circumstances. A second interpretation of surrender accepts the possibility of active surrender in which you attend to, offer sacrifice to, and provide service to Īśvara, who is considered to be the original guru or the inner guru in the heart of all beings. Recognizing this primordial relationship makes surrender more palatable for some; it can become quite liberating to actively dedicate the fruits of your actions to Īśvara—and in doing so you are reminded that you are practicing for the benefit of others. Next you render service to Īśvara, which is achieved primarily through the offering of service to others. Patañjali mentions that the word oṁ is considered to be the acoustic manifestation of Īśvara, and one possibility for a practice is to chant oṁ while reflecting on this as its meaning. Such a practice can release you from a fragmented, externalized mode of thinking. The combination of contemplating the meaning of God or Īśvara and of allowing the sound of oṁ to resonate within your body allows you to draw your attention deep into the core of the heart. By attending to Īśvara and by internalizing the essence of the meaning of that act, this type of twofold passive and active surrender is one of the ways of inducing samādhi.

  The next section of the Yoga Sūtra addresses nine common difficulties and distractions that may arise and interfere within our practice and the manifestation of yoga. How these obstacles manifest at any given time is usually the very key to growth and insight within our own personal practice. It is not really a matter of avoiding the difficulties that resolves them and opens a path to liberation; instead, it is t
he ability to face the difficulties and the distractions straight on that allows us to truly mature and progress. The first obstacle is vyādhi, which means “disease” or “sickness.” This one is easy to understand; of course if you are ill, in pain, or imbalanced, it is very hard to concentrate the mind. So you must deal with illness or disease directly with whatever it takes—going to the doctor, dietary change, lifestyle change, and so on. This is essential if you are to concentrate the mind. Second, we must concentrate and practice as best we can even if we are ill. This usually makes us redefine what practice really is, as we drop back into simple mindfulness of feeling and breath or maybe into prayer. One day we will be sick and we will not get better; we will die. Real practice, attention to the ātman, the real nature of all things, should continue as practice for dying.

  The next obstacle to yoga is styāna, meaning “dullness” or “being stuck,” and it is also something that must be dealt with if the yoga is to work. In other words, you need vitality. You must not become trapped by tamasic states of mind and body, by imbalanced practices, by lifestyle choices. Yoga āsana, breathing practices, and a waking up of the senses are all helpful in overcoming styāna.

  A huge obstacle, one that many people never overcome, is that of saṁśaya or doubt. Doubt is not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself; it simply means that you see two sides to an argument, or that you see two different ways to do a practice. If you cannot decide between the two sides or two perspectives, you are left in a state of confusion and doubt and you may think that since you do not know what to do, you will not do anything at all. This happens all the time in yoga. A student might have two different teachers, and one teacher says to do a yoga pose this way while the other says to do the pose a different way. It puts us in a state of saṁśaya, and we could become paralyzed by that doubt—wondering which teacher is correct, which technique is the safest and most beneficial. The way to overcome saṁśaya, of course, is through śraddhā or trust, by realizing that whatever the different perspectives might be, on a much deeper level they are contingent and depend on context and circumstance. You may not see how they hook together or understand that one is a reaction to the excess of the other, or that one is brilliant and the other is delusional, but with faith and trust, you will not be discouraged or paralyzed. So resolving doubt requires going deeper into the confusion and into the doubt. It means being able to accept the paradox of a situation without contracting so that you can draw your actions out of the very core of your being rather than having to act superficially according to a set belief or a dogma. This is one of the major obstacles to yoga practice, and many, many practitioners give up because of saṁśaya. Generally we cannot accept doubt within ourselves because doubt means to us a betrayal of blind faith and our ego’s involvement in our practice, rather than a manifestation of our innate intelligence.

  Another obstacle is pramāda, which means “delusion” or “carelessness” and is simply not seeing things as they are. This is the same as the second citta vṛtti (viparaya), and it is overcome by deepening your understanding of the questions at hand; by questioning, consulting others as to their understanding of a subject, studying traditional yoga philosophies, looking deeply within yourself, or by getting feedback from other practitioners. Pramāda is also resolved by paying attention to the feedback from your own body and breath and then responding to that information.

  Laziness, or ālasya, is another obstacle to yoga, and it refers to laziness and sloth in the generic sense of not having the energy to do anything. It can also mean an attachment to pleasant states of mind—an attachment to peace, to bliss, or to any pleasant preconception of mind in which we can hide from the realities of existence. This sort of attachment can quickly become a major obstacle because it has a tendency to turn off your inquisitive mind, to sabotage any possibility of exercising discriminative awareness. The attachment of ālasya can cause you to cease pondering the depth of such questions as “What is truth?” A lack of inquisitiveness can cause you to forget that the very nature of the world is suffering, and that it is a place of fragmentation and of death (just as it is a place of bliss). This inability to comprehend impermanence, while hiding in a pocket of dullness or a cloud of intoxication, can lead to more delusion; you can end up missing out not only on yoga but on normal life transformations as well.

  The next obstacle is avirati, which means “hankering.” Often if you have practiced yoga consistently over some period of time, when you start to settle into the practice, a state of meditation, a calm and clear intensity of feeling deep inside of you, will spontaneously arise. The feeling can be accompanied by a kind of vibrant pleasure, and once it is experienced it is not uncommon to hanker after that feeling or to yearn for it. Sometimes when approaching deep observation or core processes in the body a kind of erotic stimulation begins; the imagination is switched on, and we find ourselves distracted by desires. These pleasurable feelings near the central axis of the body serve as part of the mind’s defense mechanism—like a reflex designed to make sure you do not experience the raw intensity and basic real pleasure of the central channel. If you were to experience it, the mind would necessarily have to dissolve into the core of the body, and this could be very dangerous to the ego, so there is a sort of natural repulsion to this intrinsic effect of the practice. Avirati waylays many practitioners who need to learn to observe all types of sensation—pleasant, neutral, and unpleasant—as being merely sensation. The real pleasure, the real rati, is actually right in the central axis in the core of the body. So the closer you get to dissolving into the central axis, the higher the stakes in terms of dissolution of mind into reality. This is why the mind—almost as a defense—tosses out or projects out its own core pleasure as a means of sabotaging its true dissolution.

  The next obstacle is bhrānti darśanam, which means a “bad view,” a “false vision,” or an “erroneous perspective.” Essentially it is simply what we might call bad philosophy or taking any philosophical stance to an extreme. Bad philosphy could be a naïve, immature system or, more commonly, a misunderstood system. Good philosophy, cooked in the dialectical fire of time and experience, gives insight, compassion, practical discernment, and joy. In bhrānti darśanam your philosophy becomes more a rigid system in which the depth and context of its ideas are lost. Then the ideas of the system take precedence over life, over the whole, over others—making you unable to appreciate the world or other beings as they are. For example, you may develop a point of view that is so extremely realistic that it becomes too literal, then you cannot see the power of ideas and that there are many ways of thinking about any given situation. Within this literal, almost fundamentalist, mind state, you find yourself grasping at your practice, your religion, and your beliefs too exactly. Alternatively, you can slip into the counterextreme view of this and find yourself becoming a relativist, which causes you to think that all different beliefs and all different practices are the same and equally good. This contemporary form of bhrānti darśanam is the idea of yoga as having no opinions, or that judgment is bad, that “it is all one” in a sort of lackadaisical amorality. With bhrānti darśanam your sense of discrimination (viveka khyātiḥ) or the razor sharpness of mind, is lost.

  The next obstacle, alabdha bhūmikatva, is the failure to obtain footing or grounding in any state, and this is a result of an imbalance in the various tensions that compose a yoga practice. For example, there might be a great deal of abhyāsa or practice but no vairāgyam, nonattachment. There might be too much release and no practice at all, or there might be unresolved issues with others or a lack of proper training in meditation or in prāṇāyāma.

  The last obstacle is anavasthitatvāni, which literally means “instability.” Anavasthitatvāni is when you get your footing, your grounding, through your practice and you start to maintain some continuous focus, but then suddenly the mind jumps away. When you fall into a state of anavasthitatvāni it is usually a result of saṁskāras that are activated by the intensi
ty of a focused mind. Āsana and particularly prāṇāyāma set out to locate and expose these deep trigger points, and the activation of these points makes the mind move away from them. Often instability can be caused by other aspects of your life, besides the yoga practices, which are creating a very deep unconscious agitation. This obstacle is dealt with extensively later in the Yoga Sūtra when Patañjali discusses the different limbs of yoga (the aṅgas), and when he underscores the notion that eventually you must carry out the practices of yoga in all aspects of your life in order for yoga to really work.

  These obstacles, which are actually forms of distractions of mind, are said to be accompanied by mental and physiological effects described as distress, shaking of the limbs, and agitated breathing. The text offers a very simple solution: if you simply practice one truth—eka tattva—you can eliminate any of the obstacles and their physiological effects. It turns out that eka tattva is the very practice of yoga itself, and it is done by fixing the attention in any one of the elements, any of the sense fields, or any chosen area of concentration. Eka tattva practice is an accepting of everything that is arising, even if it has the appearance of an obstacle, as being the one interconnected reality. Consequently, an honest practitioner will choose as the object of contemplation something that is part of their real-life circumstance. Skilled practitioners will observe that which is in the core of their heart, and they will approach it meditatively and with humility. This is known as the practice of oneness or of one truth. Through the practice of eka tattva you can begin to see that there is depth to whatever it is that appears to be the obstacle. Looking closely at what stands in the way, you can see its complexity and its interpenetration with everything else.