The Mirror of Yoga

by Richard Freeman

  The last three limbs of the eight-limbed path—dhāraṇā, dhyāna, and samādhi—are collectively called saṁyama, which means “to draw together,” and these three things taken together as saṁyama are considered to be a primary tool of yoga. Through saṁyama we are able to go back to the beginning of practice in order to examine the body in the context of an interconnected pattern of existence that goes infinitely beyond the boundaries of the body itself. We are able to take the yoga āsanas into unbelievable realms of subtlety, getting in touch with remarkably deep aspects of the sensation and feeling that arise as a means of allowing us to access profoundly subtle aspects of the mind. Through the same saṁyama, a mature prāṇāyāma practice is developed, and it is also through saṁyama that we start to understand relationships; we begin to understand other beings. All eight limbs of yoga are made increasingly functional and useful once we get into the last three, which, more immediately than the other limbs, help us to develop the ability to pay attention to what is actually happening right here, right now.

  Ultimately, through this progression of practice and understanding, we have insight into the interconnectedness of the mind and the universe. We can experience everything as being within a matrix in which any chosen point of sensation or perception contains all of the other potential points of sensation or perception exposing the natural self-luminous quality of being as it manifests. We can see then that yoga practice is simply an unfolding of the mind using a series of practices that allow us to pay very close attention. As our practice ripens, our heart becomes vast and more sensitive, and at the same time our intelligence becomes keener. We simultaneously develop discriminating intelligence, which allows us to go deeper and deeper until the fundamental urges of the three guṇas (rajas, tamas, and sattva) no longer have an object toward which they project. Prakṛti’s three guṇas are then said to have fulfilled their real purpose, which is to reveal puruṣa through discriminating awareness. At this stage of practice, whenever an object arises we are able to see right through it as being empty of self. Without the prop of false selfhood to support them, the three guṇas fall out of our perceptual presence back into the primordial ground of creative energy. At this point the falling away of the most subtle and deep aspects of the creative mind reveals, once and for all, the true nature of the self or of the ātman. This complete unfolding of the mirror of prakṛti is the conclusion of the Yoga Sūtra and is called kaivalya, or “aloneness,” which is seen to be the ecstatic and essential nature of all beings. It is important to note that in this context you are not alone in your aloneness. What is meant by kaivalya is that we are alone from prakṛti; we are not entangled in and caught up in the strands of our own creative energy, an energy that functions through the principle of overlap and superimposition. We are not engaged in the energy and mind states that create time and space and multiple universes, we are not ruled by the structure of separateness from which the mind creates suffering. So the Yoga Sūtra gives us a radical vision of the potential of our own lives. The Yoga Sūtra is like a potent medicine, one that cures us of our avidyā by waking us up into our open, fresh, radiant nature. It is good to take little sips of the medicine now and then, and occasionally it is even a good idea to take a big swig of it. The teachings of the Yoga Sūtra will always remind us of the true depths of the great variety of practices and the true potential of our own lives. Otherwise it is very easy to oversimplify, to lose sight of the subtlety, the nuance, the complexity, and the beauty of what yoga actually is.

  9

  Cutting Through Fundamentalism

  I bow to the two lotus feet of the

  (plurality of) Gurus, which awaken insight

  into the happiness of pure Being, which are

  the complete absorbtion into joy,

  the jungle physician, eliminating the delusion

  caused by the poison of saṁsāra (conditioned existence).

  I prostrate before the sage Patañjali who has thousands of radiant,

  white heads (as the divine serpent, Ananta) and who has, as far

  as his arms, assumed a human form, holding

  a conch shell (divine sound),

  a wheel (a discus of light or time) and a sword (discrimination).

  OṀ

  The epigraph above is a traditional invocation for aṣṭāṅga yoga, which is often chanted before beginning a yoga practice. It is a meditation on the guru, or the teacher, and in particular to Patañjali who, as the presumed author of the Yoga Sūtra, is an important guru to all who study yoga. This idea of a guru is possibly one of the most exotic and, at the same time, problematic aspects of a traditional yoga practice for everyone. Part of the problem is that the term guru has been co-opted in modern culture, and many people have all sorts of peculiar associations with it. If we can understand the function of the teacher or the guru within the context of traditional yoga, we can step clear of some of the problems and potential entanglements that having or rejecting a teacher might bring to mind. As is traditionally true for most subjects that are deep and at points paradoxical, it is through a guru that you learn yoga. In any complex discipline, it is incredibly helpful to find someone as a teacher who has progressed within the field, even if she or he have not mastered it, so that when doubts, questions, and conflicts arise (as they should and are bound to) you have a source that can offer you a learned perspective and assistance in understanding. In terms of yoga, having a teacher is doubly important because not only can the guru shed light on areas of confusion, but the relationship itself becomes a demonstration of a fundamental building block in the ethical and theoretical web of the philosophy itself—that clear and strong relationships are built on the ability to discover a connection to the interpenetrating nature of pure consciousness. The particular beliefs and techniques, the specifics of the art a guru transmits in yoga, are secondary to the essential love and relationship that are established in the present moment between student and teacher.

  The word guru has a number of meanings. Probably the most common is that the guru is the “remover of darkness.” This translation is particularly appropriate within the context of yoga in that the darkness of ignorance is removed right from the core of your heart simply by your relationship to your teacher, through the realization of the type of love and deep respect that one might have with a teacher. The word guru also means “heavy.” Of course this does not mean that the teacher must eat immense quantities of food and become spherical (though some have, and they have helped to form one of the more endearing images we often have of the guru). Gurus are considered heavy in the sense that they are not moved, nor are they uprooted in their understanding, by others. Good teachers are not swayed by the changing phenomena of the world; they are able to rest completely silent and serene at the center of their own experience. An interesting counter to the idea of the guru being “heavy” is that within the guru-student relationship, the disciple is called laghu, which means “featherweight.” This of course insinuates that the student is not filled with the same depth of knowledge as the teacher, and for this reason it is not uncommon that students beginning their studies often find themselves orbiting around the teacher almost as if attracted, for better or for worse, by the immense gravitational field of the guru. Eventually, by sticking with the studies and by embodying the teachings, the laghu becomes guru—the student finds the phenomenon of the guru right in the core of his or her own heart. At the same time, established and true gurus will rarely identify their egos directly with the principle that is discovered by their students, that principle which lies deep in their cores. So if someone claims to be a guru, if they assert that they are the light of true awakening and enlightenment, this should raise a red flag in any student’s mind. Ego absorption is the unfortunate root of a big problem that arises for many gurus who stray from their own path as a teacher by becoming so enamored by their greatness, as projected through the eyes of their students, that they themselves fall prey to the delusion of their own grandeur.


  The first part of the aṣṭāṅga yoga invocation that appears as the epigraph to this chapter makes reference to the two feet of the guru, which reveal the paradoxical nature of all relationships, which, by definition, are two or more entities meeting. Like the two feet of the guru, there are at least two perspectives brought to every relationship—and therefore the potential for paradox is always present whenever alternative perspectives are pulled out of their mutual background and seen as separate. The invocation, with reference to the two feet or multiplicity of perspectives, sets the stage for the fact that insight is most easily drawn from binocular vision. Often when we relate to another person we do so from only one perspective, formed out of our preconceptions of who we are, what we need, what we want, juxtaposed with who we imagine that other person to be, what we envision them being able to do for us, or what we imagine they can do in relation to our sense of our self. This invariably causes problems.

  The teacher is said to have a red foot and a white foot, symbolizing that the two feet of the guru allow light from different perspectives to shine on the teaching. Within many yoga traditions these two feet are visualized as resting in the crown of the head. The white foot represents metaphorical teaching, meaning that the teachings of the guru are not to be taken literally and should be seen to have a deeper purpose than the specific metaphor that conveys their meaning. The red foot represents the literal teaching, through which the guru teaches how to deal with immediate and practical circumstances in the world. A complete relationship with a teacher is very deep and spiritual and at the same time extraordinarily immediate and practical because two forms of knowledge are being brought to light simultaneously. In the best of teachings, esoteric or mystical knowledge is interpenetrated by knowledge about the practical arts of life—how to eat intelligently, how to interact with others compassionately, how to go about doing what needs to be done in the world skillfully. There is an art to seeing those practical aspects in context, and it requires an even greater amount of expertise to release the practical understanding and intelligence in order to connect to the more esoteric side of life—dissolving into the depths of the immediate relationship with the subject matter, the teacher, and the present moment.

  Two Feet (7)

  The two feet of the guru represent a dialectical process that dissolves the ignorance of the single perspective. The feet symbolize the traditional sets of opposites such as Śiva and Śakti, sun and moon, prāṇa and apāna, iḍā and piṅ galā, night and day, pluralism and absolutism, relativism and fundamentalism, monism and dualism, insight and skillful means, emptiness and compassion, male and female. One foot is in the realm of metaphor and myth. The other is grounded in the real, everyday world of blood and bones. In teachings of nondualism, truth is presented in two ways: as the supreme, absolute truth and then the truth of the practical, relative world. The two feet of the guru allow you to live in a realm in which no formula or doctrine is absolute, and a realm in which you have to take a practical stand in order to deal with practical matters. Paramārtha, or the supreme truth, is said to be the truth that all is Brahman. Saṁvṛti is the truth that conceals this ultimate reality (that all is Brahman) and makes us take a stand and act decisively in the everyday world.

  The guru of gurus is said to be the real teacher, but rather than identifying the gurus’ guru as some particular or composite person or a specific formula, it is better to simply set aside the inquiry as to who the teacher of the teachers actually is. In fact, it is essentially the mind’s ability to rest in the unknown that reveals the true teacher of teachers, and in one sense this ability is the gurus’ guru. This kind of open and trusting mind, accompanied by constant inquiry, is essential to the yogic tradition, within which all conclusions we may arrive at are subject to further questioning. The inquiring heart takes all conclusions and looks so closely at them that ultimately we have to release them all. This infinite fascination with knowledge is therefore what we seek in a relationship with the guru, or in fact with any teacher and with all of the presentations of life itself. Through a healthy relationship with a teacher we have insight into the fact that keeping the heart open and of allowing inquiry to flow is at the root of all relationships. With any being to whom you become intimately close, the relationship is always an open question.

  An unlocked heart is one that is looking so sincerely and so deeply that all of the multiplicity of answers that arise as thought and form are allowed to dissolve within the intensity of the inquiry. Meditating on the two feet of the guru (the paradoxical nature of all relationships) dispels what is called the saṁsāra hālāhala. In Indian mythology hālāhala is said to be the poison that arose when the gods and the demons joined forces in a yogic process of churning the ocean of saṁsāra (conditioned existence) in the attempt to produce the nectar of immortality. According to the myth, the first product that arose from their churning was not the nectar immortality, but something called hālāhala, which was a deadly toxic by-product of the yogic process. As it arose and washed up on the beaches around this yogic ocean, all sentient beings began feeling the ill effects of the toxin. Not knowing what to do to get rid of this poisonous substance, so the myth goes, they called upon the great god Śiva. (Śiva, by the way, is considered to be the guru of gurus.) He appeared and he drank the hālāhala—he drank the poison that was generated by the initial process of inquiring into the truth; however, he did not swallow the poison. Instead he suspended the toxin in his throat, neither swallowing nor spitting it out. Not accepting or rejecting the initial poison that surfaced as a result of inquiry into the truth, Śiva simply let the hālāhala rest right at his throat, and according to the myth, one of the foundational paradoxes of yoga was established—the poison was consumed but not swallowed. This act of simply letting the poison be within the bright, attentive, radiant space of the throat transmuted the poison into insight. In the process it caused Siva’s throat to turn blue, which is why one of the names of Śiva is Nīla Kaṇṭha, or the blue-throated one. Through contemplation on the two lotus feet of the guru—by allowing seemingly contrary perspectives to arise without swallowing them and without spitting them out—we find that the hālāhala of saṁsāra, the poison of conditioned existence, dissipates. In this way the two lotus feet of the guru provide shelter from the pangs of emotion associated with the complexity of existence and the fear of impermanence. It is these very same metaphorical feet that awaken the innate happiness of pure being, which is simply accepting the condition of things just as they are.

  Perhaps one of the most accessible references to the guru, among many within yogic teachings, is that appearing in the Bhāvana Upaniṣad in which the guru is described as the suṣumnā nāḍī, or the central channel of the yogic body. The suṣumnā nāḍī, which begins in deep in the basin of the pelvis, just above the center of the pelvic floor, corresponds to the plumb line within your own body, of which you may become aware when you are standing or sitting straight. It rises, piercing through different planes of the body, up through the core of the heart, and on out through the crown of the head. It is hollow like a reed and is said to be empty, with no identifiable form at its core. This, of course, is just an approximate explanation of what is meant by the suṣumnā nāḍī, because it is from the core of the suṣumnā that all is thought to be generated, so words cannot accurately describe it. Somewhat like the heart of the sun, the suṣumnā nāḍī is looked upon as being empty, yet so full that it continuously generates endless experience and an infinity of worlds. Within all types of traditional yoga, the practices are designed to allow us to open up this central channel of the body and to cultivate a visceral connection within ourselves to a sense of truth from which all else flows. Through these practices we slowly start to realize that the suṣumnā nāḍī possesses a tremendous gravity and beauty that draw us in, and in that way its nature is that of the guru. We are drawn in and we surrender into the central channel because of this irresistible attractive quality. You could des
cribe it as if we fall head over heels into the unknown, into the arms of the beloved, who is inside the central channel and the core of the heart. Once our internal breath, the prāṇa, enters the central channel, time and space are eaten by the immensity of this gravity. We find that the external guru, the person we have identified as our teacher (who could be an actual traditional guru—someone who is accomplished in the formal yogic arts—or who could simply be a clear-minded teacher), has always merely been pushing us toward our own central channel with the hopes that eventually we will fall right into it. Therefore a good teacher will use various tricks, techniques, or theoretical teachings in order to free you from the very things that keep you stuck in a belief system based on needing to know everything. A good teacher turns your attention toward the truth so that you no longer find comfort in, nor can you hide in, an avoidance of the unknown and in a surface presentation of the present moment. The guru points in whatever direction is necessary to direct you to exactly what it is that will allow you to be wide awake with raw, pure attention to whatever might occur in the immediate experience of “now.” It is said that there are an unlimited number of gurus, or you could say that the one guru is saying the same thing in an unlimited number of languages and from an endless number of perspectives. The message of all of those perspectives is that the true self or the true nature of existence lies at the core of all beings and is beyond thought and language. It is beyond the forms that are generated and it is not different than those forms. Being beyond language, it is, paradoxically, the root subject of language. You cannot talk about it; however, it is the only thing that is really worth talking about.