Ashtanga Yoga
Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, “Guruji”, considered the father of Ashtanga Vinyasa Yoga, told us that if we are drawn to the practice of yoga, then we’d already experienced its benefits in a previous lifetime.
In one view, this is like saying that each of us has previously been a native – we have all lived on the land, in harmony with nature, or rather, adapting ourselves to nature, or dying quickly.
In another view of our past connections with yoga, it’s like saying that, in previous lives, we sang, painted pictures, walked, whistled, and comforted ourselves with deep breaths.
Then comes the age-old question of what, exactly, yoga is: How do we know if we’re ‘doing it’? Maybe we’re ‘doing it’ right now. And if we are doing it now, how is it helping, or not helping?
Confusion is the dark side, the shadow, in Ajna’s (third eye) power. On the light side, we believe in ourselves, in our intuition, in the stories we told ourselves, over many lifetimes, not to forget. So we remember love, and joy, peace, trust, clarity and friendship as deeply as we know that “bad” things will happen. We will die, everyone dies. We must also know, in some down deep way, that life is precious. It’s a journey. There is something about it that doesn’t seem to expire.
We are drinking the same water and breathing the same air that dinosaurs drank and breathed. Our bodies create new cells constantly, as other cells die. How do the cells re-form in exactly the same way, or form patterns depending on their environment, or even survive as cells?
Our minds are not thinking, directly, of how the newest cell is patterning itself. If it’s a cell near the heart, it already knows to make itself into a heart cell. Or a liver cell. Or a femur cell. Or a cell like any other, but attracted to a gang of heart cells because they are close, and calling…Can our minds talk to that cell and say: “Move away from there and get over to that lung section!”?
For me, yoga is a practice of working with individual cells. Yes, talking to them. Encouraging, nurturing, even redirecting them. If we tell ourselves that our lives are movies that we are happily watching, we often feel perfect balance within our bodies. If we are not too caught up in the movie (‘is it happy or sad?’ or ‘what is the outcome?’) we may notice sometimes a dissenting cell or two. Stepping away from the movie, reminding ourselves, ‘it’s just a movie’, we can watch our own lives unfold with wisdom relative to our seeking, our knowing, and our understanding. Sometimes, the cells fall back in line – they ‘behave’.
Our minds can cause untold stories to unfold constantly and vigorously, and can kill us with fear. We can learn to leave our bodies alone, letting them do what comes naturally, according to our nature, and tell our minds to ‘shhhh’. It was Buddha’s view that basic goodness is our true nature and our natural tendency is to embrace that this is so. Everything that has been written about how to live well – the Sutras, the commandments, the Golden Rule – these all show us our true nature, and it is our own view, our own minds, that judge, condemn, evaluate, and cause suffering. If we were to find our true natures, and live there, suffering would end, said Buddha.
Buddha did yoga. He practiced letting his true nature shine through, every day, with confidence, and then, it broke through. He stayed shiny.
In the view of basic goodness, one factor remains undeniable: our physical bodies die. Part of our journey is to learn adaptability, living in harmony with other creatures, and with nature itself. We live and die on this land. There are views that are passed on through our ancestors about preservation, lengthening our time here, creating safety for our children and for our land to continue to nurture us. And if you know anything about your own ancestors, it’s that they were as human as you and me, and some of their theories were not correct, if not downright harmful.
Yet there are core teachings that all religions talk about as their essence, and that we all know ring true. It is these passed on views that yoga represents. It is “yug”-ing (yog-ing, yok-ing), maintaining our ancient partnership, or union, with the energies that cause wind to blow, and cells to re-form, and tears to well up in our eyes.
Pandit Divyang Vakil related to me this wisdom from his vast background in eastern philosophical study, which I humbly interpret here and pass on, I hope, with the same intentions with which they were given:
The brain has four rooms, or compartments. The brain in each compartment does different things, and one cannot do the job of another. In one compartment, the brain forms an idea, like: I want a shirt. In another compartment, the brain asks: what kind of shirt do I need/want: long sleeved, short sleeved, heavy, light, loose, tight? The next compartment’s concerns: How about cashmere? Or red silk? What is best to suit my view of how I see myself wearing this shirt? And finally, there is the brain that gets the shirt!
Where is the soul in this, the observer, the voice that is detached, shrugging its shoulders at the wayward child/mind? The soul and brain do not speak the same language. We know, loudly and clearly, what our soul is saying, and we know it doesn’t care about the shirt. Yet we are in unison, our four mind compartments, that the shirt is of the utmost importance.
The soul seems fine, shirtless. The soul just hangs around constantly, not caring much. But when the mind gets ‘off track’, working against our basic nature, too involved with the movie, too much of something or other, the soul, in its dronelike, steady way, lets us know. Usually, it’s the body that fails. Too much, or not enough, the balance of the body is unfathomable, like the soul: It is what it is. If we starve the body, it will die. Circulate your fluids, ensure good drainage and oxygenation happens, chi happens. The life force stays strong when the machine is oiled and cared for, and if the mind is not too consumed with thoughts of the shirt and nothing else. This is the theory.
Ashtanga yoga is an approach to a well-rounded view of living. As with all words, the soul doesn’t understand them much. The Ashtanga, or eight-limbed view, takes this into account. The balance of the Great Mystery is woven among the words in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. The Sutras themselves were written in Sanskrit, and previously, they were taught in the language of Sanskrit. This is a language of vibration, of sound, so the written Sanskrit words transform us with sound as they are spoken, vibrating our innards. We are reminded in an eons-old way of the yamas and niyamas: how to live among people, how to do the ‘right thing’, how to honour our sacred selves, and how to feel gratitude for the blessings, however miniscule for some, that we receive. That is “yug”-ing on one level. On another level, we penetrate the body’s physical layers with movement – squish and release, acupressure, changing blood flow patterns with inversions, bending, stretching, opening. This is called asana practice. As we deepen in our strength and flexibility, we can, physically, go deeper into cells that are part of the liver, or underneath the scapulae, between our toes, and behind the third eye Ajna point that interfaces with the front brain.
We penetrate the cells with breath (pranayama). Oxygen enlivens the blood. As the blood moves more fluently, fluidly, cells can become nourished and continue to reinvent themselves in a healthy way. We can meticulously nourish ourselves with different breathing techniques, so different parts of the physical body benefit. And the mind, whose job it is to keep the body well, relaxes, in the nurturing hands of breath, the energy that brings well-being.
Meditation, dhyana, a limb, is also a learned discipline, as is pratyahara, withdrawing the senses to look inward. Dharana – one-pointed focus, one-pointed concentration, is an important skill to keep the brain from getting too noisy. Samadhi is an experience of harmony, of allowing harmony to permeate and transform our cells. We accept the bliss of non-suffering without punishment and judgement of why WE are so blessed, and not every single creature: these limbs help to round out our full view of what it means to live here and now.
The benefits of asana are a significant draw towards the study and practice of yoga these days. The ancient postures have known benefits, and a regular regimen is good for us physically. Yet, without the other ‘limbs’, we can fall prey to the movie again – believing we are well, or not well. The other limbs of the great tree of yoga, the tree of life, show us how to nourish our cells, and abide in our true nature.
Ashtanga yoga was brought to the west, with the best of intentions, as asana. Pattabhi Jois taught, reluctantly at first, postures that he had taught his own son for health benefits, postures he had learned from his master, Krishnamacharya, that had been of benefit to him. Jois was drawn to the postures in a certain order, which had for centuries been practiced in this way, so that one asana would unlock potential for the next, and so on. Practising daily, the aspirant could ward off sickness and could heal himself should an accident occur. Krishnamacharya himself healed his broken hip at age 96 in three months with his eight-limbed yoga practice, which was the way he lived his life daily. The danger in moving information between cultures is obvious, and consequently, the Ashtanga practice came to the ‘outside world’ without the full complement of limbs. It was Jois’s view that, if one were to practice the prescribed postures every day, “yug” would become evident. But a new phenomenon emerged – we were becoming attached to our view of ourselves as yogis because we could perform the postures. Instead of the asana practice being one of many tools towards health, it was THE tool. The view is lopsided (well, limbless).
Many yoga teachers show their students the full view of yoga, the complete toolbox. It is important to practice in this way. Sadly, we have begun to brand our views of yoga – this style is best, no, this style is best. With the help of a good teacher, we can learn to balance our view, whatever “style” is resonating with us. Renowned Canadian yoga teacher, Michael Stone, requires his would-be students to spend six months pondering why they are drawn to embark on the path of yoga before he will consent to teaching them. He reminds us that we were all drawn to yoga because we are suffering. By acknowledging our suffering, we can learn how to take responsibility for developing a full view. Anyone can do this through study and practice, though having a teacher is a big help for this huge subject.
If you are attracted to yoga, continue your journey into the full view with confidence that you will often come up against concepts that draw you in ways you just can’t explain. Take small steps. Ask questions. Believe that you know the answers already, and look for them in the way your body moves.
Ta Ho
Catherine Guest
November 2010
