I consider myself lucky when I am the first to arrive at the Shala and can engage Itay in conversation for a few moments before practice begins. He is generous with his counsel and willing to share whatever new insight he has discovered. And, like a true ashtangi, he's always discovering something new. Last Friday, the subject was pratyahara. Pratyahara is the fifth limb on the eight-limb path of yoga. This is where the practitioner turns inward and away from the external world to tend to the internal realm.
From Patanjali's Yoga Sutras 2.54, pratyahara is the "withdrawal of the senses, mind, and consciousness from contact with external objects, and then drawing them inward toward the seer." Explained differently, this is the point in our practice where we temporarily suspend all interaction with the external--with cognition and expression--to experience the depths of meditation. This is not about suppressing or repressing or stopping the feelings and memories that come up for us during meditation. Rather, we cease to be engaged with our thoughts and feelings, and instead, we watch as this train travels through our mind. The result: The ability to focus, concentrate, and find calm.
Some who practice yoga may decide that this part of the path is not for them. For some, yoga is about restoring flexibility and getting some exercise and maybe even being able to impress others by mastering a tricky posture. Not a problem. There's room in this practice for everyone. But here's the thing, and the subject of my conversation with Itay last week, while pratyahara is an internal practice, it, too, has ramifications (or benefits) off the mat, or in this case, off the meditation cushion and in the external world. In his attempt to understand this particular sutra, Itay confided that he was initially perplexed by the idea of "withdrawing the senses." How can we do that, Itay asked? But then one day he found himself in traffic being cut off by someone. His first impulse was to react. Then, suddenly, he had an insight about "withdrawal of the senses." It meant choosing not to react, or, like his own instruction to us during practice, to offer "no resistance."
Indeed, in our physical practice of yoga, we are engaged in training the senses whether or not we're aware of this. The poses are a distraction (Itay's favorite reminder) for the breath and the work of the bandhas (locks). No resistance. When we no longer resist, we have more control. And here is the paradox about pratyahara, and most elements of the interior plane. While we are learning to relinquish control and release our grip, we are likewise beginning to enter the realm of mastery. When we recognize we have no control over the external stuff life throws our way, we discover that we nevertheless are in control of how we choose to direct our concentration. As we internalize the process more and more, we begin to experience liberation.
Once, after I had exited a challenging posture, Itay remarked what an immense amount of concentration and focus the pose demanded. I responded by saying something about my journey with this particular pose and how, at a certain point, I had to stop thinking about the steps leading up to it. Then, Itay said, "Focus is not a thought," and that made me pause. I came home, and, as I often do with a moment like this, I wrote it down because it required some further rumination on my part. Now, I believe Itay was talking about pratyahara. A state beyond thought. In savasana today, I had a further insight about pratyahara and its role in our movement in practice. Our lack of resistance in the physical practice, our ability to direct our concentration, results in a certain gracefulness. By "withdrawing the senses"-- the fear, the anxiety, the stubbornness--we develop over poses in our practice, over events in our lives, we channel more calm, more ease, more grace.
This brought back a conversation I had with a fellow ashtangi many years ago. She had attended a workshop led by ashtanga master David Swenson. Swenson had demonstrated how effortless the first series could be by practicing the entire series for the crowd. What was it like? According to my fellow yogi, it was like watching a butterfly. This, then, is pratyahara in action, as is withholding our temper, becoming more patient, and, as my favorite Vietnamese Buddhist monk would say, acknowledging and accepting a person's "suchness."
From Patanjali's Yoga Sutras 2.54, pratyahara is the "withdrawal of the senses, mind, and consciousness from contact with external objects, and then drawing them inward toward the seer." Explained differently, this is the point in our practice where we temporarily suspend all interaction with the external--with cognition and expression--to experience the depths of meditation. This is not about suppressing or repressing or stopping the feelings and memories that come up for us during meditation. Rather, we cease to be engaged with our thoughts and feelings, and instead, we watch as this train travels through our mind. The result: The ability to focus, concentrate, and find calm.
Some who practice yoga may decide that this part of the path is not for them. For some, yoga is about restoring flexibility and getting some exercise and maybe even being able to impress others by mastering a tricky posture. Not a problem. There's room in this practice for everyone. But here's the thing, and the subject of my conversation with Itay last week, while pratyahara is an internal practice, it, too, has ramifications (or benefits) off the mat, or in this case, off the meditation cushion and in the external world. In his attempt to understand this particular sutra, Itay confided that he was initially perplexed by the idea of "withdrawing the senses." How can we do that, Itay asked? But then one day he found himself in traffic being cut off by someone. His first impulse was to react. Then, suddenly, he had an insight about "withdrawal of the senses." It meant choosing not to react, or, like his own instruction to us during practice, to offer "no resistance."
Indeed, in our physical practice of yoga, we are engaged in training the senses whether or not we're aware of this. The poses are a distraction (Itay's favorite reminder) for the breath and the work of the bandhas (locks). No resistance. When we no longer resist, we have more control. And here is the paradox about pratyahara, and most elements of the interior plane. While we are learning to relinquish control and release our grip, we are likewise beginning to enter the realm of mastery. When we recognize we have no control over the external stuff life throws our way, we discover that we nevertheless are in control of how we choose to direct our concentration. As we internalize the process more and more, we begin to experience liberation.
Once, after I had exited a challenging posture, Itay remarked what an immense amount of concentration and focus the pose demanded. I responded by saying something about my journey with this particular pose and how, at a certain point, I had to stop thinking about the steps leading up to it. Then, Itay said, "Focus is not a thought," and that made me pause. I came home, and, as I often do with a moment like this, I wrote it down because it required some further rumination on my part. Now, I believe Itay was talking about pratyahara. A state beyond thought. In savasana today, I had a further insight about pratyahara and its role in our movement in practice. Our lack of resistance in the physical practice, our ability to direct our concentration, results in a certain gracefulness. By "withdrawing the senses"-- the fear, the anxiety, the stubbornness--we develop over poses in our practice, over events in our lives, we channel more calm, more ease, more grace.
This brought back a conversation I had with a fellow ashtangi many years ago. She had attended a workshop led by ashtanga master David Swenson. Swenson had demonstrated how effortless the first series could be by practicing the entire series for the crowd. What was it like? According to my fellow yogi, it was like watching a butterfly. This, then, is pratyahara in action, as is withholding our temper, becoming more patient, and, as my favorite Vietnamese Buddhist monk would say, acknowledging and accepting a person's "suchness."
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