Many of these essays are excerpts from Cindy’s book: “Align and Refine: The Journey of Yoga and Meditation,” which you can purchase here.
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This is an excerpt from Cindy’s book “Align and Refine: The Journey of Yoga and Meditation”
When I began studying the Tantric tradition, one of the first things I learned was a reiteration and amplification of the teaching of “highest first,” which like many teachings has a plethora of meanings. First, and fundamental to the Tantric tradition, is the unequivocal acknowledgment of the concept of the Highest, the Heart of Consciousness, the Source that underlies everything. This idea differentiates Tantra from the Classical Yoga of the Yoga Sūtra explicitly through those additional tattvas (elements of reality).
Another way the idea of highest first is reflected in the tradition is that the highest teaching is often given first in the texts, in the first aphorism, teaching, or even the first word. For example, in the Bhagavad Gītā, the first word is dharma, which is a primary teaching in the text, particularly for the warrior Arjuna, who is in a quandary about what his duty is. In the Yoga Sūtra, yoga is defined at the beginning of its first chapter, and the rest of the text can be thought of as an elaboration of this teaching. So the idea is that these first teachings are the key to everything. If you get it, you get the essential point of the entire text, and you’ll see how everything flows from that initial statement.
Additionally, as a prelude to many texts, there is often an invocational verse that explicitly invokes the Highest in some words of praise. You may have noticed that many yoga classes or courses of study also begin with some sort of invocation of the Highest. Near the beginning of this book, we invoked Gaṇeśa as we stood on the threshold of what could be a challenging journey of understanding. Invocation calls out for the support of the Highest, and brings a dedication to the Highest front and center.
“Highest first” asks one to turn toward the Highest in the first moment of an endeavor and in each moment throughout life. This teaching asks us to pause and summon the highest possible response we can access in each and every situation.
Reflect and explore
Yoga Sūtra 1.33 first lists four qualities to cultivate on the path of yoga: maitrī (friendliness or love), karuṇā (compassion), muditā (joy), and upekṣā (equanimity). These virtues are also heralded in Buddhism as the brahma-vihāras. The next part of this sūtra lists four types of people: sukha (happy), duḥkha (suffering), puṇya (virtuous) and apuṇya (nonvirtuous).
This sūtra suggests that cultivating (bhāvanātaś) the four qualities toward those four types of situations one might encounter, yields greater clarity of mind (citta prasādanam). Specifically, it suggests one should cultivate friendliness or love toward those who are happy, compassion toward those suffering, joy toward those with virtue, and equanimity toward nonvirtuous or evil people. So this sūtra gives a technique for creating clarity in consciousness by giving some tools to work with in relationships. As well, YS 1.33 can be thought of as describing qualities that naturally emerge given a more refined awareness.
YS 1.33 maitrī-karuṇā-muditā-upekṣāṇāṃ sukha-duḥkha-puṇyaapuṇya-viṣayāṇāṃ bhāvanātaś-citta-prasādanam
maitrī: friendliness
karuṇā: compassion
muditā: joy, gladness
upekṣā: equanimity
sukha: happiness
duḥkha: sorrow, suffering, pain
puṇya: virtue, meritorious
apuṇya: vice, demeritorious
viṣayāṇām: concerning or regarding object
bhāvanātaś: cultivating attitude citta: mind, awareness
prasādanam: purification, clarification
The mind becomes clarified by cultivating [or alternately: A clarified mind yields] an attitude of friendliness, compassion, joy, and equanimity toward happiness, pain, virtue, or vice.
As I have contemplated this sūtra, it seems that its list of qualities starts with what is easiest for us to do and moves to what is most difficult. The first two, maitrī/friendliness and karuṇā/compassion, are relatively easy because they often arise spontaneously. Most well-adjusted people find it easy to be friendly and loving when they encounter happy people. Likewise, compassion/karuṇā often naturally arises toward those who are suffering/duḥkha.
The third quality, muditā/joy, may naturally arise in the face of someone who is puṇya/virtuous. For example, when someone performs a beautiful dance or makes a piece of art, we are joyful about that. If someone excels at a sport or a child performs a difficult piano piece, we naturally applaud their accomplishment, joyfully celebrating their virtuosity. However, at times when faced with someone else’s success, instead of feeling joy, we might experience jealousy. So at times, that third pairing of extending muditā/joy toward someone else’s accomplishment can be a challenge.
The last listed quality is the one many people find quite difficult: upekṣā/equanimity toward the apuṇya/nonvirtuous person. Upekṣā is often translated as “equanimity,” which usually leads to the question: What does equanimity mean? Equi means what you might think: “equal or same.” And animus indicates “mind,” so equanimity can mean “even-mindedness.”
A good place to start cultivating these qualities is toward ourselves, as everyone has times when they’re happy, sad, virtuous, or nonvirtuous. When suffering/duḥkha, can we give ourselves some karuṇā/ compassion? When we’ve behaved badly/apuṇya, can we foster a bit of upekṣā/equanimity? Can such behavior be put in perspective? For example, it’s helpful to understand that making a mistake doesn’t make us a bad person.
To practice cultivating these virtues, we can begin by consciously noticing our reactions when meeting these different situations. For example, in the case of someone else’s success, what saṃskāric pattern habitually arises? We have the choice to continue to reinforce it or not, to the degree the ledge of freedom has been established. Though it is hard to stop a thought once it has arisen, we can choose to change the channel. It isn’t a matter of stuffing or ignoring that thought; it’s a matter of laying down a new pattern. When we make the choice and act, that pattern/saṃskāra is established. When repeated, that action becomes a habit. So it is important to ask: What do we want our habit patterns to be like?
Many of the teachings we’ve considered through our svādhyāya/study can be useful in these situations. For example, understanding how the malas and other mechanisms of concealment work to occlude the heart allows for more karuṇā/compassion for ourselves and others and puts things in perspective/upekṣā. And all the practices work to remove the obscurations and clarify awareness/sattva buddhi. The contemplative practice, bhāvanā, can be particularly useful. When something like jealousy arises, bhāvanā could help uncover and eventually dissolve the source of this pattern. So it can be worked with through practice while acknowledging that at times we might need some additional help from a valued friend or a therapist.
The major point here is to act consciously and skillfully, from the highest place possible in the moment. In YS 1.33, Patañjali is suggesting to cultivate these virtues as a means to calm the surface agitation so one can move to a deeper level of awareness. When choosing to respond with positive qualities, we create more positive saṃskāras/habit patterns while at the same time a more sattvic buddhi/clarified awareness arises. So over time, this leads to a positive citta-vṛtti-karma-saṃskāra cycle, which will aid in surface life while at the same time refining the depths of awareness. We have to start connecting the dots of how the thoughts, feelings, and actions play out in our lives.
And remember, word order is important in these pithy sūtras, and the first word in YS 1.33 is maitrī/love. The practice of meditation aligns us with our very own Heart essence (hṛdaya). Exercise freedom/svātantrya to pause and connect, then choose to respond from that Sourceplace of love. When we can do this, it will shift our world.
Reflect and explore
~ Give a real-life example of each, preferably from your own life.
~ How do they manifest in your life?
~ What encourages or discourages their occurrence?
At the beginning of chapter 2 of the Yoga Sūtra, Patañjali outlines kriyā-yoga, a yoga of action (YS 2.1). In the following sutra he describes how this yoga works to refine one’s being in two ways. First, it helps attenuate the kleśas/impediments; second, it serves to cultivate samādhi, the deep state of meditative absorption. YS 2.2 says that yoga helps address the root obstructions to the heart, the kleśas, and yoga/meditation also creates samādhi. Remember that samādhi is a series of progressively deeper and immersive states of awareness resulting from the practice of meditation.
YS 2.2 samādhi-bhāvana-arthaḥ kleśa-tanū-karaṇa-arthaś ca
samādhi: state of meditative immersion
bhāvana: cultivating, causing, bringing about
artha: meaning, purpose
kleśa: affliction, impediment
tanū-karaṇa: attenuating, making weak
artha: purpose
ca: and
The purpose [of kriyā-yoga/the yoga of action] is samādhi/meditative immersion and attenuating the kleśas/afflictions.
This is exactly why meditation is an effective way to create changes at the surface of life by directly addressing these underlying mechanisms of the kleśas and saṃskāras, which prompt us toward feeling and acting in particular ways based on past actions/karma. It is very hard to get to the root of the saṃskāras by working only with the surface mind and behaviors. Through meditation, you go deeper than the surface to the saṃskāric seeds and burn them up, so they will no longer sprout. This is the teaching of the dagdha-bīja, the burnt seed, which is alluded to in several places in the text (See, for example, YS 2.4). These seeds can be latent, just waiting for the right conditions to sprout. When the mind finally comes to rest in meditation, the seeds of saṃskāras are burnt up and can no longer sprout.
In the Yoga Sūtra, meditation is emphasized as the method for knowing our true selves. The process of meditation acts on the deepest layers of individuality to remove (burn up) the saṃskāras and attenuate the kleśas, clearing a pathway to the true Self. YS 1.47 says that in the deepest states of samādhi, awareness is clarified, revealing the inner Self.
YS 1.47 nirvicāra-vaiśāradye-adhyātma-prasādaḥ
nirvicāra: a state of samādhi without any thought
vaiśāradye: lucidity, clarity, pure flow
adhyātma: inner Self
prasādaḥ: clarity, purity, luminosity
In the lucidity of nirvicāra-samādhi, there is clarity of the inner Self.
When you meditate, several things happen simultaneously that serve to shift and refine awareness, thus supporting the recognition/pratyabhijñā of the deepest Self. When turning the mind inward during meditation practice, awareness starts to traverse from the surface layers to the subtler layers. With repeated practice the habit pattern of moving into deeper places inside is cultivated. You are creating inward-moving saṃskāras. Meditating establishes the saṃskāra/habit pattern of moving awareness from the surface to deeper layers, to the deepest part of oneself.
The experience of steeping awareness in the deep spaces of consciousness creates a different type of saṃskāra. YS 1.50 teaches about two types of saṃskāras. First are those more conventional saṃskāras, the imprints of our past actions. Second, a different type of saṃskāra arises in deep meditative states of awareness, which acts to obstruct other saṃskāras. So the practice of meditation creates obstructor saṃskāras that don’t activate awareness with citta-vṛttis like other saṃskāras. Instead, they put a damper on the outward-moving saṃskāras, even destroying them. With continued practice, this has the effect of eliminating the influence of those old saṃskāras/subliminal activators we’re carrying around from previous life experiences. And this is a continuing and reiterative process.
YS 1.50 taj-jaḥ saṃskāro ‘nya-saṃskāra-pratibandhī
tat: that [truth-bearing wisdom]
jaḥ: born
saṃskāra: subliminal impressions/activators
anya: other
saṃskāra: subliminal impressions/activators
pratibandhī: obstructing, preventing
Saṃskāras born from that [truth-bearing wisdom] obstruct other saṃskāras.
At the same time we’re burning up problematic saṃskāras, our meditation practice produces the obstructing or inhibiting saṃskāras (YS 1.50). A commentary on the Yoga Sūtra says that these blocking saṃskāras enhance the experience of samādhi, creating more of the wisdom saṃskāras, which block the others, and so on. As well, remember that meditation helps establish the habit of moving awareness internally. All of this eventually leads us to have fewer citta-vṛttis and experiencing more calm during meditation. The obstructer saṃskāras are a way that our awareness is reorganized. In this way, awareness is slowly clarified.
REFLECT AND EXPLORE
Contemplate any of the teachings you find drawn to or find challenging and consider how you’ve experienced them.
How have you noticed the release of old patterns and/or a greater clarity?
How do these teachings relate to how you approach the practice of yoga?
One of the most famous and important core myths from India is that of the Churning of the Ocean. Its teachings are relevant not only to the practice of yoga, but also to life in general, and how to live your yoga. As with many myths in the tradition, there are different versions from different sources, so we will be dropping into the middle and extracting an abbreviated version of this story known as the Samudra Manthana or Sāgara Manthana. Samudra and sāgara are both words for the ocean, and manthana means “churning.”
Once upon a time, the devas and asuras—the gods and anti-gods (demons)—who usually were at odds with each other—realized they needed to work together to obtain the nectar of immortality, which resided in the ocean. To obtain the nectar, they had to churn the ocean to bring it forth. To do so, they upended a mountain to use as the churning stick. They stuck its top into the ocean with a great tortoise as a base. Around that, they wrapped the snake named Vāsuki to use as a rope.
They churned and churned, yet the nectar was not emerging, and they became a little discouraged. Viṣṇu was summoned to help, and he gave them a pep talk that re-energized them to continue churning. Finally, a great variety of treasures began to emerge from the ocean, including the crescent moon, the goddess Śrī (or Lakṣmī), a great gem, and an albino elephant with four tusks. As these things emerged from the ocean, they were claimed and distributed in various ways to both the devas and the asuras.
As the gods and demons continued to churn, what began to emerge was a viscous, deep-blue, radioactive-like substance that could paralyze the world with its vapors. This was a poison called kālakūṭa or halāhala. As in many of these stories, when things got difficult, Śiva was called upon to deal with the problem. Some accounts say he drank the poison; others say he put his finger in it and absorbed it that way. In either case, so that the world would not be obliterated by the poisonous substance, Śiva held it in his throat, where it was transmuted. The poison turned his throat blue, and this is how Śiva got his name Nīlakaṇṭha. Nīla means “blue,” and kaṇṭha means “throat.” Once the poison was dispensed with, the churning resumed, and several other things emerged from the ocean, including a wish-fulfilling cow. Finally, the physician of the gods emerged, holding a pot in which the nectar was held.
One way to interpret the overall story is as a metaphor for the practice of meditation. The ocean is consciousness, which is churned as we practice. Often we practice and practice and nothing seems to be happening, and we might even want to stop. Hopefully we continue, perhaps with some encouragement from a teacher or someone else who is our Viṣṇu. There may also be challenges and “poison” that arise. We, as Śiva, must be able to hold and transmute that poison. It is part of the process. In the story, it is only after the poison has been emitted that the nectar emerges.
When we do yoga, whether the physical āsana practice or meditation, there’s a naturally occurring cleaning-out of all that obstructs us: the saṃskāras, all the old crud from previous actions. On the physical level, āsana can take us to the sticky places, physically or psychologically— or both. When moving in āsana practice, we come up against physical limitations. These can be patterns in the body established from lack of movement, from holding ourselves in particular ways, from old injuries, or for any number of reasons. Working through these limitations can be challenging and even painful at times, yet hopefully we eventually receive the joy of more ease in the body. In āsana practice, we may also have to deal with old, reactive psychological patterns.
Likewise, when the mind is moved inwardly in meditation practice, we encounter whatever blocks us. The muck is invariably stirred up. When meditating, we might begin to feel agitated physically, emotionally, or mentally. Or, we might simply start having thoughts. The thoughts or agitation that arise during meditation are a byproduct of this natural cleansing of awareness when moving from the surface to the depths to contact the deepest layers of our self, toward a greater awareness.
As we move along the path of yoga, doing our practices, at times there will be delight/ānanda, health, and healing. But remember, the nectar/amṛta emerges only after the poison has been dealt with. And truthfully, sometimes what we think is poison is actually nectar, once it is held and transmuted. Finally, I love that one of the things that emerges from the act of churning the ocean is the wish-fulfilling cow. As my practice has progressed, it is my experience that my wishes—my desires and intentions/saṃkalpa- become more auspicious and aligned with the Highest.
REFLECT AND EXPLORE
– Contemplate any aspect of the Churning of the Ocean story that speaks to you.
– How are you every character in this story? For example, consider the role of Viṣṇu on the path of yoga and life. Who has been your Viṣṇu? How have you been Viṣṇu to others?
– What treasures have emerged from your practice(s)? Consider the practices of āsana, meditation, and any other practices you do.
– How have you experienced poison arising in your practice, and how have you handled it?
– How have you eventually noticed more healing or joy after a “poisonous” experience?
Recall the definition of yoga from Yoga Sūtra 1.2: yoga is calming the “turnings”/citta-vṛttis of the mind. The citta-vṛttis are the fluctuations of consciousness, everything that happens in the field of awareness, including thoughts, perception, concepts, emotions, and memory.
So the next questions become: What is the nature of these citta-vṛttis? Where do they come from, and how can we work with them? There is a whole process by which these citta-vṛttis are generated through a cycle involving the citta-vṛttis, saṃskāras, and karma. Without going into all the technicalities of the philosophy here, we will consider the general process. Understanding this process is integral to exploring how awareness works, how meditation works, and how the teachings can be applied to everyday life.
The citta-vṛttis/fluctuations of the mind—essentially whatever is in your awareness—are said to be activated by the saṃskāras. In the context of Classical Yoga, saṃskāra is usually translated as “subliminal impression,” or “subliminal activator.” Saṃskāras are all the impressions or imprints left by past actions, which then condition future actions. And the theory is that they are based on actions not only from this life, but from previous lives as well.
There’s a cycle that involves actions (karmas), the traces they leave (saṃskāras), and the thoughts and feelings (citta-vṛttis), which works as follows. You do something or something happens to you: that is karma. Remember there are different definitions of karma, but in this context, just think of karma as an action. That action lays down an imprint, a saṃskāra, in your psyche. So the saṃskāra becomes part of you. It might be inactive, or when circumstances are right, it starts activating certain thoughts or feelings, which are the citta-vṛttis. There can be a repetitive cycle when the citta-vṛttis prompt action, thereby creating karma, which lays down the saṃskāra, which causes more citta-vṛttis, and so on.
For example, I like to have some chocolate after dinner. I love good dark chocolate, and when I have some, the experience creates an impression in my psyche of how good that chocolate is. So next time as I finish dinner, I have the thought: “Wow, some chocolate would be so good right now.” So I eat some chocolate and am again reminded of how good it is.
In this example, the action of eating the chocolate is the karma. My experience of eating the chocolate yields the saṃskāra, the impression left in my psyche. When the conditions are right (I’ve finished dinner) the saṃskāra is activated. This leads to the citta-vṛtti, the thought and impulse in my manas, my thinking mind, that I want more chocolate. And so I have some chocolate, further reinforcing that saṃskāric impression.
Saṃskāras are often likened to seeds. They are planted in awareness and will sprout when the conditions are right. They may lie dormant for a long time—even lifetimes. Then circumstances arise that activate them. And remember, every action creates these seeds, so they are quite numerous.
Another way to think of saṃskāras is as habit patterns. Some of the patterns aren’t a big deal—like a little bit of really great dark chocolate after dinner isn’t a particularly detrimental habit. But in other circumstances, these patterns can be quite debilitating. One example is post-traumatic stress, in which there are environmental triggers that elicit extreme cognitive or emotional citta-vṛttis. Drug or alcohol addictions are also debilitating habit patterns. However, some habit patterns can be positive. For example, when I get up in the morning, the impulse to meditate arises pretty quickly for me as a result of my repeated action of meditating each morning and the resulting saṃskāras embedded in my buddhi. Also, the saṃskāras differ in how ingrained they are. More traumatic or repetitive experiences will be deeply embedded. So there’s a whole range of how these patterns work in our lives.
REFLECT AND EXPLORE
Give examples from your life of saṃskāric “habit patterns.” Consider those that are both positive and negative.
How can you break the pattern of problematic habit patterns?
PH 9 cidvat–tac–chakti-saṃkocāt malāvṛtaḥ saṃsārī
cid-vat: full of Consciousness
tat: that
śakti: power
saṃkocāt: due to contraction, limitation
mala: impurities
āvṛtaḥ: covered, impure, limited
saṃsārī: a person who experiences saṃsāra, worldly existence, transmigrating soul
Consciousness is covered by impurities due to the contraction of its powers and becomes a transmigrating soul.
The last part of PH 9 refers to the saṃsārī, which is one who experiences saṃsāra. Saṃsāra in general can refer to a “worldly existence” based on ignorance of the essential self. Sāra means “flow” and sam means “same,” so it is being stuck in the same flow, the eddies of human existence, repeating the same cycles of suffering. It also means “transmigration,” which is likened to a wheel—a wheel that turns through repeated cycles of birth, life, and death. So a saṃsārī is one who experiences saṃsāra, including suffering, and transmigrates from one lifetime to another due to karma.
Karma can simply mean “action,” and the kārma-mala is a sense of doership. The word karma also refers to the chain of actions and their effects, which leads us to transmigration, of being born and reborn. This cycle of transmigration is saṃsāra. And, the situation of being stuck in repetitive cycles can apply to getting stuck in patterns in our life in general.
REFLECT AND EXPLORE
– How do you think about the concept of saṃsāra?
– How do you think about karma?
PH 9 cidvat–tac–chakti-saṃkocāt malāvṛtaḥ saṃsārī
cid-vat: full of Consciousness
tat: that
śakti: power
saṃkocāt: due to contraction, limitation
mala: impurities
āvṛtaḥ: covered, impure, limited
saṃsārī: a person who experiences saṃsāra, worldly existence, transmigrating soul
Consciousness is covered by impurities due to the contraction of its powers and becomes a transmigrating soul.
This ninth sūtra of the Pratyabhijñā-hṛdayam (PH) indicates a mechanism of contraction that results in our hearts being covered. The malas are what taint, conceal, and limit the pure, full, and free Consciousness. There are three types of malas: the āṇava-mala, the māyīya–mala, and the kārma–mala. These are how the Tantric tradition explains the limiting conditions that contribute to ignorance, trap us in our surface life, and hamper the free expression of the heart.
Previously, we considered the āṇava–mala as the core sense of separation, from which follows a sense of differentiation, which is the māyīya–mala. Through the process of manifestation, the one light refracts into many different colors. Āṇava–mala is the mūla–mala, the “root covering,” the primal limiting condition that reduces the universal consciousness to an aṇu, a limited being. This root contraction yields the two other malas. They can be thought of as progeny or consequences of the āṇava–mala. I have heard the āṇava–mala likened to an earthquake, which shifts the plates in the earth, and the other two malas are like the resulting tsunami. As a consequence, we experience ourselves as different from all the other colors or manifestations of the one Citi/Consciousness. In our individual experience this creates the awareness that “I am different” from everyone and everything. This differentiation can lead to a chronic assessment or evaluation.
The māyīya–mala is experienced as the tendency toward comparing and evaluating what is better, what is less. Consciously or unconsciously, we compare ourselves to others to see how we stack up. The individual life wave sees itself as different from all the other waves. We take measure and wonder: Is our life wave better than all the other waves? Am I bigger, more attractive, splashier?
On a positive note, this feeling of differentiation can lead us to seek connection. From the highest perspective, difference is a beautiful thing. The differentiation experienced in the relative plane allows us to enjoy the beauty of this world and other beings in it. If we can appreciate the differences as unique and beautiful manifestations of Śiva-Śakti, it can lead us toward experiencing the connectedness of all things. And on the other hand, when we focus in a comparative way on differences between ourselves and others, or between our group and other groups, we begin to act out of this sense of difference in ways that can be deleterious. For example, we may think we are better and deserve more than others who are different from us.
As we feel separated from Source and become a limited embodied being, we also experience the veil of doership, the kārma–mala. There is a sense of agency, that “I am the doer.” One definition of karma is action. Due to the separation from the Highest, we forget the source of our actions and think instead that we are the one acting. The wave thinks it alone is creating the tide and is ignorant of the oceanic Source of all action.
On the other hand, as householders, we have to act in order to live in the world. This sense of doership allows us to fulfill our life’s desires, our intentions for how we want to live this life. However, if we do not feel connected to Source, we may act in misaligned ways, reflecting the sense of disconnection and difference.
So these three malas are all interrelated, the āṇava–mala being the big pinch, the contraction, the earthquake that sets a tsunami in motion in which we feel not only separate (āṇava–mala) but different (māyīya–mala). We compare ourselves to others and feel we are lacking. From this lack, we act and we think we are the source of action (kārma–mala) and that we are in control. In all these ways, the individual life wave forgets its oceanic source. The heart of who we are, the deepest layer of our Self, is veiled. Our experience on the surface of our lives is that it doesn’t even exist.
Reflect and Explore
How do you see the malas operating in your life?
Specifically, consider:
• When do you feel the most differentiated from others (māyīya), and/or powerless (kārma)?
• When do you feel the most connected, and/or powerful? What helps manifest that feeling?
PH 9 cidvat–tac–chakti-saṃkocāt malāvṛtaḥ saṃsārī
cid-vat: full of Consciousness
tat: that
śakti: power
saṃkocāt: due to contraction, limitation
mala: impurities
āvṛtaḥ: covered, impure, limited
saṃsārī: a person who experiences saṃsāra, worldly existence, transmigrating soul
Consciousness is covered by impurities due to the contraction of its powers and becomes a transmigrating soul.
In his introduction to this ninth sūtra of the Pratyabhijñā-hṛdayam (PH) Kṣemarāja points out the discrepancy between the highest consciousness and limited individuality and seeks an explanation of the mechanisms which create that limitation. PH 9 says: “Consciousness is covered by impurities due to the contraction of its powers and becomes a transmigrating soul.”
“Consciousness” refers once again to Citi, the highest absolute Consciousness. As in PH 5, there is the idea of contraction (saṃkocāt). Here, the contraction of the power of the absolute Śakti, is explicitly mentioned. Then this sūtra elaborates on the process of contraction: the individual is covered by malas, the impurities (mala–āvṛtaḥ). The result is that the individual becomes a transmigratory soul (saṃsārī). So here, as in the fifth sūtra, is described this process of contraction which creates the individual. But PH 9 goes further by delineating some mechanisms for that contraction, as well as some consequences. Kṣemarāja specifically points to the malas to describe the limitation that hampers the freedom of Consciousness.
This contraction is described as a veiling or concealing. Mala literally means “taint, impurity, dust, dirt, or dross.” The malas are what cover, conceal, and limit the pure, full, and free Consciousness. There are three types of malas: the āṇava-mala, the māyīya–mala, and the kārma–mala. These are how the Tantric tradition explains the limiting conditions that contribute to ignorance, trap us in our surface life, and hamper the free expression of the heart. Āṇava–mala is the mūla–mala, the “root covering,” the primal limiting condition that reduces the universal consciousness to an aṇu, a limited being. This root contraction yields the two other malas. They can be thought of as progeny or consequences of the āṇava–mala. I have heard the āṇava–mala likened to an earthquake, which shifts the plates in the earth, and the other two malas are like the resulting tsunami.
This essay addresses the first mala, the āṇava–mala, which is the primal limiting condition that reduces the absolute Consciousness to the individual, the aṇu. The inherent nature of the Absolute is svatantra, absolutely free, and out of that freedom the Highest chooses to conceal itself. The One becomes the many. The wave arises, as though separate from the ocean of Consciousness. We each become the aṇu, an individual, which is limited through the crimping this āṇava–mala creates. Aṇu means “individual,” but it also means “small” like an atom, so there can be a feeling of being small, feeling less than full. This can lead to a sense of a lack of fulfillment as well as a sense of imperfection.
For the vast sky or the ocean of Consciousness to embody—to materialize—it has to shape itself and take on a covering of skin. What was unlimited is squeezed into limitation. It could feel like going barefoot all summer then having to squash your feet into winter shoes or bundling up with clothing that’s too tight so that movement that was once unlimited now feels constricted and less free.
That constriction has experiential consequences. Without the freedom to do or be anything, we have the experience of being imperfect, incomplete, unsatisfied, and incapable. We feel imperfect due to separation from the Perfect. From this root contraction of the āṇava–mala, the thought arises, “I am separate.” We feel disconnected from Source. There is a sense of loss, a vague feeling that there is more, and an experience that something is lacking. We feel empty because of separation from fullness/pūrṇatva. This can be experienced as feelings of inadequacy, unworthiness, or a lack of self-esteem.
As negative as this sounds, it can also be the impetus for a desire to reconnect with the Highest. Feeling a lack, we seek fulfillment. This can manifest in many ways, including how we might feed the ego or seek experiences or use drugs or sex or food to fill us up. Or we can turn toward the Highest, toward reconnecting with that which is the source of all fulfillment. It is this sense that there is something more that turns us toward teachers, teachings, and practices to help us reconnect with that Source.
Reflect and Explore
How do you see the malas operating in your life?
Specifically, consider the āṇava mala:
• When do you feel the most unworthy, small, or imperfect?
• When do you feel the most worthy, full, or complete? What helps manifest that feeling?
PH 13 tat-parijñāne cittam-eva antarmukhī-bhāvena cetana-padādhyārohāt citiḥ
tat: that [the pañca-kṛtyas/five acts]
parijñāne: full knowledge
cittam-eva: mind itself
antarmukhī-bhāvena: through inward-facing
cetana: uncontracted or expanded Consciousness
padādhyārohāt: ascending to the state
citi: absolute Consciousness
When one fully realizes that [one is the enactor of the pañca-kṛtyas/five acts of Śiva], through inward movement the individual mind ascends to expanded consciousness and becomes Consciousness.
Sūtra 13 from the Pratyabhijñā-hṛdayam (PH) gives an understanding of how we come to recognize our Self. You may notice that this sūtra is the inverse of PH 5, which was considered in previous blog posts, including this one. Recall that this earlier sūtra describes manifestation, how the expansive state of the heart (cetana) contracts to become individual awareness, the mind/citta.
PH 13 starts with “When one fully realizes that. . . .” “That” in this sūtra refers to the five acts/pañca-kṛtyas and specifically an awareness that you, as Śiva, are the enactor of the pañca- kṛtyas. This sūtra indicates that an inward turn of awareness allows for a return to that expanded state (cetana), an awareness of the Heart, a full knowledge (parijñāne) of who we are. This knowledge is sometimes described as a sense of expansion into the fullness of ourselves, pūrṇa-ahaṃ, or “I am full.” PH 13 says that the inward-turning practices of yoga illuminate an awareness that you, at essence, are creating, sustaining, and dissolving experience. Also, you take part in concealing and revealing the heart. Recognizing this, you become the Heart (Citi). You know your true Self. The specific methods/upāya to facilitate the inward-facing turn (antarmukhī-bhāvena) through progressively deeper states of consciousness must be received from a qualified teacher.
It is challenging to explain this profound experience of recognizing the Heart and any description lands in the student’s awareness to the degree that they have the ability/adhikāra to understand, which is dependent on where they are on their individual journey. However, the Tantric tradition reveres both knowledge and language, so even though difficult, it seeks to articulate an understanding of the aim of yoga, called by many names.
It is the practice of yoga, particularly meditation, that pivots awareness into the depth to uncover the heart of who we are. We just need to recognize the heart that is always there. Naṭarāja’s arm that occludes the heart points to his graceful upturned foot of revelation/anugraha. When we come to this recognition of the true Self, ignorance about who we are is diminished. Previously we thought the individual life wave was enacting our lives. In this sūtra we recognize that we are the ocean that is generating the waves. We understand that Śiva is performing the five acts as us. The individuality (ego, personality) is not in control. We experience a shift in self-identity. And indeed, our whole perception of the world is shifted.
This discussion highlights the arc of the yogic journey. We start with the highest first, a vision of the unlimited Absolute reality, which is none other than our very Self. Then that Highest reality contracts, becomes covered over, and manifests individuality into this material world. The journey of yoga helps us uncover our hearts and move from a place of concealment to a place of revelation.
The traditions of yoga use many words to describe this indescribable goal and state of yoga. Different lineage streams speak of this state of awareness with different words: pratyabhijñā, nirvāṇa, mokṣa, enlightenment, liberation. These lofty terms make it seem distant and unattainable. Yet it is close—it is as close as our hearts. The Divine is within us, is us. It is the light by which we see. It is inside and around us. We are It. We are the ocean of Consciousness. Realizing this, we understand that we are Śiva and that there is nothing that is not Śiva. We experience the heart of who we are.
REFLECT AND EXPLORE
Notice how you are the performer of the pañca-kṛtyas/five acts at the different levels of being:
• Watch your breath and consider where the breath comes from. Consider the breath as a divine pulsation moving through you.
• Observe your thought process. Watch how thoughts arise (creation), persist for some time (maintenance), then dissolve (dissolution). Notice the moment before a thought: the space from which a thought arises.
• Similarly observe your actions. Notice the moment when the impulse to act arises into awareness before you act.
• Notice how you participate in concealment and revelation.