Category Archives: Gods and Myths

The Churning of the Ocean

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?

Concealment and Revelation (Part 2 of the Pañca-Kṛtyas)

Encoded into the image of Naṭarāja, the dancing are Śiva, are the pañca-kṛtyas, the five acts of Śiva. Pañca means “five.” Kṛtya comes from the verbal root kṛ meaning “to make or do.” So these are the five acts of the Highest. The pañca-kṛtyas/five acts are sṛṣṭi/creation, sthiti/maintenance, saṃhāra/dissolution, tirodhāna, vilaya, or nigraha/concealment, and anugraha/revelation or grace. There are different interpretations of this encoding of the pañca-kṛtyas onto the Śiva Naṭarāja, so see what resonates most for you.

The fourth act, nigraha, vilaya or tirodhāna, is concealment, and in one mapping it is represented by Naṭarāja’s standing leg. That foot stands on the dwarf Apasmāra, the demon of ignorance, who represents cosmic forgetfulness. Apasmāra is ajñāna or avidya, the lack of knowledge, or ignorance, of who we really are. We get lost in the wild dance of life and forget our true, essential nature, which is concealed. Here Śiva Naṭarāja literally stands upon ignorance, holding it at bay.

In another mapping, Śiva’s fourth act of concealment is represented by the arm that crosses Naṭarāja’s heart. That arm conceals the heart, and that downturned hand points to the upturned foot, which represents the fifth and last of the five acts: anugraha/grace or revelation. The arm crossing the heart closes off or “conceals” the heart, and that hand points the way to the antidote of the closed heart: the revelation represented by Naṭarāja’s beautiful, upturned foot—his kuñcita–pāda.

Paradoxically, Śiva performs these acts simultaneously. So there is a simultaneous dyadic process of nigraha/concealment and anugraha/revelation. As the Absolute creates the manifest world, the Absolute itself gets concealed. The Divine moves from its unmanifest perfection into manifest limitation. In order to manifest, the Divine must limit itself. There isn’t some other entity that conceals It. It creates and conceals itself. This is quite a paradoxical and mind-blowing teaching. I have heard it likened to a cosmic game of hide-and-seek the Divine plays with itself. It is simultaneously concealing and revealing itself. The Absolute limits itself by its own creative activity. One way to think about it is that when you choose to create one thing, that at least temporarily limits you to that one thing, out of the potential of all the things you could create. So as one thing is created and revealed, everything else is concealed.

Another way to think about this: as the unmanifest, unlimited, spacious Absolute takes on some form like an individual body, the very act of taking a body creates limitation. The expansiveness has to contract itself to take on the boundaries and limitations, squeezing itself into a bodily form.

In doing so, there is a forgetting of that original expansiveness. Naṭarāja stands on the dwarf of forgetfulness. His crossing arm occludes the heart in this gesture of forgetting. We forget that we are nothing but the great expansive ocean of Consciousness. Yet the hand of the crossing arm points to the upturned foot of grace, the other half of the dyad of concealment and revelation.

The heart of us, the essential Self, is covered over during the dance of manifestation into a human body. Yet our body and our embodied life is a vehicle for us to remember our essence, the heart of who we are. So the crossing hand points to the uplifted foot as a reminder of the possibility of a heart connection, to the very essence of ourselves.

That fifth act, grace, is a word that may have religious connotations for some of us. Yet by some circumstance, we find our way back home, so to speak, and remember the true Self. This is anugraha, vilaya, or tirodhāna, represented by Naṭarāja’s upraised foot.

So what is grace? You are invited to contemplate this for yourself, as there are many different ways to think about it. One way I think about grace is as anything that helps raise us up or connect us to the higher Self, to our hearts. It can simply be that which supports us in everyday life. But it is also that which leads us or opens us to that divine Sourceplace within ourselves.

When Śiva-Śakti contracts to embody as our individuality, we arrive on this planet forgetful of that source. Our innermost nature is concealed from us, yet by grace we can remember, and our divine Self is revealed to us. Each of us here now, when considering these teachings, is by grace receiving the gift of these teachings, which aids in uncovering and revealing our hearts to us.

Reflect and Explore

List and define the pañca-kṛtyas/five acts. Contemplate their meanings, and give examples from your life.

How do the different mappings of Naṭarāja inform your understanding?

How do the five acts relate to each other?

How do you experience concealment?

How have you experienced revelation/grace?

Creation, Sustenance, and Dissolution (Part 1 of the Pañca-Kṛtyas)

One of the most popular images in yoga culture is the figure of four-armed Naṭarāja standing in a ring of fire on one leg, with the other foot upturned. From a Tantric perspective, Śiva is the ground of being from which all of the manifest world arises. In the image of Naṭarāja, Śiva the Absolute is dancing the manifest world into existence.

Encoded into the image of Naṭarāja are the pañca-kṛtyas, the five acts of Śiva. Pañca means “five.” Kṛtya comes from the verbal root kṛ meaning “to make or do.” So these are the five acts of the Highest. The pañca-kṛtyas can be thought of as different attributes of Śiva’s dance. The pañca-kṛtyas/five acts are sṛṣṭi/creation, sthiti/maintenance, saṃhāra/dissolution, tirodhāna, vilaya, or nigraha/concealment, and anugraha/revelation or grace.

Remember that Śiva is the Highest unmanifest ultimate reality, the ground of being, existing beyond time and space. Because of that, the description of Naṭarāja will at times be paradoxical, and one paradox is that Śiva performs all these actions simultaneously and continuously. As he dances, he is simultaneously creating, sustaining, dissolving, concealing, and revealing.

There are layers of meaning here and one way to look at these five acts is to consider the triad of creation, maintenance, and dissolution, along with the dyad of concealment and revelation. Here we’ll first examine the triad of creation, maintenance, and dissolution in more detail.

The image of Naṭarāja encodes various attributes of Śiva-Śakti as both the ground of being and that from which all the manifest world emerges. There are different interpretations of this mapping of the pañca-kṛtyas onto the Śiva Naṭarāja, which I will point out as we go. See what resonates most for you. It is important to note that I will be indicating right and left, and that refers to Naṭarāja’s right or left, which will be opposite to you as you look at it.

Starting with Śiva Naṭarāja’s top right hand, which is on our left as we look at it, Naṭarāja holds a drum called the damaru. The drum is cinched in its middle by a string with something like a pebble at the end that strikes the drumhead. As the drum is flicked back and forth, the pebble creates a “tick-tock” rhythm, like the pulse of creation giving rise to all of manifestation. This is the first act of Śiva: sṛṣṭi/creation. The drum represents the action of creating, of manifesting, it is the pulse, the beat of life. The dance of life begins; the heart starts beating. The drum is a rhythm, the creative pulse from which everything flows into existence. The unmanifest ground of reality starts vibrating everything into manifestation.

The second of the pañca-kṛtyas is sthiti: sustenance, persistence, or maintenance. In one mapping it is represented by the upturned right hand in abhaya–mudrā, that gesture of fearlessness. Another mapping teaches that sthiti/persistence is represented by the supporting leg. That steady leg supports the entire dance and therefore relates to that steadfast and persevering energy of sthiti. The sturdy leg seems to be holding everything together. It is the balancing act of life. Whatever is manifested must then be maintained. There is some persistence for a while, until of course there isn’t, since all manifest things eventually dissolve.

Naṭarāja’s topmost left hand (on our right) holds fire, representing saṃhāra, the third of the pañca-kṛtyas. Fire burns and is destructive, so this is symbolic of dissolution, destruction, reabsorption, or transformation. In the larger context of the Hindu gods, Śiva is a very fierce god, known as the destroyer. A related meaning is dissolution or reabsorption, where everything emitted is eventually reabsorbed back into the Divine.

Sṛṣṭi/creation comes from the verbal root sṛj, which means “to emit, to pour forth, to let go.” Śiva as the unmanifest pure Consciousness holds everything in potential form (as in the liṅga). Sṛṣṭi is the agency within the Absolute that unfolds what has been held in potential form. It can be thought of as the unfolding of that which is already present in potential form. Sṛṣṭi can be a sense of just letting go and emitting, which infers that creation is not necessarily hard work and is, perhaps, even a sense of play. The Divine allows the manifest to flow out.

And then sthiti/sustenance, the second part of this triad, is what maintains that which has been created. If there wasn’t some maintaining quality, whatever was created would be instantaneously gone. So sthiti is the energy that maintains things for some period of time.

Then everything manifest eventually dissolves. This is saṃhāra/dissolution. Destruction is one way to think of saṃhāra, but it is also withdrawal, dissolution, or even transformation. What has been manifested and sustained for some time is now reabsorbed or retracted back into the Absolute. Saṃhāra as transformation means something old has to dissolve and be turned into something else. It is represented by the fire that Naṭarāja holds, and where I live in the western United States, fire can be extremely destructive. However, when the forests burn, space is created for new growth to unfold.

These acts/kṛtyas take place on all scales, from the macrocosmic scale of the whole universe to the microcosm of individual awareness—and everything in between. So these three unfold on all levels of reality. Everything pulses into existence, persists for some time, then dissolves. It occurs in the cycle of day and night, the seasons of the year, and in our own breath. Hindu philosophy talks of even greater cycles or ages, called yugas. These acts are embodied in our human life: we’re born, we live, we die. I’m fond of the idea that at birth, the Divine exhales us out, and we take in our first breath. The divine act of emitting or unfolding us is sṛṣṭi, manifestation. Then at death, we exhale our last breath, and the Divine breathes us back in. This is saṃhāra, dissolution, the sense that our individual self dissolves and is reabsorbed into the Divine.

In our individual lives, this triad operates in every action we take. Sṛṣṭi is the creative impulse flowing forth, our self-expression through action. Sthiti is maintaining that action, and saṃhāra is allowing it to end. These three can also be considered at the level of thoughts, how they arise, catch our attention for some time, then fall away. It can be illuminative to explore how and what we create, maintain, and dissolve in our lives, and how that helps us to live our yoga.

Reflect and Explore

List and define these first three of the pañca-kṛtyas/five acts. Contemplate their meanings, and give examples from your life.

How do the different mappings of Naṭarāja inform your understanding?

Observe the cycle of creation, maintenance, and dissolution in some different aspects of your experience and life.

Naṭarāja and the Two Paths of Yoga

The image of Naṭarāja, Śiva as the Lord of Dance, encapsulates many beautiful teachings. To begin, take a moment to pause and consider your impression of Naṭarāja (there is an image below).

– For a few moments take in the feel of Naṭarāja —not so much the specific details, but the overall presence of the image and how it resonates with you.

– Write about your general sense of this image.

Whatever you see is what you see, but one of the main things the image elicits is, of course, a dance. Naṭarāja is dancing, but there is also a sense of serenity. His face is serene; he is very steady and aligned along a central axis. Yet this is a wild dance, and Naṭarāja’s hair is flying about. So here there is a representation of both the wild dance and a serene center.

One way to think of these qualities relates to the meaning of Śiva as the ground of being, the unmanifest, quiet and centered, stillness itself. But also in the image of Naṭarāja, Śiva is dancing the world into manifestation. From the center of his dance, everything begins to pulsate, and all of manifestation occurs. He’s starting the whole wheel turning, from which all that is manifest is created. So there is an aspect of Śiva as the cosmic dancer dancing life itself into existence.

These two aspects of Naṭarāja are related to a thread that runs throughout yoga philosophy and is mirrored in the modern yoga scene: the contrast and choice between what are termed nivṛtti and pravṛtti paths of yoga. The term vṛtti relates to turning or revolving. Nivṛtti is turning away from the world. This path requires renouncing the world and all associated desires. Pravṛtti is turning toward the world. This path involves engaging in the world. So there is a general contrast between two paths of yoga: the nivṛtti, or renunciate path, and pravṛtti, the householder path.

When I first began my yoga journey, the perceived push toward asceticism in the yoga world was very confusing to me. I began my practice in a very rigorous yoga school that emphasized breath, a steady gaze, and a prescribed sequence of postures. It required immense discipline, focus, and dedication. Through that practice, I got a glimpse of the quiet mind, a still point, that part of me that was watching, the draṣṭṛ/seer, that serene center reflected in Naṭarāja’s face and centeredness.

I began to have larger questions about the path of yoga and started exploring the philosophy underlying the practice. At that time, there weren’t many texts or books on yoga, but one that was available was the Yoga Sūtra, which delineates an ascetic or renunciate path, turning awareness inward and away from the world. I began to understand how such a philosophy could lead to a strict and controlled approach toward the body and mind, which was what I was experiencing in my āsana practice. I was so perplexed by this perspective, which didn’t resonate with me. Again and again, I found myself asking, If the goal of yoga is to subjugate the body and withdraw the mind from the world, why are we born into these bodies, into this world, with the gift of such active minds?

When I encountered a different yoga āsana school that honored the body, mind, and all of manifestation as part of a divine pulsation, it drew me in. It resonated with what I sensed intuitively. I found out that this approach was based on Tantric yoga philosophy, a development that came later than the Classical Yoga of Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra. And Tantra acknowledges a householder path for those who choose to function in society and all that entails.

I felt lucky to have experienced both of these schools, and it felt that each had a piece of the truth, yet I struggled to reconcile them. This is the paradox represented in Naṭarāja, the serenely quiet yogi and the wild dancer. Eventually I realized what was missing from these schools of yoga āsana was the practice of meditation. In both, there was a sense that one should be meditating, but no method was explicitly integrated. So when I saw the opportunity to begin practicing and studying a Tantric-based meditation method, I dove right in.

Along with receiving a meditation practice for householders, I learned how the practice worked, which allowed me to assimilate my previous experiences. I came full circle back to the teachings of Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra with its emphasis on meditation and practice. And as I began studying Tantra, I confirmed that there was more than the ascetic path, as I’d always intuited. The meditative state is not the end but the beginning. Through meditation, we connect to the ground of being, which supports us as we then move through everyday householder activities.

Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra tells us the ultimate limb of yoga is samādhi, that state of enstatic, or internal, awareness. But Tantra represents a path that leads to more stages of yoga beyond samādhi. These further stages allow one to live a fully embodied life from a place of expanded awareness. One can experience the Divine while embodying the householder life. In this way, Yoga and meditation can be a support in the many dances in life.

Reflect and Explore

How do you see the relationship between practices that move you inwardly and living your life fully as a householder?

Have you experienced any conflict regarding these two paths of nivṛtti/inward turning/renunciate and pravṛtti/outward turning/householder?

How have you experienced yoga practice supporting householder life?

Hanuman and Jambavan

Hanuman is a character who is revered for his devotion and service to the divine. However, in his childhood and youth, he was quite precocious and sometimes acted in ways that were mischievous and even dangerous. On one such occasion he was knocked unconscious by Indra, which upset his father Vayu, the wind, who withdrew the prāṇa from the world. To appease Vayu and avoid suffocation, the Gods bestowed upon Hanuman a number of yogic powers.

Hanuman is often associated with bhakti yoga, or love of the divine, and he figures prominently in the great Indian epic, the Ramayana, in which he is devoted to his Beloved Rama and Sita. When Sita was captured by the demon Ravana and held in Sri Lanka, the rescue parties who gathered on the shores of India were consternated as to how or who had the ability to traverse the ocean to save Sita.

In this moment, Jambavan, a great friend of Hanuman’s, stepped forward to remind Hanuman of his yogic powers and ability to conquer the task. Jambuvan tells Hanuman his life story and of his great powers. Hanuman then gathers up his power to make the leap, thereby reuniting Ram and Sita. Hence the yoga posture bearing his name is Hanumanasana (also known as the splits).

This story teaches us the beauty of companionship and of a spiritual community, called the kula or saṅgha. Fellow practitioners are each a kalyāṇa–mitra. Kalyāṇa means “beautiful, virtuous, or good,” and mitra is a “friend,” so kalyāṇa–mitra refers to a spiritual friend, companion on a spiritual path, a friend of virtue, or a good counselor. And the kula, the collection of spiritual friends, is greater than each of our individual selves. Each brings the gift of their own experience, their spiritual knowledge. This is a wonderful teaching about how as friends in community we can all encourage each other and ourselves to bring our gifts forward. For this to be successful, of course, the community members have to be actively practicing and studying, not just being passive recipients of the teachings.

It is interesting to consider relationships we’ve been in, and how they led to further growth in life. Sometimes we need someone else to remind us of our greatness, and sometimes our friends simply show up to support us in our work, like Hanuman does repeatedly in the Ramayana. Other times our friends have the difficult task of reminding us when we’re out of alignment and behaving badly, as the Gods did in Hanuman’s youth. This latter has been among the best help I have received from my friends, even though usually it was the hardest help to receive.

Each of us is blessed with particular assets, be they physical, artistic, scientific, or simply being a good parent or friend, among many other possibilities. Our community and the larger world benefits from our remembrance of our gifts and bringing forth our unique contribution. Our friends, family, teachers, and the process of yoga itself serve to remind us of our own greatness. Douglas Brooks teaches that you are every character in the story. So we are each Hanuman, who here forgets his own greatness and many abilities. And we are each Jambavan, reminding each other of all we have to offer. Like Jambavan, may we each encourage the greatness of others, reminding them of their beauty and talents, especially when they’ve forgotten. And, like Hanuman, may we remember our own greatness, and harness our gifts in service of the divine. In this way, we can all be kalyāṇa–mitra for each other.

REFLECT AND EXPLORE

How have you experienced the power of the kula and those who are walking the path with you, your kalyāṇa–mitra?

How can you be a better spiritual friend?

VIGHNEŚVARA

Many of us are familiar with the popular Hindu deity known as Gaṇeśa, Gaṇapati, Vighneśvara, and many other names. This last listed indicates his popularity as the remover of obstacles, as vigna means obstacle. I learned this initially one day long ago in India when I saw a bunch of kids mobbing a Gaṇeśa shrine at which I’d seen little prior activity. I asked what was going on and someone said “Oh, it is exam time and the children are asking for Gaṇeśa’s blessings.”

There are many stories around Gaṇeśa, and like so many teachings there are more internal and external ways to consider and apply the them. Gaṇeśa is more externally summoned as one who removes obstacles, and aids in transitions and beginnings. For example, he often stands at the threshold of temples and homes, and is invoked at the beginning of dance and music performances.

But internally you can think of Gaṇeśa as that quality of consciousness that allows you to negotiate all the obstacles, beginnings, and transitions in your life. Life is always about transitions, and obstacles are common, so we need the wherewithal to address them gracefully. Gaṇeśa represents that quality of consciousness we can call upon for support in doing so.

Yoga is a lot of different things to different people. I teach and practice yoga intended for householders, not renunciates. It is for those of us who live in the world fully, rather than being sequestered in a monastery or ashram. And Gaṇeśa is particularly important for householders, because quite frankly we are much more likely to encounter challenges and transitions out in the world than if sequestered.

To access our inner Gaṇeśa, we have to connect to our very own Self, our essence, however you name it. Our practices of yoga, especially meditation, are the means to move our awareness inward to our deepest heart, where the seeds of all our capacities reside. As we nurture our ground of being through practice, we create the conditions internally from which all the aspects of Consciousness sprout, including Vighneśvara, the Lord of Obstacles.

He is the Lord OF Obstacles, not just the remover, because there are often aspects of our selves and of our lives that we just have to deal with, move through rather than avoid. So in many senses we need to experience these obstacles, and do what we need to remove them, in order to move forward in our lives and practice.

Gaṇeśa is part of you, this capacity to meet every challenge is already within you. We need only to connect and unleash it to gain access. Creating that connection is what yoga and meditation is all about.

REFLECT AND EXPLORE

How do you approach challenging situations in your life?

Do you wish challenges would just go away? Can you think of occasions when a challenge seemed necessary for your growth?

What obstacles, challenges, thresholds, beginnings, or transitions are you currently facing?

How do you most gracefully negotiate obstacles in your life, both internally and externally?

Practice: Repeat or chant aloud Oṃ gaṃ gaṇapataye namaḥ. (Various versions of this chant can be found on the internet, which will help with the pronunciation.)

Patanjali and Vyaghrapada in the Tillai Forest

Here is a lovely story I learned from Douglas Brooks. It contains many teachings, several highlighted here. I begin by telling the story, and then unpack some of the major teachings.

Once upon a time, Vishnu was reclining on his couch of Shesha, the serpent. Vishnu seemed rather unsettled, heavy and exited, so Shesha asks him, what has happened to cause you this agitation, this ecstatic discomfort?

Vishnu replies, I have seen the dance of Yogeshvara, I have seen the Lord of Yoga’s ecstatic dance. He has seen the beautiful poetic self-expression of the divine, he has seen Nataraja’s dance.

Shesha then asks Vishnu if he, too, can see the dance, and Vishnu replies yes, but you must become embodied to do so. You must become embodied to taste the experience.

So Shesha is born as Patanajli, this being, who has is half human and half snake.

Shesha, now Patanjali, burrows into the darkness, into the depths of the earth, he’s part snake after all. And eventually he emerges in the forest of the Tillai trees, where he begins searching for the Lord of the Dance, Nataraja, whom Vishnu had experienced. For many years he searches for Nataraja, he perseveres and is determined, as he knows the dancer is here somewhere in the forest of the Tillai trees.

Then, finally one day he comes upon a linga.

A linga is a statue that is a single pillar or column, and signifies the unmanifest Absolute reality, also known as Shiva. It signifies everything, but appears as nothing. It holds all possibilities, the potentiality prior to manifestation.

This linga has obviously been worshipped, it is adorned with sandalwood paste and kum kum, which is the red paste that people put on their foreheads and on statues and such. So Patanjali sees this adorned linga and realizes he is not alone in this forest, there are other seekers as well. There are others who have been seeking even longer.

Also adorning the linga, Patanjali sees a flower that is exquisitely beautiful, unlike anything he’s ever seen before. He, also, wants to make this beautiful flower offering to the linga. So he searches and searches the forest for the flower, but to no avail. Each night he falls asleep not finding the flower, and then every day he wakes up to see a new flower has been offered. Each day, someone has offered another fresh gorgeous flower.

Finally he decides to make an offering he does have, a particular seed from the earth, where he borrows. So he makes his own unique offering from the earth he inhabits.

And then from the trees descends this being who is mostly human, but has the paws of a tiger. This is Vyaghrapada, his name literally means “tiger paws.” Vyaghrapada lives up in the trees and was given the boon of paws which allow him to climb high up into the trees to gather these amazing flowers no one else can touch. He has been watching Patanjali all the while, and when Patanjali slept, he brought down beautiful orchids from the treetops, and did his puja, his worship. Vyaghrapada has been watching Patanjali carefully and has realized the seriousness of his worship.

Patanjali and Vyaghrapada sit together at the linga to worship. They learn that they each know mantras to chant, and they teach each other what they know, and they chant together. And as they chant, the linga starts to twist and turn, and from that form of potentiality, Shiva emerges in the form of the Lord of Dance, Nataraja.

In his blissful dance they see all of creation, manifestation, and destruction. They see revelation and concealment, and they see the gesture of the upturned hand signifying “no fear,” abhaya mudra.

They receive and share these teachings from Nataraja’s dance, and they each also receive individual teachings. Patanjali offers more gifts to Nataraja, and Nataraja bestows upon Patanjali the gifts of the teachings of Ayurveda, of grammar, and of yoga. Then Patanjali leaves, having seen the dance and received his gifts. Vyaghrapada stays, as he is a dweller in the forest, and he asks Naratarja: is there more? Together Patanjali and Vyaghrapada saw the ananda tandava, the dance of bliss, but there are actually several more dances of Nataraja, which Vyaghrapada witnesses, since he asked for it.

Then eventually Nataraja returns back to the potential form of the Shiva Linga.

This story has much to tell us about the path of yoga. There are many teachings held in this story, and we will consider a few of them.

First of all, remember that you are every character in the story, so you are Patanjali, you are Vyaghrapada, you are Nataraja.

In the beginning of the story, Shesha gets a hit of something Vishnu has experienced, and he wants to experience it himself. He becomes a seeker, searching for more in life. It’s like when you’re around someone that has a certain energy that you pick up on and it is so attractive that you want to learn about it. This is like many of us who have a sense that we want more out of our lives, and that is why we turn to yoga and meditation.

So Shesha asks how he can experience the dance, and is told that you must embody to experience more. In our lives, we have the opportunity to experience the bliss of the Divine, as well as the joys of embodied life. So in this story Shesha embodies as Patanjali.

Patanajli works hard to first burrow through the ground to arrive at the Tillai forest, then to find the linga within the forest, and then to try to find the flowers for offering. He is no slacker. Patanjali doesn’t give up. He is unrelenting on his path. So in Patanjali’s teachings we see a yoga of effort and discipline.

He sees the lovely flower offering someone else has offered and he searches and searches the forest for the flower, but to no avail. The flower is not his gift, it is the gift of another. We each have our own unique offering to make and often it takes us time to discover this. Often in life we try to copy someone else’s offering and it just falls flat. It takes Patanajli a while as to discover that his offering is that of the seed which comes from the earth where he has burrowed.

And then he meets Vyaghrapada, and they sit together to worship. They discover that they each know mantras to chant, and they teach each other what they know, and they chant together. This is the power of our spiritual community.

Nataraja has always been present, they just haven’t seen him. Something shifts so that the dance becomes manifest from the potential of the linga. Then they finally do see the dance, they learn the pancha krityas, Shiva’s five acts, they learn abhaya mudra, the gesture of fearlessness

Patanjali sees the crossing arm of Nataraja, he sees there are barriers to the heart. He worked hard to attain his experience of the dance. He leaves the forest with the Yoga Sutras, a text of renunciation, discipline, and asceticism. So we have here represented the nirvritti yoga, yoga of turning inward.

Vyaghrapada sees into the cave of the heart, the dance of living a life fully, and remains in the forest as a householder. This represents the path of pravritti yoga, of doing our dance in the world.

This story is a powerful exposition of our path as yogis in the world. As meditators, Patanjali’s teachings of discipline and inward turning are important to us, but they are only part of the story. Like Vyaghrapada, we are householders, so we must learn how to do the many dances in our life. And like both of these characters, we must each learn to offer our own unique gifts, to dance our own unique dance.

There are many other teachings applicable to our lives in this story. You are invited to contemplate what further you can learn from this story, and how it might apply to your life.

THE OCEAN AND THE WAVE

Something that was quite confusing to me as I became more serious on the path of yoga was a pervasive message indicating that the spiritual path required renouncing all worldly desire. The images I had of being a yogi was of swamis in robes who lived apart from society so as not to be sullied by impurity.

As well, the practice and lineage I first landed in required harsh discipline of body and mind, and commitment to the method, further confirming the notion that to be a yogi required great effort and negation of any individuality. Together, all of this did not sit well, in my body and in my heart, and I kept searching until I found a path in the Tantric tradition that honored the journey of embodiment and living as a householder.

I learned there were different paths in the tradition. There was a renunciate path for those whose destiny was to withdraw from the world (and note that many of the early proponents of yoga in the west were in fact renunciates). But in addition, there is a path for those committed to living fully embodied in the world.

A wonderful teaching about these paths is that of the ocean and the wave, which is used in the tradition in different ways. For example, in the Classical Yoga of Patanjali, the definition of yoga is the calming of the fluctuations of the mind. From this perspective, our individual awareness can be thought of as an ocean or lake, and the waves are the vrittis, the fluctuations, all the thoughts and emotions that inhabit our awareness. Here the goal of yoga is to calm the waves of our thoughts and emotions so the lake is smooth and clear.

In my Tantric lineage, the ocean is often considered to symbolize Consciousness, the underlying ground of being, also called Shiva, or Shiva-Shakti. In this view, we as individuals are each a wave that emerges from that ocean of Consciousness. As our individual wave arises from that ocean, we look around and see the other waves of manifestation, and we tend to think that is all there is. This represents a forgetting, a lack of recognition of the source from which our individual life arises.

Here the path of yoga, especially meditation, is the means to remembering and recognizing that we are nothing but the ocean of consciousness, manifested as our particular individual life wave. Everything manifest is an expression of the absolute Consciousness, including each of us. But we have forgotten this.

Traditions that are renunciatory have as the goal to subside back into the ocean. The goal is to merge back into the ocean of consciousness. There is an associated withdrawal from society to help alleviate anything that creates waves in our individual consciousness.

From the Tantric perspective, instead, we want to resource the energy of the ocean to support the activities of our individual wave. We are successful to the degree we are able to clarify our awareness such that the ocean of consciousness is revealed to us. The means to this understanding is our practice of yoga, particularly meditation. In this way we recognize that we are nothing but the Consciousness ocean.

This connection then allows us to harness the energy of the ocean. We utilize that connection as householders to live to the fullest in a way that is aligned with our highest desires. Our work and our relationships are positively impacted. We become channels, if you will, for all the attributes of yoga we hear about: nonharming, truth, compassion, and so on. As well, it allows us to bring forth our own unique gifts. In this way we can be of greatest service, whether it is through something we bring into the world, or simply shifting the energy in our everyday realm through our demeanor and actions.

CHURNING OF THE OCEAN

shivapoison

One of the most pervasive myths in the Hindu lore is the long and intricate story of the “churning of the ocean.” I have been considering this myth as I have been processing and practicing this last post-election week. Here is a shortened version with the salient details applicable to my current consideration.

The devas (gods) and asuras (demons) were both seeking the nectar of immortality (amrta or soma). To get it, they worked together to churn the ocean. They upended a great mountain, and wrapped a huge snake around it and churned and churned for a very long time.

Eventually a variety of different things emerged, like a cow, an elephant, the goddess Laksmi, and jewels, happily claimed by the churners.

Then as they continued churning, a dark viscous noxious substance started to emerge. It was quite toxic and threatening to the world. They had to call upon the god Shiva to handle it. He held it in his throat, which is why one of his names is Lord Blue Throat (nilakantha). He transmuted the poison in this way and the churning resumed until the amrta emerged.

I have heard this story interpreted in many ways, a favorite is as a metaphor for our practice of yoga, particularly meditation. As we practice, we are churning our own consciousness, from which emerges gifts like centeredness, clarity, and creativity, and eventually more blissful states. But as well, along the way, we must deal with and transmute any poison that resides in our own individual consciousness.

We experience this in our yoga asana practice as discomfort arises physically due to tightness in our bodies or old injuries. We transmute these through conscious breathing and correct and therapeutic alignment such that eventually there is healing. But it may be unpleasant for a while.

And as well in yoga asana and especially meditation, frustration, residue of old patterns, and all kinds of psychic gunk can be churned up. The practice gives a context and methodology within which to transmute these challenges.

As I’ve thought about the story of the churning of the ocean in light of our current political climate, I’ve been thinking of the ocean in this myth representing our collective consciousness, and how we’ve stirred up and unleashed the poison. And the question becomes, who will transmute it? In the story it is Shiva, who is the consummate yogi. Shiva was called upon to handle it, he held and transmuted it.

Many of us have had the privilege and blessing of many years of yoga practice. As yogis we have many tools at our disposal to shift energy and transform our beings. We practice asana, pranayama, meditation, and chanting. We study the scriptures for guidance. And as we deepen our studies and practice, we have the power of transmutation.

The form this takes can vary. On a very practical level, for me it involves staying steadfast in my yoga practices, stabilizing myself in a place of connection to my heart. As a yoga teacher I will continue to aid others in this process, teaching the tools for transformation. As a citizen of this planet, I intend to do whatever I can to acknowledge the poison when I see it, and seek to transmute it by whatever means I have at my disposal.

I hope we can each remember and seriously consider utilizing the gifts we have received through the practice. We begin by acknowledging the poison is there, it has been unleased. Acknowledge as well that the gift of yoga has led to some degree of awareness, that you are awake at this critical time. Are you willing to engage, to work to transmute it in whatever way you have the power to do so?

Feel free to leave a comment regarding how you would like to transmute the toxic energy.

Ganapati’s Ears: Listening and Winnowing

One of the distinguishing characteristics of the elephant-headed God, Ganesh, or Ganapati, is his ears. They are said to be indicative of his capacity for listening, and as well they resemble winnowing baskets, and therefore the ability to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Our ability to truly listen is fundamental to our paths as yogis and as humans. By “listening” I mean not only hearing with our ears, but accessing all our senses, and honing our ability to perceive accurately, which is tied into the winnowing process.

Think about any of conversations you have, face-to-face or electronically, and consider to what extent you truly listen. If you look closely, you’ll find that most of us are already formulating a response before the other person has completed the articulation of their thought. Often our listening is selective, we hone in on a particular point without hearing the full range of what the person is saying.

For example, I recently received an email with feedback on one of my classes. I immediately began to discount the feedback, pushing it off on the person who had the problem, justifying why I did things the way I did, etc. And I immediately began writing back with those points. But since it was an email, I had the time to first of all, reread the email and really try to understand what was being articulated. Then I started formulating a different, more nuanced response. And instead of hitting send too quickly, I again read the email and formulated several more responses before sending one that expressed appreciation for the feedback and how I would try to improve my teaching. So instead of starting a negative feedback loop, I was able to shift it into a win-win situation.

Now, I know some of you are thinking: well, sometimes it is the other person who is “off” somehow, or incorrect. Or sometimes it is hard to know, how can we figure that out?

Here is where the practice of meditation comes in. Our meditation practice allows us to begin working with our habitual patterns in a variety of ways. Meditation directly affects the old imprints stored inside, such that they become attenuated or burned off. As well, a regular meditation practice allows us to establish connection to, as Patanjali puts it, the Seer: a wiser and clearer part of our self. Having established connection with that part of our self, we can begin to access that wiser self on a moment-by-moment basis to guide us in both our understanding, and responses.

So there is a listening we can cultivate in the other direction: listening within, listening to the Seer. And in time, with practice, we can begin to truly listen and perceive the outside world from this place of deep listening to the Seer.

Nowhere is this more important than when we are facing the challenges: the obstacles and thresholds that are associated with Vigneshvara, the Lord of Obstacles as Ganesh is also known as. In those moments of challenge, or as we cross the threshold into a new domain in our lives, our ability to negotiate all of the input while standing in an awareness of our innermost self will allow us to respond in a refined and nuanced way, and from a place of love that is the essence of who we are.

My sense of the divine is that it is benevolent, and actually wants us to grow and heal, and to serve the world. And as the Lord of Obstacles, Ganesh is that energy of the divine that places exactly the obstacles and thresholds in our path that we need in order to proceed on that path of growth. Yet often when things are challenging, or challenging messages are sent, we try to combat them, or to simply ignore them. So Ganapati’s ears remind us: are we listening to what the divine is offering us?

EXERCISES
For the next week or so, in your conversations, try to truly listen.
– Can you listen and hear the other person before you begin judging or formulating a response?
– Can you create some space to respond from a place of listening and refinement, rather than reacting from you habitual patterns?

Over time, notice the effect that your practice of meditation has on your ability to listen and refine.
– Can you begin to discern the habitual patterns that cause you to want to react before you’ve had the opportunity to really listen and refine?
– Is there a shortening of the time it takes to create a refined response to a situation?