Historical cities offer insights relevant to current efforts to regenerate an ecologically healthy Earth. The following essay explores the bonds between three soil communities and their cities – Uruk, Athens, and Machu Picchu. These cities illustrate three different relationships to soil – as a Parasite on Soil, as a Disease of Soil, or as a Soil Maker. Based on this research, I urge us to re-member our relation to the Earth by making our habitats soil-generators.

The Seeding of Cities

Six thousand years ago ancient Uruk formed part of a network of settlements that for the first time made urban life possible. Located along the Euphrates River just north of the present-day Persian Gulf, Uruk was the chief cultural center of Sumer and its foremost religious center. In the sacred precinct of the fertility Goddess Ishtar stood her Ziggurat, representing the Cosmic Mountain rising out of the primal chaos at the moment of creation. Her Temple was never surpassed in Sumer in size and richness of architectural details. The terraces of the stepped altar regularly held the vegetable offerings from Uruk’s gardens and date groves, transforming the tiered Ziggurat into a series of “green roofs.”

The duty of the King of Uruk was to embellish and maintain his city. City walls dominated Sumerian urban architecture. Gateways displayed the city’s wealth, impressed visitors, and served as civic centers. To enhance these, King Gilgamesh defies an ancient sacred prohibition against felling cedars growing in the mountains north of the city. He and his companion, Enkidu, kill the protective forest monster. They clear-cut the cedars to construct a magnificent new gate in the city ramparts.

Gilgamesh’s actions anger the supreme Gods, who inflict flood, famine, and sorrow on the inhabitants of Uruk. The Gods also curse Enkidu, who embodies what is ‘wild and untamed’ in the human. He personifies what we recognize today as our alignment with natural systems. Enkidu dies a painful death. Horrified at the possibility of his own death, Gilgamesh seeks immortality. After fruitless wanderings, the King realizes that he can only achieve eternal life through the longevity of what he builds to sustain Uruk. At the end of the tale, he concentrates on maintaining the city walls, canals, gardens, and temple precincts. He concentrates on, what we would describe as sustaining the city’s relation to its ecology…to its place on the Earth.

Modern ecology interprets this nearly five-thousand-year-old tale for us. Clear cutting mountain forests destroys wild nature. It leads to increased water run-off and unexpected, often destructive flooding. Torrential inundations in turn drown crops in the surrounding low-lying lands, creating famine. Cities face the likelihood of demise when their food supply ends. Their citizens have dire choices: starving to death, subjugating foreign territories to supply them with food, being conquered by enemies, or abandoning their city.

Ecological design also illuminates the Gilgamesh legend. Human communities form life-dependent relations with the natural systems of their locality. Through trade, these essential bonds extend to the ecologies of far-distant lands. Sometimes, as in the case of Uruk, cities develop life-sustaining connections with remote territories whose natural bounty they violently seize. The Gilgamesh story, the oldest written record we have, warns us that in order for urban complexes to achieve longevity, city constructors cannot ignore these ecological connections. Instead, urban builders need to develop building practices that treat cities, their surrounding regions, the lands of their trading partners, and appropriated lands as one integrated organism.

History records that the rulers of Sumerian cities did learn to co-exist for an extraordinarily long time within the Euphrates-Tigris river system, just as the story of Gilgamesh suggests. They achieved an urban energetics giving their cities a longevity the Greek polis never obtained. Ultimately, the soils of Sumerian cities lost their viability but only after these settlements survived for nearly four millennia. Can our cities achieve a comparably long life?

Cities Integral to Soil Communities

Contrary to modern perceptions, human settlements are not separate from the natural systems they penetrate or from their neighboring countrysides. Instead, cities form vital relationships within their regional soil communities. British historian Edward Hyams describes the basic characteristics of soil communities and the position of cities within them in his extraordinary Soil & Civilization, a historical study of humanity’s place within the Earth’s planetary ecology. Hyams reminds us that soil is not a dead inert resource but an organism. The rock, humus, bacteria, atmosphere, water, fungi, and earthworms that comprise soil constitute a biological, organic, living community. Humans intrude into these communities by the way we create cities.

Hyams organizes the relational dynamics that cities form within existing soil communities into three energetics: Man as a Parasite on Soil, Man as a Disease of Soil, and Man as a Soil Maker.

In order for us to understand the functional place of green roofs, urban neighborhood gardens, and other similar soil-makers within today’s cities, we need to recognize the ongoing historical consequences of these three dynamics. They continue to constrain life on the Earth today. What follows is a brief description of three historical cities — Uruk, Athens, and Machu Picchu that illustrates the three major impacts of cities on their soil communities.

Cities as Parasites on Soil: Uruk

The success of Gilgamesh and succeeding rulers of Uruk is due in large part to modulating agricultural practices to the cyclical rhythms of the Euphrates-Tigris alluvial river system. Hyams characterizes this relationship between Uruk and the river system as that of a benign parasite to its host. In other words, the people of Uruk fed on the fertility of the river system, much as a few fleas live off a dog, without doing any damage to the canine. As Hyams indicates, the fruitful soils of the Euphrates-Tigris system “do not owe their nearly inexhaustible resources only to stored capital accumulated during countless years of silting, but to annual renewal by present and continuing silting.” Such soils “are capable of supporting a parasitic community for long periods, sometimes almost indefinitely.” For centuries, the parasitic relation of Sumerian cities to this resilient region did no apparent harm. The annual flooding of the rivers regularly regenerated the soil community. The Sumerians used the flooding as the basis of their irrigation-dependent agriculture whose fruits they offered to the goddess Ishtar.

However, the waters of the river system, which were absolutely necessary to Sumerian irrigation, brought not only fertile silt but, after several thousand years of urban occupation, salt. The Sumerians could see the accumulating silt and took precautions against it clogging their city’s irrigation canals. They made dredging and cleaning of canals a top priority. The salt was a different story. It was invisible. Hundreds of years after Gilgamesh first challenged the forest god, the Sumerians gained control of new timberlands, which they exploited. This deforestation exposed expansive areas of salt-rich sedimentary rocks to severe erosion. Devastating floods and rains occurred, carrying salt downstream. The salt accumulated in irrigated farmlands. A serious salinity problem developed because of inadequate drainage that, otherwise, would have flushed the salts out of the topsoil. Non- reversible and increasingly destructive, the salt caused a progressive decline in crop yields, especially barley. After 2000 BC the Sumerian empire crumbled, in large part because of the decline of their food supply. Sumerian rulers subsequent to Gilgamesh had failed to heed the lessons of their own ancestors.

The same story can be told about the civilizations of the Nile, Indus, and Hwang-ho Rivers, which were born on the resilient soils of their river systems. These civilizations, like Sumer, transformed from being parasites on their soils to being diseases of them.

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The Aim of Sādhana

What is sādhana for?

This is not a question with a single answer, but one that opens into layered possibilities — each of which reveals a different facet of the contemplative path. In the popular imagination, the purpose of spiritual practice is often cast in terms of stress relief, peace of mind, or healing from trauma. While sādhana may indeed bring these benefits, they are not its ultimate aim. These are byproducts of a deeper, more radical transformation that sādhana invites.

At its most fundamental level, sādhana is a process of remembering what we are — beneath habit, beneath personality, beneath even thought. It is a turning inward toward the subtle layers of experience, and ultimately, toward the ground of awareness itself. But this turning inward is not an escape from the world. On the contrary, it is a re-entry into the world with new eyes — more intimate, more porous, and more attuned to the living pulse of reality.

In the non-dual Śākta-Śaiva traditions that inspire Sādhana School, the ultimate aim is not to transcend embodiment, but to recognize it as the very expression of the divine. Sādhana, then, is not a ladder to escape the human condition, but a means of sanctifying it — of perceiving the sacred not elsewhere, but here, now, in this body, this breath, this thought, this moment.

Sādhana awakens us to subtle perception. It refines our awareness so that we no longer view reality through the lens of habitual projection or inherited worldviews. We begin to see as awareness itself rather than as the limited self looking out. In this sense, sādhana is epistemological — it changes how we know. It is also ontological — it changes what we take ourselves and the world to be. But unlike academic philosophy, this transformation is not merely conceptual. It is embodied, lived, and felt. It unfolds as the dynamic presence of a clarifying creativity.

On another level, sādhana is a process of purification — not moralistic, but vibrational. We purify not to become “good” but to become clear. To see more clearly. To feel more fully. To act with discernment and power. The obstructions to this clarity are not ‘sins’, but fixations: rigid identities, unexamined beliefs, habitual reactivity, unconscious desire. Sādhana softens these structures not by attacking them, but by outshining them. In its light, we begin to experience spaciousness where there was contraction, fluidity where there was fixity.

And yet, sādhana is not only about liberation from — it is also about awakening into. Into creative participation with life. Into new possibilities of expression. Into love that is not limited to emotion, but radiates as a way of being. Into freedom that does not remove us from responsibility, but infuses it with depth and compassion.

So the aim of sādhana cannot be reduced to a single goal. It is not just about self-realization or self-improvement or spiritual achievement. It is about learning how to live — how to live in a way that honors the subtlety of our being, that allows reality to speak through us, and that cultivates a disposition of reverence in the midst of impermanence.

In this way, sādhana is not a path to somewhere else. It is a deepening into this. It is a sacred reorientation toward the already present — the mystery that waits patiently beneath our distractions, our performances, and our fear.

And so the true aim of sādhana may not be to attain anything at all, but rather to uncover — to become intimate with what has always been here, quietly waiting to be seen.

Sādhana as Pedagogy

Sādhana is not only a spiritual path — it is a pedagogy.

That is, it is a way of learning, a mode of inquiry, a discipline of integration. While the term “pedagogy” often evokes the image of classroom instruction and intellectual curriculum, in the context of contemplative traditions, pedagogy is something far more embodied and existential. It is not limited to the mind’s acquisition of ideas. It concerns the whole being — body, breath, intellect, imagination, desire, and will.

At its heart, sādhana is a curriculum of transformation. It teaches us not through abstract instruction alone, but through direct engagement. Its lessons do not arrive in the form of neatly packaged conclusions. They emerge slowly, through repetition, through friction, through revelation — by way of practice, persistence, and perceptual refinement. Like any serious course of study, sādhana requires commitment and patience. But unlike most modern educational systems, it does not divide knowledge from experience. It aims at wisdom, not just information.

In this sense, sādhana rewrites the dominant model of modern learning. Rather than prioritizing speed, productivity, or quantifiable achievement, sādhana pedagogy favors depth, slowness, and internalization. It does not ask, “How much have you mastered?” but instead, “How deeply has this lived in you?” It does not ask whether you can repeat teachings, but whether you have become them.

This pedagogical orientation is especially important in the context of Sādhana School, where the emphasis is not merely on content, but on transmission. While we study primary texts and philosophical frameworks with rigor, these are not ends in themselves. They are catalysts. The texts become living interlocutors. The philosophical insights become interior provocations. The practices become mirrors, and eventually, thresholds. This is not passive consumption. It is relational education.

In the traditional Indian context, learning was always intimately tied to sādhana. Study (svādhyāya) was inseparable from repetition, recitation, and ritual practice. To learn something, in the non-dual Tantrik traditions, means to inscribe it into the body, to harmonize oneself with its vibration. The teacher is not simply a conveyor of information, but a transmitter of śakti, presence, and a reorienting view. The student does not memorize doctrine but undergoes adhikāra — a ripening of receptivity, a development of capacity. Learning is measured not by output, but by becoming.

This is the spirit that Sādhana School seeks to recover and rearticulate. Sādhana as pedagogy is a reclamation of depth in a time of distraction. It is a call back to the ancient intuition that wisdom is not the result of accumulation, but of transformation through relation — with practices, with texts, with teachers, and most importantly, with the subtle intelligence of one’s own interiority.

And yet, this is not an escape from modernity. Rather, it is a reweaving of the ancient into the fabric of the now. We live in a world of complexity and contradiction. Sādhana pedagogy does not ask us to abandon it, but to meet it more deeply — armed not with answers, but with attuned perception and a refined sense of discernment.

To engage sādhana as pedagogy, then, is to reimagine what it means to study, to learn, and to become. It is to submit to a process that does not flatter the ego, but liberates it from its compulsions. It is to allow the rhythms of practice to educate the nervous system. It is to trust that the body, too, is a form of memory. It is to recognize that the deepest lessons do not announce themselves with fanfare — but arrive quietly, when we have become simple enough to receive them.

In this light, the sādhaka is not merely a practitioner, but a student in the truest sense: one who does not presume to know, but who is willing to be changed by what they encounter.

The Role of the Texts in Sādhana

In Sādhana School, we work with sacred texts not as passive repositories of knowledge, but as living companions on the path of transformation. These are not books to be mastered, conquered, or skimmed for insight. They are mirrors and portals — devices of revelation that speak differently to us depending on our state of being, our ripeness, and our readiness to listen.

To engage a text as sādhana is to approach it not merely for information, but for encounter. In this mode, we read slowly. We linger. We return. We let phrases echo within us. Sometimes the meaning is clear; other times it is obscure. But the obscurity itself can become a site of contemplation. We ask not only, “What does this mean?” but “What in me is reacting to this?” or “What is this passage pointing to that I have not yet seen?”

This is especially true when working with the primary sources of the non-dual Tantrik traditions. These texts often encode subtle metaphysics, poetic allusion, and esoteric instruction in compressed and paradoxical language. To read them as one would read a modern treatise is to miss their power. Their meaning is not exhausted by translation or commentary. Much of their transmission unfolds between the lines, in the silences, in the rhythm of repetition, and in the contemplative state they begin to evoke when held with care.

To approach a text as a sādhanic companion means also to understand that we change in relation to it. What once felt obscure may, months later, feel luminous. What once seemed overly abstract may suddenly strike with the intimacy of personal revelation. In this sense, the text is not static. It responds to our development. It grows with us.

This approach requires humility. It asks us to recognize that the text is not simply something we interpret, but something that interprets us. It shapes our questions. It reframes our assumptions. It may challenge the frameworks we’ve used to organize our spiritual lives.

In the pedagogical structure of Sādhana School, we encourage students to maintain a relationship with the texts that is not extractive but devotional — one rooted in curiosity, patience, and respect. Recitation (pathi) and reflection (cintā) are offered not as separate activities, but as two poles of a single practice: one vibrational and somatic, the other philosophical and analytic. Together, they generate a layered resonance in the body-mind that is the hallmark of deep learning.

The goal, in the end, is not simply to “understand” a text, but to become a person who can stand under it — to allow its weight, its precision, and its view to slowly realign how we perceive the world, how we live, and what we take to be real. This is the role of the texts in sādhana: not to provide final answers, but to initiate the kind of questions that can only be answered through the long intimacy of embodied life.

Thank you for reading.

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Is the Past Also the Present?

When I was in Australia recently, I became absorbed by the landscape. Away from phones and for the most part WiFi, I was conveniently removed from my customary habits and the draws for my attention. I was able to listen. Not listening to anything in particular or for anything in particular. Just listening. The longer I was there, the more I could sense, hear, feel, as if by listening carefully, I could absorb the landscape into me. The bird calls, their whips, whistles, caws, and bells. The brush of wings. The rustle of dry gum leaves and paperbark. The thump of wallabies and little joeys beside them. Oh, and the cicadas with their endless music. The butcherbirds and gerygones singing the melody and raga of the bush. They grounded the landscape, maintaining it. It wasn’t just sounds I was drawing into me; it was a merging with the lifeblood of the mountain, canyon, and dove white coast.

There were artifacts, some 14,000 years old, in the hills where I was. The presence of the footsteps of these ancestors hung in the air. As I listened, it was as if I could hear them, too. Their remains were part of the humus that softens sound in the wild, their presence still there, still coloring the landscape. My own steps and movements were now also part of the symphony, the echoes of generations past and future, sounding together, all at once. In the dreamtime of the aboriginal people, past, present, and future are all merged into one. In some of the more farout theoretical physics there is a theory of time collapsed into itself, or of time as a process that bends in a three-dimensional motion, more like a sphere or a torus, rather than a line, it moves in a single flow, pouring over and into itself. In some way, this type of seeing does still fit with our dominant paradigm, just interpreted a little differently. Everything is part of a continuum, a whole, a single that cannot be separated into discrete parts. The past sets certain actions in motion, which create certain possible outcomes and eliminates other possible outcomes. Our present reality is influenced and to some extent determined by those outcomes. And our actions similarly shape the future. The past is very much alive in our present, and the future is also directly shaped by every single action now. Is there a way of seeing that takes all this into account viscerally? Not through reasoning or deduction, but through apprehension, through an awakening that illuminates to us a profoundly different sense of time? One that is unitive and filled with the possible.

Realizing there are other valid paradigms and ways to see the world softens the edges of what we take to be possible. It allows for new ways of seeing to emerge. We start to see that our worldview is constructed, agreed upon by the dominant culture, and that it is not the only way of seeing. The way we customarily perceive time, history, causality, or consciousness may not be the deepest, most inclusive way, or the way that gives rise to the highest human potentials.

I am not a romanticist for past worldviews. We cannot go back to an age before technology or literacy. But other cultures were privy to understandings that we cannot discern now. We have indeed forgotten some knowledge. While we can open up to those worldviews, I am not sure that we will be able to authentically intuit that knowledge in its fullness anymore. Times, and our sense of consciousness, have changed too much. But we can become sensitive to alternative and intuitive knowings of life that are more subtle and have different dimensionality than the framework we currently operate in. Our current worldview so bluntly separates me from you, present from past, self from other, human from world. That’s the reality young people today are taught to experience. There are other credible ways to see the world.

In the period after World War I, Alfred North Whitehead moved from Britain to become dean of philosophy at Harvard, having never taught nor taken a philosophy class before then. It was at Harvard that he began to call a more inclusive and relational view “process” and proceeded to articulate a philosophical view of the world that became known as process philosophy. Rather than a series of discrete events, he saw everything as a flow, as experience. Gregory Bateson called this relatedness. Bateson would not see the five fingers on a hand; he would see how they related, the space between them. A worldview that does not harshly divide us in the way the Cartesian worldview does gives us access to very different sensitivities. Individually, when we feel a part of something, part of a whole, we experience safety, release, rest. We feel, intuitively, not so small or alienated as we so often see ourselves in our vast, fast-paced world. With an almost imperceptible shift, where nothing changes, we experience ourselves a non-separate from the newborn, healthy or struggling for her first breaths, or the early humans just learning to spark fire from twigs and tinder, or the technologist plotting trajectories on graphs to program a flight path to Mars.

A process-oriented view has many dimensions and capacities, many ways of looking in. It is different from our own in these ways: First we see that our own worldview is constructed, a set of beliefs that orders reality. Then we see that it is not the only way to see reality. All of a sudden, we find we have allowed ourselves to consider other paradigms and worldviews, to test the waters and let go of our moorings, becoming informed by other ways of perceiving the world around us. Once we consider alternative views, we open the door to creativity, expansion, solutions, and connections.

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Less is more.

We’ve all heard it. The problem with it is that, these days, you’ve got a whole industrial complex convincing folks to take it literally. Somehow or other, they convinced us that in order to live simply, eat clean, and otherwise pull ourselves together, first we need to buy a lot of stuff.

It’s water.

Here’s a story about how even one of our truly essential needs can become warped:

It’s fall, the air feels nice and crisp outside, and you’re shaking off the lethargy of a hot sticky summer. I want to clean out my system, you think. I gotta start drinking more water.

At your local Whole Foods, approaching the water aisle, you get sidetracked by a display of “tonics” in tiny pop-top cans. ENERGIZE reads one label. CLEANSE invites another. Not really sure what half the ingredients are, you toss five or six into your cart and head into the water aisle. Now the choices get serious. Vitamin water. Smart water. Mineral water, sparkling and still. Lime-raspberry spritzer water.

Fifty-seven dollars lighter, you take the elevator up to the roof. Loading your tonics and spritzers into the car, realization hits. Ferchrissakes, I forgot to buy regular water.

Of course, you don’t need reishi mushroom tonic to hydrate your body, any more than you need fancy pants to take a yoga class or a special cushion to meditate. But we’re bored, confused, distracted, and, overall, right where late-stage capitalism wants us.

How can we not only consume less, but also create more? How can we focus? How can we shine?

Ideas Matter. Actions Matter More.

Before I left urban life and all its complicated conveniences behind to create an off-grid permaculture farm in Ecuador (yes, really), I taught yoga for sixteen years. The tenets found in yoga can have profound real-world implications and effects — if we apply them sincerely.

In the Yoga Sutras two concepts address consumption and clutter. Saucha and santosha, commonly translated as cleanliness and contentment, offer a lens through which to see our patterns.

Personal cleanliness in terms of hygiene is just one way to interpret saucha. There’s also cleanliness of thought and action. Imagine how much more time and energy we could harness for creation if we didn’t fritter it away with scrolling.

Santosha, or contentment, can also encompass a sense of satisfaction at having enough. Santosha is the clarity of knowing when enough is enough.

Pare it down.

Ok, but how? How, on this seemingly unstoppable and out-of-control bus called modern life, can we find a sense of satiety, of sanity?

In recent years, having flung myself headlong from the consumption bus to see what would happen, I’ve picked up some neat life hacks along the way.

You don’t have to build a house from mud or raise chickens to be more of a creator. Here’s some very simple methods I’ve distilled that anyone can apply to practice clean living and contentment.

Order What’s on the Menu

Here on the farm, most of my food choices are made for me by what’s currently ready for harvest.

Living in full-on “civilization,” you don’t have these advantages. A common scenario: You sit down in a café and look at the lunch menu. Fried fish and baked chicken are the specials. Served with fries and a salad. Immediately, your consumption-conditioned brain jumps into gear. Maybe I can get the fish, but baked? And substitute sweet potato fries for the fries? Or ask if I can skip the fries but get a double portion of salad?

Hey! Maybe you can eat what’s on the freaking menu? Didya ever think of that?

Because it’s not just one lunch. You have to make thousands of choices every day from the minute you wake up. Some social psychologists have even given this burden a name: option fatigue. And if you are too fatigued to digest your food properly, what you eat hardly matters. So give your brain a break. Order what’s on the menu, eat what’s on your plate, and move on to bigger things.

Work Offline

To access a desktop computer and WIFI, once or twice a week I walk for an hour to a bus stop where a jolting bus picks me up and transports me via a bumpy gravel road to a small town where I sit in a 1999-era “internet café” in a cramped cubicle and get to work. There is no golden milk latte, no vegan cookies, not even coffee. And yowzah, do I get stuff done.

Not having these conveniences has taught me how to focus. Now, you don’t have to go all hard-core draconian about your work space — believe me, sometimes I would love a good coffee while I’m working. But being in a less-than-luxurious environment with limited time really can put a fire under your ass.

I advised a friend who was having trouble focusing to use Airplane Mode and work offline. Not only did he tell me he started creating more content and easily meeting deadlines, but every time he saw the little airplane icon slide into the top display of his phone, his breathing and heartbeat slowed.

In the Sutras, Patanjali also suggests that freedom is felt through the absence of suffering. Not a presence, but an absence. A space.

Do the Thing You Want to Do.

If there’s something you really want to accomplish, focus on that thing. For example, my whole life I could never do a pull-up, despite assiduously practicing various forms of fitness.

A few weeks ago Juan hung a bar from a bamboo rafter in our kitchen. Once again, I tried to do a pull-up. Nada.

Without access to options, I tried something new. Every day I attempted a wide grip overhand pull up. I didn’t do anything else to improve my pull up attempt except try the pull up. Little by little I started to pull myself up to the bar.

Earlier this week, my chin cleared for the first time. The next day, I did two. Yesterday, three.

Lesson: If you want to do something, do the damn thing. Not other things. Cleanliness of action — that’s saucha.

Put Utility Before Vanity

Speaking of exercise goals, if you want to feel more contentment about yours, try putting them in line with living your life in a balanced, enjoyable way.

Instead of spending every day “working out” with weights or yoga or calisthenics, devote at least some of that time to community-based activities. Run a 5k for a cause, get some folks together to do a river clean up, plant a garden on the rooftop of your apartment building. Make a choice to be healthy and useful.

You be with you.

The average “engagement” with an Instagram post is less than half a second. A movie frame is even shorter. No wonder our brains are so damn tired.

Turn it off. Watch the little airplane icon slide into place and breathe. Learn to play the violin, speak Arabic, do algebraic equations. Make art. Absorb yourself in it. Stop fighting with strangers on the Internet. Get off the bus, at least for an hour every day.

The very first lines of the Sutras read, approximately: Yoga is the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind.

You don’t have to take yourself out of the world to observe it, or observe yourself. But you do need to slow down, consume less, and stop getting caught up in the storm of material life. You need time to think, ponder, reflect, and create.

And drink more water.

Thank you for reading.

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Social and political activism to change some aspect of the status quo has a long history in our world. The form it takes in most societies has been relatively predictable because people within them learn to live by and function within social norms and customs meant to facilitate harmonious interactions, and this often applies to methods for disagreement as well. From time to time, however, situations occur that lead to a significant level of disagreement between people. When a large enough number of individuals align with dissenters, social and political movements are born.

In contemporary America, issues regarding race, gender, climate change, and politics are among those that generate the most attention, intensity, and division. Individuals group together with the goals of “correcting” the problems they perceive. Some find peaceful ways of attempting solutions, but increasingly prevalent and visible are those with feelings of such intense animosity of the “other,” i.e. the people or entities holding opposing points of view, that hatred and violence can become likely tools. This paper looks at some of the people and situations that lead to activism, what forms and methods are taken, and how and if mind focusing practices can help alleviate some of the more volatile situations that arise and inspire instead a sense of dialogue and harmony in place of hatred and violence.

Activist groups traditionally organize around the ideas of a few who speak out about issues they want to change. One can view individuals and groups as being on a spectrum that spans from peace-oriented idealists at one end to fundamentalist ideologues (both religious and secular) at the other, with most finding a place somewhere in between. Idealists or idealistic movements have typically been grounded in non-violence, compassion, and recognition that self-awareness must be a part of all their actions. Common to many who have inspired and led past movements have been a belief in the ultimate goodness of humanity and commitment to a spiritual and/or moral foundation to guide them and their followers. Personal insight and spiritual wisdom have often been a part of their goals. Consequently, many of these have led to positive outcomes, if not in accomplishing goals set forth, but at least in the effects they have had on people involved and those touched by the leaders. Notable examples of past idealistic leaders include Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Nelson Mandela. A few current examples are the Dalai Lama, the environmentalist Vandana Shiva, and the Hawaiian elders (kūpuna) who in 2019 inspired thousands to spend months camped on Mauna Kea, a sacred mountain, in an attempt to protect it from being desecrated with yet another telescope. All these leaders have taught that positive change happens when idealistic beliefs and actions go hand in hand with ethical commitments for the purpose of improving the lives of all people, not just those who agree with them. They have sought rational approaches to address their grievances as opposed to hatred and emotional outrage. However, such individuals have been rare and many have been relatively unknown because they have not sought personal fame or acclaim as they strive to help make the world a better place for all its residents.

More common, conspicuous, and vocal today are leaders at the other end of the spectrum who demand change at all costs, irrespective of negative consequences on others. They are more monolithic, exclusivist, fundamentalist, and Machiavellian in their actions and goals. They promote a view of reality in which only their own beliefs have validity, while all opposing views and their adherents (collectively, the “other”) are condemned. Because they rarely allow moral or ethical restrictions to limit their chosen methods of action, they tend to attract those who are susceptible to fanaticism, hatred, and violence. In his True Believers (1951), Eric Hoffer discusses common elements of the latter type of movements and the role that a predefined evil “other” plays in their formation and functioning: “Mass movements can rise and spread without belief in a God, but never without belief in a devil. Usually the strength of a mass movement is proportionate to the vividness and tangibility of its devil” (Hoffer, 89-90). In this way, the stated goals of a group ultimately matter less than the actual values, motives, and methods that activists align with. A commitment to winning at all costs, irrespective of the consequences, will lead to a far more violent and destructive outcome than a commitment to seeking justice and a positive resolution for all those involved.

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Editor’s Note:

Chris Parkison inhabits two spheres which are often separate – he manages group fitness classes at a popular gym in Washington, D.C, and, for many years, he has also devoted himself to studying some of the traditional practices of yoga, especially those of the Himalayan Vedanta and Tantra, culminating in several trips to India. He wrote these thoughts during his last trip to India, as he reflected on how yoga teachers might be missing out on opportunities to elevate their classes beyond the commonly-known physical shapes of yoga. Since we are focusing on the future of the yoga teacher, his thoughts fit nicely in with our inquiry at EP.

Studio yoga classes must start to incorporate the traditional practices of pranayama, mantra, meditation and kriya into group asana and movement classes if they want to thrive, not just survive, in the fitness industry. Although yoga, considered historically and holistically, is not only “fitness,” one must recognize that most group yoga offerings, especially in a gym setting, crop up on schedules that are also populated by group exercise formats. Many people’s first encounters with yoga take place within this fitness context, even if their explorations ultimately take them beyond that.

The standard vinyasa class has been around for 20+ years and contains some pretty universal components –warm up, some version of sun salutations, standing poses, seated poses, supine poses, savasana. There are varieties for sure- Ashtanga, Iyengar, yin, restorative, ect., but it is all body movement based. There may be a nod to a pranayama technique (Nadi Shodana or Ujjayi Pranayama) but the standard yoga class is mostly asana or physical fitness. Still, even if you get creative, there are only so many ways to move a body, and there are many different gyms and small box studios that cater to people looking to work their bodies.

As yogis we know the human being is more than just the body, as the paradigm of the five Koshas illustrates. It’s time for yoga to evolve beyond the body. If not, yoga classes will soon become a niche, like Pilates, which has had the same choreographies for 50+ years. Pilates studios are rare, and most of them get by on private sessions, not group classes. You might see a few group classes at gyms, but rarely will they be as ubiquitous as yoga.

Vinyasa classes, and studios that offer only asana classes, have been at risk of being relegated to a niche for some time and they are starting to show their age. During the pandemic most asana classes went online, and now you can find nearly any sort of asana class online. So why go to a studio?

One other reason in-person yoga classes are at risk is that they compete with other fitness formats: Barry’s boot camp, Orange Theory, Solidcore, ect. Although yoga teachers typically don’t perceive themselves as such, from the perspectives of many of their students, they are fitness instructors and “stretching” teachers.

Asana is a great option for those who need low impact, mobilizing, full body workouts. Many people go to “yoga” for just that reason- they have a bad back and a doctor told them that yoga might help. Doctors also tell patients with bad backs and bad hips to do Pilates. And if “Yoga” wants to remain the exercise option for a certain segment of the population that desires a low impact workout, then it can.

But if the yoga industry wants to thrive again, it needs to start teaching more than fitness. Fortunately, we don’t have to reinvent the wheel- all the techniques already exist within yoga’s traditions to offer a class that touches every part of our being. By offering more integrated classes that include pranayama, mantra, meditation and kriya, we can now provide a yoga experience, instead of just yoga poses.

Many competing physical fitness modalities promote and market a psycho-emotional benefit to exercise – take Soul Cycle, for example. The studio is heated, candles are lit and the instructor gives out words of encouragement and wisdom during a 45 min stationary bike ride. People go because it is exercise, but also because the workout is an experience. Whether this leads to long term contentment and joy through a spiritual connection is debatable.

What isn’t debatable is the psycho-emotional and spiritual benefits of traditional yoga techniques beyond asana. There are thousands of years of history and experience that show, that with continued practice, they do lead to long-term contentment, mental discipline and spiritual growth.

Take Pranayama. Pranayama techniques are effective at strengthening the cardiovascular system and reducing stress, and that’s just the physical benefit. We know that pranayama also offers a journey into the subtle energetic body that is at the heart of yoga–a transcending of the mind/body duality we experience in day to day life. Do 30 mins of pranayama a day and your world will change.

If you have done a Kundalini class, you know it takes supreme willpower and physical fitness to attempt many of the kriyas. A seated kriya done for 5 minutes will make a body builder wilt. A standing kriya can move you into a flow unlike any Dancing Warrior series.

Cardiovascular training? Check. Subtle body awareness? Check. Vigorous exercise for arms, core and legs? Check. Conditioning of the nervous system and stress reduction? Check. Total absorption for the mind? Check.

Many pranayama and kriya practices are 2-8 minutes in length, and easily incorporated into a 60-minute asana class so you can still do plenty of poses.

Have bad knees or back or hips? You can sit on a cushion or a chair. Many of these techniques are actually more accessible than the standard sun salutation.

Can you find yoga or unity consciousness through asana? Sure. In my experience this takes daily practice over the course of years, which the general population does not have the patience or discipline for and isn’t likely to develop any time soon. Even now, after years of practice, it takes me 30-40 mins to really find connection with just asana.

With the right teacher, Breath of Fire can move your awareness from distracted and lethargic to totally focused and full of energy in minutes. The effect is immediate and in a culture addicted to instant gratification, pranayama and kriya are (ironically) perfect for working away from stress and distraction and towards unity.

We haven’t even talked about meditation or mantra practices–both of which offer a deeper yoga experience that would set the studio apart from the fitness industry. It must be noted that many studios do in fact offer meditation classes, kirtan, and many other traditional devotional practices. In my experience, those are the studios that flourish.

If studio yoga wants to remain relevant and thrive, it must evolve into something more than the asana class. Otherwise, “Yoga” risks becoming a niche option at gyms with a few studios or worse, a fad that comes and goes. An integrated yoga class that includes traditional yoga techniques provides a physical, mental and spiritual space that Orange Theory cannot. Yoga will no longer be competing with physical fitness options and will be free once again to evolve, like it has been doing for centuries.

Thank you for reading.

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Yesomi Umolu, curator and art director of the 2019 Chicago Architecture Biennial, published “On the Limits of Care and Knowledge: 15 Points Museums Must Understand to Dismantle Structural Injustice” on June 25, 2020. One month to the day after George Floyd’s murder, Umolu put out a call to action demanding museums respond to white supremacy. The article asserts dismantling systemic racism means, “go[ing] beyond token gestures of diversity and inclusion and arriv[ing] at a fundamental rethinking of the role of museums.” Umolu continues by advocating, “Museums must practice empathy and close the gap between themselves and their communities; they must provide space for conversations on the issues that matter to the lives of their audiences, neighbors, and employees.”

Museums and cultural institutions were already under scrutiny in major cities like New York, as major tax-exempt institutions refused to serve as polling places. Their denial exacerbated already tense questions as to whether museums enjoying government benefits had a responsibility to serve as civic spaces to their public. At worst, the refusal distanced museums from their stakeholders’ sociopolitical realities. At best, it was a claim of neutrality. But, as the “Museums are Not Neutral” movement argues, claiming neutrality is often more damaging because it ignores the need for “equity-based transformation.”

Museums can become sites of unity and mend these wounds of division through what I term yoga museology. By embodying the moral principles of Patañjali Yoga’s first two limbs known as the yamas, abstentions or moral restraints, and niyamas, ethical observances in one’s personal discipline and practice, museums can establish socially responsible operations that connect with their audiences and neighbors. The five yamas are a code of conduct for how to treat others. Theyinclude ahiṃsā (non-violence), satya (truthfulness), asteya (refraining from stealing), brahmacharya (celibacy), and aparigraha (refraining from coveting). The five niyamas are a code of conduct for establishing a moral blueprint of action within ourselves. These include sauca (cleanliness), santoṣa (contentment), tapas (austerity), svādhyāya(study of the scriptures), and Īśvara-praṇidhāna (devotion to God). The yamas and niyamas are the building blocks necessary for spiritual activism.

Yoga teacher and spiritual mentor Hari-kirtana das distinguishes social action from spiritual activism by motive, citing the Bhagavad Gita as instruction: “If we want to turn our social action into spiritual activism,” he writes, “Arjuna is our role model: we can follow his lead up the yoga ladder to higher levels of consciousness and a correspondingly higher level of motivation.” The lowest rung of the ladder is self interest. Pure motivations result in personal equanimity of mind, body, and spirit. Each rung up the ladder expands our reach and our actions take on more import, thereby making the purity of intent more impactful. We move from individual beings to family members, colleagues, community members, compatriots, members of the human race, contributors to the greater good of all living beings, and many steps between. Near the middle of this transformational path to spiritual activism, on the way to our highest level of consciousness, we recognize the lived experience of how we impact the world around us and how it impacts us. This pivotal moment is an opportunity for museums to actualize their potential as zones of “prefigurative politics,” what scholars Mark Chou and Roland Bleiker define as spaces in which subtle forms of protest and ideologies are negotiated before being implemented into everyday life. Yoga museology is a five-part process of reorganizing museum infrastructure that activates galleries as prefigurative political sites to debunk American cultural hegemony, white privilege, colonial legacies, and primitivist attitudes en route to liberation.

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In Hindu cosmology, we learn about the four yugas – four periods of time, or ages, that repeat cyclically. It is often said by spiritual teachers that we are currently living in the kali yuga, which is characterized by a loss of wisdom and the collapse of traditional authorities, virtue, and clarity. The kali yuga is a time of ignorance, when the knowledge about who we are has been obscured by ethical decline and disorder.

Among the various challenges associated with the kali yuga, one that stands out to me is this idea of authority.

The recent decline of faith in institutions, governments, ideologies, and cultural narratives that during a previous time may have felt natural and normal begs the question of how this has happened, and of course why. Answering these questions seems to first require grappling with how authority is generated and sustained – not from the outside, but from within.

What makes a tradition of thinking, a culture, a mindset, a system of knowledge, or a theoretical disposition authoritative for us? What imbues it with a sense of meaningfulness – not as something heirarchically ‘handed down’ from some patriarchal or paternalistic position, but something that emerges from an inner alignment?

In whatever direction we look, it seems evident that a once-prevailing worldview and scaffolding of knowledge is in decline. To this, we pose a question: what scaffolding of knowledge will take its place? Will the old normality reassert itself, or will a ‘new normal’ continue to be forged out of the rubble of what once was? And who stands to benefit? As a new normal becomes increasingly ‘authorized’ by the naturalizing effects of cultural habit, who will be served?

And perhaps most importantly for contemplatives, what is our role in this process? How do we speak authentically for truth, value, and principle when no one seems to agree on the source from which they derive? What does it mean to know something at a deeper level than what is trafficked in the modern social media economy of ideas and opinions? To put it in an Indian philosophical framing, what is a valid source of knowledge?

For the Pratyabhijñā philosophical tradition of medieval Kashmir, the most important means of knowledge (pramāṇa) is referred to as āgama. Often translated as “scripture,” āgama has a more expansive meaning as that which is “always arriving.” It is the governing intelligence of reality, the primordial Self at the heart of everything that arises spontaneously by means of its own intrinsic dynamism. As such, it is the only authority that never declines – because it is the ground upon which all relative authorities gain traction.

Grappling with how we think about knowledge today – and how we resolve the crisis of authority by anchoring it within ourselves – is to pursue a subtler kind of epistemic ground. If we pursue that ground through ideology or through an imagined consensus imposed by a powerfully vocal few, we risk enabling authority’s externalist shadow – authoritarianism.

While these considerations are philosophical ones, their implications extend beyond a merely intellectual digression. As a student of these tradtions, it might be my own biased view, but engaging with the Pratyabhijñā (and contemplative philosophies more generally) are rich resources for understanding what is happening to our world right now. They bear insights into what personal and collective strategies might be sufficient to the task of responding to current events with wisdom rather than reactivity.

At the end of the day, the subtlest authority is a matter of the heart. As the Tantrik philosopher, Maheśvarānanda says in his jaw-droppingly beautiful text, the Mahārthamañjarī:

“Our only scripture is the vibration of our own heart, in which all modes of awareness collide and gather — a pulsation, a reflexive awareness, a profound wonder (camatkāra).”

Maheśvarānanda · Mahārthamañjarī

This reflection initiates a new Embodied Philosophy “thought experiment” – The Scaffolding. Partly a weekly newsletter to inform our international community of what’s new and what’s coming up at Embodied Philosophy, it’s also intended to introduce a regular cadence of philosophical exploration to the heart of EP’s outreach.

Since we first opened our digital doors in 2015, EP has been deeply committed to exploring how yoga traditions, contemplative practice, and cross-cultural philosophy can help us navigate the challenges of modern life. These traditions still have much to teach us.

Ancient wisdom is not a dead relic or an archaeological artifact. As with any tradition from another culture and time, there are inevitably ideas, perspectives, and practices that won’t fit our contemporary cultural context. However, amidst what appears to be out of alignment with our current needs and commitments, there shines forth an altogether timely and necessary reminder.

In many contemplative traditions, there is a perennial message: connect with that which is most meaningful. While the form that carries this meaningfulness may shift depending on tradition, the essential content of insight remains continous. There is something deeply profound about this life – something magnificently meaningful and infinitely accessible. It whispers to us in every moment, encouraging us toward the blissful repose of its nurturing beatitude.

As external systems of authority rise and fall, the paradoxical persistence of life unfolds anew – offering its nectarean delights to be tasted, relished, imbibed, and embodied. Resting in the authority of this Tantrik truth – that life, at its deepest level, is a kind of rapturous relishing – is not an invitation to escape the problems we encounter in our communities or in the worlds we inhabit. It is an invitation toward a source of knowledge that has always provided answers to the burning questions that drive and animate us.

Toward what authority do we – consciously or unconsciously – direct the questions that strike us as most timely and meaningful? If we direct them toward the “scriptures” of an externalized institution or discourse, the answers we receive may prove to be as unstable as the ground on which such authorities are built.

In a world that demonstrates only one permanence – the permanence of impermanence –, the non-dual Tantrik traditions suggest that we redirect the most important of life’s questions to the scripture of our own hearts. Not to the ego or to the limited personality with its variable likes and dislikes, but rather to the limitless creativity that vibrates within each of us.

I look forward to exploring more questions with you in this first volume of The Scaffolding.

In wonder and curiosity,
Jacob Kyle
Director of Embodied Philosophy

Contemplative Prompt:

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Sometimes, the prevailing model of talk therapy doesn’t work. What do we do when a loss is so deep that it defies verbal expression? There is evidence that the brain stores trauma in areas that bypass speech,1 and anyone who’s experienced a deep shock can attest to this. Creative therapies expand our options beyond words by inviting expression from the whole spirit-mind-body and its array of senses. Creative therapies are evidence-based healing methods based in the expressive arts and include ritual therapy, drama therapy, visual arts, dance, narrative, and music therapies. In this article, I will introduce ritual therapy and show how and why it is effective as a treatment for grief. I will offer some ways anyone can begin to practice ritual to ease bereavement, I’ll talk about culturally specific models of grief work, and will include resources for professional counselors who might want to incorporate this therapeutic intervention.

Across cultures, a widely accepted definition of successful grieving is acknowledgment of loss leading to adaptive coping. Carefully tended grief rituals provide a safe way to encourage adaptive coping.2 Clinically proven benefits of grief ritual include providing structure and comfort of the expected, which can increase feelings of trust in self and others; increasing feelings of effective coping through repetitive actions; encouraging self-acceptance and compassion; personalizing the grief process; allowing room for emotional expression; establishing feelings of belonging; offering social support; moving towards integration; and providing an opportunity to continue or relinquish bonds with the deceased.3

So, how exactly does a grief ritual heal? Ritual is a tool for controlled transformation, and includes three main processes: disruption, transformation, and re-patterning (before, during, and after).4 Disruption happens when our reality is knocked apart by loss, and again, when we leave behind everyday reality to enter ritual space. Transformation happens when we become willing to rearrange our relationship to whom or what we have lost. We re-pattern as we make sense of the ritual experience and return to everyday consciousness.

Spontaneous and planned ritual can both create positive transformation. Familiarity with ritual structure can help when planning a ritual event. Ritual structure researchers, most recently Sas & Coman,5 identify five main phases in a therapeutic grief ritual: structure, purpose, sacred symbolism, liminality, and closure/integration. Cole’s Five Healing Principles6 for Ritual are similar: centering, assessment, gathering energy, identifying symbols, and closure.

Careful choices about timing and location add substance to ritual. For example, healing ritual done on a death anniversary can transform the acute grief often felt at such nodes. Doing ritual in a location that is meaningful to one’s ancestors can help assuage feelings of ancestral loss and restore feelings of connection to place and lineage.

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A devoted Shaiva Yogi, Nataraj Chaitanya is a Faculty member for Embodied Philosophy’s Wisdom School 2026: The Pilgrimage Project and Sādhana School; a year-long university-level course into the non-dual Tantric traditions. This conversation is taken from a recent Chitheads Podcast episode, which you can listen to the rest of here.

Jacob: Over the years, one of the auspicious things about our friendship is that we’ve both gone much more deeply in our own ways, but in the same direction in some sense; the same kind of group of traditions in Śaiva Śākta / Śākta Śaiva, non-dual Tantra.

And so you have this non-dualistic perspective, as far as I understand it, but you’re still very much a bhakta in the way that you relate to the deities. How do you talk about the dieties when people ask you now? How do you talk about the relationship between the forms and the formless?

Nataraj: In the devotional, non-dual tradition that I’m practicing inside of, our love is always a movement towards oneness.

When you are feeling lack, limitation, separateness, or suffering, you can use your love as a vehicle. The supreme power inside of these traditions is Cit Śakti, the power of our own consciousness, and essentially whatever we turn our awareness to, we’re worshipping.

That was a watershed moment for me. Around our old apartment, there were lots of little altars everywhere and lots of photos of saints and gurus. It was a way of invoking what mattered most for me. I don’t want to worship at the altar of my problems or my fears. I want to remember what’s truly important. Lots of times, people are unconsciously worshipping at the wrong altar.

When we use things that are charming to the mind and enlivening to our hearts, and start to connect with them in a deep, honest way, it speaks to our relational nature as human beings. The suffering really happens in monologue, but healing happens in dialogue.

So, to put myself into those relationships, with forces of nature, with archetypes, with energy, with deities - to give reality a personality - it was very deeply healing for me.

It meant that I could work on improving the relationship of all things. Of engaging in those relationships in appropriate ways so that they uplifted me rather than impoverished me in some way.

The devotional tradition holds that there are all sorts of bhāva, or classical, relational models that you can have towards divinity: the Lord and servant; the parent and child, where you could be the parent or the child, and the divine could be the child or the parent.

There is also the bhāva of friendship, of equality; of the lover and Beloved; the guru bhāva of the student and teacher.

All of this touches on the way in which reality is fundamentally creative, particularly in non-dual philosophy. We are cosmic actors, cosmic performers and artists, and we are the divinity.

One could say choosing to give it a personality is just a fantasy. You’re doing that. But really, by giving it personality, you’re invoking it, calling it out.

Because it exists in subtle form, when you do this kind of work, you’re calling it forward and bringing it into being.

Thank you for reading.

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Life is suffering. Existence is bondage to bodily experiences of emotion, excrement, illness, pain, and death. Dharmic spirituality posits this fundamental reality of suffering as inherent to our very being. The importance of this teaching is apparent in its scriptural placement; it is the Buddha’s First Noble Truth and the first line of the Sāṃkhya Karika. These traditions begin with the premise of suffering as it is the nature of reality itself. Evidence of this wisdom is observable in our life by simply witnessing our fluctuating mind and by stepping out into society. Suffering has many expressions; ubiquitous today are the COVID-19 pandemic, mass shootings, sexual violence, police killings of unarmed Black men, human trafficking, environmental destruction, systemic racism, misogyny, animal cruelty, murder of transgender peoples, political unrest, and white supremacy. There was a nationwide, collective eruption of anger after the murder of George Floyd in the summer of 2020. This was expressed through strident demands for social justice, protests, riots, and militarized police force to suppress them.

Nobody wants to suffer and everyone wants happiness. Sensitive, inquisitive people run away from conventional society and toward spirituality for solace. Spirituality is sold as a solution for discomfort, anger, and sadness. Enlightenment, the effervescent outcome of spiritual practice, is highly desirable for practitioners who seek peace of mind. It promises to eliminate suffering in the mind-body-soul for a permanent state of peace, love, and happiness. Practitioners from all faith traditions are motivated to cultivate a sense of goodness within themselves, unlike what is apparent in the human environment. This has resulted in an insidious effect of spirituality used as a bypass for emotions and experiences deemed as “negative.”

A study of anger, as an example of “negative emotion,” reveals more clues on the spiritual practitioners’ tendency for bypass. Anger is popularly known as one of the seven deadly sins. Spiritual bypass of anger is understandable to some degree; within the Dharma traditions, anger (dveṣa) is an addiction (kleśa). It is one of the three root poisons (viṣa) along with greed and delusion, which fuel suffering in saṃsāra. Anger suppression is often taught as a spiritual teaching to achieve acceptance into heaven and higher states of being. It is depicted as a trait of the antagonist, rather than the protagonist in popular storytelling. This is especially true for the spiritual community, which tends to avoid anger believing it to be “bad” or “taboo,” despite references to its aptness in the Bhagavad Gita and other various scriptures. Spiritual liberation and anger are treated as antipodal opposites without our conscious awareness.

Clinical psychologist John Welwood describes spiritual bypass in his book, Toward a Psychology of Awakening: Buddhism, Psychotherapy, and the Path of Personal and Spiritual Transformation, published in 1984. He wrote,

Starting in the 1970s, I began to perceive a disturbing tendency among many members of spiritual communities. Although many spiritual practitioners were doing good work on themselves, I noticed a widespread tendency to use spiritual practice to bypass or avoid dealing with certain personal or emotional ‘unfinished business.’ This desire to find release from the earthly structures that seem to entrap us—the structures of karma, conditioning, body, form, matter, personality— has been a central motive in the spiritual search for thousands of years. So there is often a tendency to use spiritual practice to try to rise above our emotional and personal issues—all those messy, unresolved matters that weigh us down. I call this tendency to avoid or prematurely transcend basic human needs, feelings, and developmental tasks spiritual bypassing.

Spiritual bypass effectively creates the illusion of transcendence. It naively sweeps our shadows – those “messy, unresolved matters” that make us uncomfortable – under the rug. It stores the causes and conditions of suffering out of sight. In the darkness, these hidden parts of ourselves take on different forms and appearances. They become a source for the persistent continuation of cyclical suffering, fed by the habits of ego. As a result, spirituality itself becomes an obstacle for liberation. Practices meant for inner transformation become less effective. Yes, anger is an obstacle for liberation, but avoiding it can also lead to emotional blockages that limit our spiritual progress toward enlightenment. Practice requires radical honesty and understanding of our humanity.

Suffering is an unavoidable teacher on the path. It offers wisdom in its nuances. Even anger can serve as a beacon that brings light to injustice, the causes of suffering, and our direct contributions to its perpetuation. Spiritual bypass isn’t simply avoiding our own suffering; it is also the neglect of pain felt by other sentient beings. We must be mindful of how spirituality can easily be manipulated by the ego to turn our gaze from suffering.

Hidden History of Spiritual Bypass

This phenomena of spirituality used as bypass is not personal or new. It extends into power dynamics found throughout history in capitalism, societies, religious organizations, and governments to turn the gaze from systemic suffering. In fact, the modern culture of spiritual bypass has historical roots shaped by colonial oppressive tactics to subdue an entire class of warrior sadhus.

When the British first landed in India, they encountered a variety of yogis – not just the romanticized, peaceful, unconditional loving kind we imagine today. Naga yogi warriors were described as a “terrifying force” who were loud, unstoppably tenacious, experts in martial arts combat, drank the blood of their enemies, and wielded weapons like swords, arrows, cakras (a disc-shaped weapon), and eventually guns. They traveled in large, swift droves together and conducted business with conquerors and laypeople alike.

In the West, people assume yoga to be peaceful because of Gandhi’s discourse on ahimsa and non-violent revolution without knowledge of Hindu scriptures or the existence of warrior sadhus. These ascetic warriors have a long history in India that goes further back than the Moghul period. Kings and yogis worked together to conquer lands and rule. In these texts, princes were often initiated as yogis, and pursued a life of kingship and spiritual renunciation. Spiritual practitioners have a long history of engaging in the material world of economics, war, kingdoms, and oppression in India and beyond.

British manipulation of Indian laws, demilitarization of these yogi warriors, criminalization of yogis by John Hastings of the British East India Tea Company stifled and made the angry ascetic invisible. It was a strategic, political move to strip yogis of their power, influence, and threat to the British regime. Scholar William Pinch writes,

The Company needed a modern sadhu: a priestly monk unconcerned with worldly power and given over to religious contemplation and prayer. In retrospect, it can be argued that with the gradual removal of armed monks from territories controlled by the Company in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, north Indian monasticism turned inward, away from worldly martial pursuits and toward more aesthetic, devotional, and literary accomplishments.

The British adapted the less threatening indigenous ideal of the non-violent ascetic from Dharmic traditions as a manipulative tool to erase the warrior ascetic and subdue the masses. The orientalist image of the docile, gentle yogi became romanticized by the West as a fixed quality of “goodness” and the spiritual identity over time. Warrior sadhus disappeared into history, away from the popular Western understanding of yoga. Negative emotions, like the anger of warrior sadhus of the past, became perceived as uncivilized, barbaric, and non-spiritual. The ideas that emerged from this history linger on through spiritual bypassing and emotional suppression.

Spiritual Bypassing in Modernity

Modern spiritual culture and technological advances have also influenced and encouraged spiritual bypassing. I’ll provide several examples of phenomena that contribute to spiritual bypass in modernity: 1) “woke” is trendy, 2) “good vibes only,” 3) the spiritual ego, 4) white fragility, 5) the information age, 6) neo-liberal capitalism, and 7) the disintegration of the guru-student relationship.

“Woke” is slang terminology to describe elevated awareness; a person that is “woke” is an individual that knows truth, speaks on the nature of reality, or is knowledgeable of profound spiritual concepts or social issues. Merriam-Webster added “woke” as an entry in 2017, due to its prevalence on social media. “Woke” is short for “awake,” as in, “I was sleeping and now I’m awake.”

According to search data collected by Google, the usage of “woke” has grown exponentially, as shown in the following graph.

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This series aims to discuss the basics of somatics and ways to relate this wisdom to the many inroads of Hatha Yoga, in order to teach and practice the mind-body therapy that yoga promises.

In an increasingly media-based industry, yoga teachers have come to represent the physical elite. Instagram, Facebook, websites, and newsletters thrive on images of impressive physical feats and physiques. Yoga pants sell, more often than not, because of who’s in them. With all of this focus moving out toward the still image of the yogi, I’m wondering if anybody notices that the still point is actually a state of being and not a static posture or singular moment in time? Certainly the body is a visible, tangible expression of self, but everything we see is literally a trick of the eye. In order to know the embodied self we cannot merely look at it from the outside, slicing and dissecting, comparing and contrasting. Furthermore, none of the asanas on their own has any sustaining power. It is the way in which we inhabit each posture that gives them power. From this conscious embodiment we as practitioners draw resilience, patience and autonomy into our mundane lives.

So why do we have asana/poses then? What’s the point or benefit in working the body beyond the place of cardiovascular maintenance? Most of our teachers (as in Patanjali, Shiva, Krishna, et. al.) said one or two things about stillness. I think maybe something about yogas citta vritti nirodah, or, “yoga is the cessation of the modifications of the mind.” And if you’ve ever tried to sit still without your mind wandering you know Yoga is more than just working your hips open to hit Koundinyasana.

Stagnant physical energy is what makes sitting and stilling the mind so difficult. Energy, once set in motion, must go somewhere, and since most of us cycle our energy through the thought wheels rather than consciously through the nadis, the result is an anxiety-ridden being that just needs to sweat and chatturanga. Teachers practicing in front of their class with a “come-along-with-me-to-this-very-cool-pose” attitude forget that the body might be going through the motions, but the psyche could be fragmented and therefore the “motions” are likely causing more harm than good. This premise is based on the work of Peter Levine, creator of Somatic Experiencing (which we will explore in future articles,) and the movement system of somatics. “Somatics” refers to a lineage of movement studies that emphasizes internal physical perception (or the body as perceived from within), and employs techniques that highlight the mover’s internal proprioceptive sensations, in contrast with performance-based techniques like dance. Through the lens of somatics, movement is an indispensable precursor to that still point of transcendence, which brings me to my point: how do we know if our asana is helping or hurting?

Let’s examine the word somatics for a moment. Recognize that word, Soma? That wondrous elixir residing in the liquid contents of body and mind, Soma is the counterpart to Agni, the moon to the sun, the feminine to the masculine. “Soma,” according to Dr. David Frawley, is “the delight inherent in existence itself (Brahman), not simply the pleasure produced by contact with external objects. Soma is the ‘pure delight’ that we are truly seeking in all that we pursue, not mere temporary pleasure that wears away the senses and is only its reflection.”

Soma might be exactly the remedy to our yoga conundrum: a felt experience of pleasure that is activated and contained by posture, then lingers and floods into every open space in the body like a nourishing stream. In the Sri Vidya tradition, this is exactly the point of asana: to activate and engage Agni and Soma in equal parts. How do we know we’re doing that? First and foremost, with an inwardly focused gaze- beyond staring at fingertips or nose during Surya Namaskar, this gaze is self aware with an observational quality. This gaze recognizes strain, rushing, unrelated self-talk and the difference between right and left, front and back, straight and bent. Secondly, the practice must generate energy as well as contain it. Throughout a vigorous sequence, if the breath comes through in starts and stops and the form becomes soggy, your Agni is probably burning more Soma than ignorance, and your Soma is nothing but a puddle on the mat. Finally, it should feel pleasant to return to your life following practice, as though you have been fortified with supernatural powers to bear the weight of winter or rush hour or sick children (or adults for that matter.) Sleep comes easily and harmful substances hold no temptation. Practice is the balm that soothes all ills and prepares us to sit quietly in the presence of Om, the Absolute, Isvara, et. al.

I don’t know if that can be captured on camera.

Thank you for reading.

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My cousin Sophia was murdered on April 10th, 2007. She died almost 6 months before her 21st birthday. The last time I saw her in the flesh was during the Christmas holiday of 2006. We were gathered as immediate and extended family at Sophia’s urging in my childhood home. She asked my parents to host a gathering because it had been a long time since we were together without the rituals that accompany a funeral.

I remember Sophia as filled with light. She was housed in beautiful brown skin and a smile that filled her entire face. When she walked through the door at our house, I knew she was an adult, but all I could see was a baby face. She looked even younger to me than she looked just a few years prior, after our grandmother died. My mind could only see her as a baby. At 14 years old, she was indeed the first baby I was allowed to care for as babysitter. To me, she was evidence of my own maturity and responsibility. While I used to babysit my younger brothers, caring for Sophia was different. To me, especially in her infancy, she symbolized that I was trusted to care and to love on my own. I took care of her right up until I left on my own journey into higher education and young adulthood. I charted out to find my own way, just as she was now doing.

By the time Sophia called us together as a family in 2006, she was the college student. It was her time to explore a new world. On her journey, it was also her who found herself longing for time with the people who loved her first. I didn’t know how much I needed it too. It is amazing how love holds memories that bind and call us back together over space and time.

I can still hear her voice as my brother and I began our departure that Christmas in 2006. She motioned to us in the car from the front door of our childhood home to lower the car door window. I was in the passenger seat closest to her and so I lowered mine. She said, “Big cousins! Don’t forget me down in Louisiana. I’ll be 21 in October, and I want to celebrate with y’all!” My brother leaned across me, and we both beamed back at her. I looked at him as if in disbelief that she was actually a young woman. He glanced at me in kind. I then turned back to her and yelled, “We won’t! We can’t wait to celebrate you, baby cousin!” We waved and blew kisses. I elevated the car door window. My brother put the car in reverse. We turned around in our driveway and began our journey back into our respective adult lives.

Just as my brother’s rear tires spun up the last bits of gravel, I turned around for one more glance. She was still waving. I lowered the car window again, held my arm out and waved back. Love made me turn around one more time. I am so grateful it did because it would be that image, the one of her waving and smiling on a cold winter’s day that I would need to call upon after the news that would reach me less than 4 months later, on April 13th, 2007. It would be a call from my mother, and she would say, “They found Sophia.” I would need this image of Sophia and I bundled in love when I would come to know that a 13-year-old boy hoping to fish with his grandfather would first mistake Sophia’s lifeless body for a mannequin found near a levy in Port Allen, Louisiana.

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In the Realization Process, we discover the ground of fundamen­tal consciousness by inhabiting the internal space of our body. Fundamental consciousness is unified — it pervades our body and environment at the same time. If it did not pervade our body as well as our environment, it would not be an experience of oneness. For this reason, we cannot actually realize fundamental consciousness without also inhabiting the internal space of our body.

Inhabiting the body is not the same as being aware of the body. It is not a “top-down” experience. Inhabiting the body means that we live within our body, that we are present throughout the whole internal space of our body. It means that we feel that we are made of conscious­ness everywhere in our body.

Inhabiting the body takes practice because, for most of us, we are changing a life-long habit of not inhabiting our body. Most of us grow up living in front of our body, and very often above our body as well. The protective constrictions and other rigid organizations in our fascia obstruct our inward contact with our body. We are also used to coming forward in order to connect with other people, even though, as I will explain in the chapter on relationships, this actually dilutes our connection with others. As children, we may develop patterns of living outside of our body if we need to be hypervigilant to a danger­ous or unpredictable environment or just as a way to concentrate more intently on whatever is in front of us. We may live outside of our body because it felt to us, as children, that we would be less conspicuous, and therefore in less danger from abusive people in our environment, if we were less in contact with ourselves. Just as young children may cover their own eyes in order to hide, one of the ways we protect our­selves from others is by hiding from ourselves.

One woman told me that when her father came home drunk at night, he would get all five children out of bed, line them up in the living room, and then select one for the focus of his rage. She found that if she left her body, he was less likely to choose her. She felt that she could make herself invisible by diffusing herself outward so that she had a sense of dissolving in the space around her body. Over time, this pattern of outward diffusion became chronic and unconscious. When I met her, she was still holding herself in this pattern of self-abandonment, although it had been many years since she was in danger of her father’s violence.

If it felt safer in childhood not to be present within one’s body, then coming back into the body can feel frightening. It can also feel taboo, as if we are breaking a rule that we have lived under all our lives, a law against existing as individuals. When we live within our own skin, we become separate from other people, even as we enter into the dimension of oneness with them. I have worked with many people who looked to me for permission to inhabit their own body. They needed support to counter their old agreement with their parents that they would never separate from them.

When we inhabit the body as fundamental consciousness, the con­structed, protective boundary between inner and outer experience naturally dissolves. It is transcended, or traversed, by the unified, per­vasive ground of FC. This means that we can experience the internal space of our body as continuous with the space pervading our envi­ronment. If we inhabit our chest, for example, then we experience the present moment occurring inside and outside of our chest at the same time. This is not a matter of divided attention. Fundamental consciousness is more subtle than our focus of attention. Our focus of attention can shift, but fundamental consciousness does not shift; it is experienced as stillness, pervading inside our body and outside of our body at the same time. You can try this out for yourself.

Take a moment to inhabit the internal space of your chest.

Fill your chest with yourself, with your own being. See if you can feel that you are living within your whole chest, all the way through to your upper back, and out to the sides of your chest.

You may be able to feel that by inhabiting your chest, you can expe­rience this present moment inside and outside of your chest as a unity. In other words, you may be able to experience your surroundings at the same time as you experience whatever emotions or thoughts you are having as you do that.

Wherever you are in contact with the internal space of your body, you are open, permeable, and responsive to your environment. By inhabiting your chest, you will experience deeper, more fluid emo­tional responsiveness to your environment.

Wherever you live in your body, you are also present within your body. You will have a felt sense, which can also be sensed by others, of being present. Inward contact with yourself, openness to your environ­ment, and presence all occur in the same way, by inhabiting your body.

To be present, open, and conscious everywhere in our body means that you have access to all of your being at once. You receive life with your whole being and respond with your whole being. You can sense, feel, know, and perceive at the same time. When you touch a leaf, for example, this is not just a tactile experience. Your experience of the leaf is sensual, emotional, and cognitive simultaneously. Although the content of your experience, at any given moment, may register more in one realm of yourself than another, all of your modalities of experience are engaged in each moment.

It is not often recognized in conventional psychotherapy that there is an underlying wholeness, or a potential for wholeness, that we can access as we let go of our patterns of fragmentation. For example, the psychoanalyst Elizabeth Howell speaks of the fragmentations that result from trauma as “ego states” and claims that psychological health is the ability to flow smoothly between our various ego states.

But in the Realization Process, we recognize that we can experience a ground of our being that is more subtle than these constructed ego states. It feels naturally unified and naturally existent. Fundamental con­sciousness is not something we construct — it is a given, like our physical anatomy. Once we uncover it, we do not shift into different fragments of ourselves in different situations. Although we certainly behave differently and have different emotional responses, we feel like the same person, like who we really are, in every circumstance. From the vantage point of this underlying ground of our being, we can observe the shifts that occur in us as we move through different environments. We can see how we may become humble in relation to one person or feel superior to someone else. With this capacity for observation, we can understand ourselves better and even make changes in our behavior and relationships.

This piece is an excerpt from Trauma and the Body: The Healing Power of Fundamental Consciousness, by PhD., Sounds True, December 2018. Reprinted by Embodied Philosophy with permission.

Thank you for reading.

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By Way Of An Introduction

As a second-generation Holocaust survivor and interdisciplinary artist, I’ve developed a 30-year praxis exploring the ways that contemplative performance art serves to interrupt the intergenerational traumas associated with genocide, colonialism, climate change, and environmental injustice. This research-creation process has changed me in profound and unexpected ways. Contemplative performance art, by which I mean any performance art practice that cultivates awareness and multisensory perception, can be a pathway to healing, however much this pathway is not easy or straightforward.

Toni Cade Bambara’s Minnie Ransom character opens the 1980 novel, The Salt Eaters, with the question: Are you sure, sweetheart, that you want to be well?” Prior to publishing The Salt Eaters, Bambara wrote about the Black liberation movement. Bambara’s reasoning was that change and liberation “begins with the self, in the self. The individual, the basic revolutionary unit, must be purged of poison and lies that assault the ego and threaten the heart, that hazard the next larger unit – the couple or pair, that jeopardize the still larger unit – the family or cell that put the entire movement in peril.” In the book, healer Minnie Ransom, continues to caution Velma Henry following Henry’s suicide attempt: “I like to caution folks, that’s all. […] No sense us wasting each other’s time, sweetheart. […] A lot of weight when you’re well.” The truth of this still resonates with me in every fiber of my being. It is not a simple or easy thing to embrace wellness, or, perhaps more specifically, the responsibility of wellness. Over time, I have found that my capacity to carry this weight of wellness with grace and strength has increased. I attribute a good part of growing that capacity to my contemplative performance art and my critical-somatic reflections on the work of other contemplative performance artists.

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One way to identify the central theme of a spiritual wisdom text is to look at the very first passage of that text and, more specifically, at the first word of the text. The Bhagavad-gītā telegraphs its overarching theme with its first word, which is spoken by the blind king, Dhṛtarāṣṭra: dharma.

A second way to identify the central theme of a spiritual wisdom text is to look at how often and in what context key words appear throughout the text, especially how those words or phrases figure in the conclusion of the text. By looking at the first word of the first verse and looking forward to Kṛṣṇa’s priorities as we move through the Gītā, it becomes clear that the Bhagavad-gītā is, first and foremost, a book that answers the question, “what is the highest dharma?”

The root of the word dharma is dhṛi, which means ‘to support,’ indicating that which can’t be taken away. Dharma can therefore be understood as that which gives ultimate support to one’s existence.

The derivative dhru indicates a pole or a fixed axis through which variable opposites are balanced. Therefore, dharma can also be understood to indicate the invariable constant around which life revolves, the organizing principle of cosmic order that supports all existence.

Dharma, in the sense of ‘divine law,’ is sometimes translated as ‘religion.’ People may therefore misunderstand dharma as a concept that belongs to a particular form of faith. A more accurate understanding is that dharma, in the context of ‘divine law,’ refers to universal and changeless principles of religion that are both independent from any particular form of faith and essential for the attainment of religious experience irrespective of which, if any, religion one subscribes to.

Dharma can also be taken to indicate the essential nature of a person, place, or thing, the definitive inner reality that makes someone or something what they are. For example, the dharma of sugar is to be sweet. If you take sweetness away from sugar then it’s no longer sugar. The dharma of water is to be wet. If you take wetness away from water then it’s no longer water. Dharma manifests in the natural world as bees that make honey, cows that give milk, a sun that shines, fish that swim, rivers that flow, etc.

Just as each feature of cosmic order has an essential nature, cosmic order itself has an essential nature. Bringing ourselves into harmony with the essential nature of cosmic order is the way by which we can live peacefully in the world. Conversely, dissonant action relative to the essential nature of cosmic order brings about chaos and destruction.

The function of dharma as a universal principle of divine law is to establish an objective standard of cosmic order and, with it, a shared sense of reality within which a healthy society can function. The project of discerning right from wrong thus becomes one of understanding how changeless ethical principles are properly applied to variable details of moral action in order to respond to any given situation in a way that’s aligned with cosmic order.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s question in the opening verse of the Bhagavad-gītā is summed up in the phrase kim akurvata: “what did they do?” or, “how did they act?” Dhṛtarāṣṭra is asking Sañjaya to tell him how his sons, known as the Kauravas, and the sons of his deceased brother, known as the Pāṇḍavas, responded to having been brought to the battlefield by the will of providence to fight a fratricidal war that will decimate their family.

Dhṛtarāṣṭra is hoping that his visionary counselor, Sañjaya, will describe a victory for his son, Duryodhana. At the outset, it appears as if Duryodhana has a clear military advantage. However, factors beyond numerical strength, martial virtuosity, and strategic superiority will influence the outcome of the battle.

One such factor is that dharma is also understood to be synonymous with virtue or moral excellence. The setting for the battle, the ‘field of dharma’ (dharma-kṣetre), favors morality over duplicity. This doesn’t bode well for the duplicitous Duryodhana.

Dharma is also often translated as ‘duty’ and many Gītā commentators emphasize this definition. Soldiers have a duty to fight when called upon to do so. Members of the armed forces often have an understanding of duty that can’t be fully appreciated by those without any firsthand experience of military culture. A soldier may not like doing what they’ve been called upon to do, the circumstances may be other than what they would have chosen, and they may even have to make the ultimate sacrifice in the course of responding to the call of duty, but tolerating hardships and making sacrifices in the course of doing one’s duty is considered virtuous.

Under the circumstances, Arjuna, a warrior by both natural aptitude and rigorous training, has a duty to fight in defense of righteousness. In other words, his dharma is to defend dharma. But Arjuna has lost track of what dharma is, so he doesn’t know how to defend it. In his despair and confusion, he asks Kṛṣṇa to tell him what course of action will achieve the greatest good, which he understands to be the logical outcome of dharmic action.

Arjuna’s inability to see a dharmic way forward is understandable; it turns out that dharma itself has gone missing. In the 7^th verse of the Gītā’s 4^th chapter, we learn that the recession of dharma from the world stage is one of the principal reasons for Kṛṣṇa’s appearance. In this verse we once again find the word dharma, used twice: once to indicate the decline of dharma and again, in a negative form, to indicate the absence or opposite of dharma (adharma).

In the next verse, Kṛṣṇa tells Arjuna that he, Kṛṣṇa, appears in the material world at regular intervals for the sake of re-establishing dharma. These two verses add emphasis to the position of dharma as the central theme around which the dialogue between Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna revolves. The dramatic unity of a story is found at the intersection of two elements: a central theme and a framing action. In the Gītā, the framing action has two components, one external and one internal. The external component of the framing action is the dialogue itself, which directs our attention to the central theme, dharma. The internal component of the framing action is Arjuna’s transformation in response to Kṛṣṇa’s divine revelation. The element of Kṛṣṇa’s revelation that triggers Arjuna’s transformation is yoga, which is the means by which Arjuna can reconnect to his dharma.

The Bhagavad-gītā’s dramatic unity is driven by Arjuna’s questions. The Gītā’s meaning is found in Arjuna’s transformation over the course of receiving Kṛṣṇa’s teachings. Arjuna is therefore our role model for understanding the Bhagavad-gītā, which brings us to a very important point: the best way to experience the transformative potential of the Bhagavad-gītā is to follow in Arjuna’s footsteps.

Thank you for reading.

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To ask the question “what is queer theory?” is a gesture that can easily invite frustration, for by asking it we request a definition for something that, by definition, resists definition. It is a regular refrain of those who engage with “queer theory” that it is indefinable, and that, furthermore, this indefinable nature is one of its strengths. As McCann and Monaghan suggest, “[t]he insistence on indefinability hints at queer theory as a lens that emphasizes the slipperiness of meaning and the transgression of categorizes and boundaries.”1 By resisting definition, queer theory enacts its own insight regarding how labels, concepts, and categories can stagnate, ossify, and, in turn, enslave us.

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A devoted Shaiva Yogi and teacher of yoga, meditation and Tantra, Nataraj Chaitanya is a Faculty member for Embodied Philosophy’s Wisdom School 2026: The Pilgrimage Project and Sādhana School; a year-long university-level course into the non-dual Tantric traditions. This conversation is taken from a recent Chitheads Podcast episode with Nataraj and Embodied Philosopher founder, Jacob Kyle.

Jacob: You go on pilgrimage at least once a year and practically live on pilgrimage in an ashram. Can you say a couple of words about what pilgrimage means for you in your life?

Nataraj:

Yes. The spirit of a yātrā, a pilgrimage, is to be a pilgrim. From the moment you decide to go on a pilgrimage, whatever the attitude of the pilgrim is, whatever arises is the divine.

It’s part of that journey.

So when you set out to see the holy Mountain or see the image of the deity in the temple, whatever arises on that journey is, is part of the tapasyā, the austerity, the purification process, and the līlā, the play of that deity.

And so to live life as a pilgrim, we are journeying, you know; to have that intimate exchange of glances, the darśana, of the self, of God, of the goddess.

To do a literal pilgrimage puts you in touch with that: the spirit of being a pilgrim in your life; of holding this idea that whatever arises is her is, is the shakti, is the Devi.

It invokes grace. It’s a crucible of transformation. And the journey changes us as much as the destination.

Interested in deepening into pilgrimage as a way of life?

Join Nataraj and other teachers for Wisdom School 2026: The Pilgrimage Project.

Featuring monthly meditations, workshops, lectures and more, spanning across the contemplative traditions of East and West.

Join anytime.

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“When you are about to die, you may not be very aware of your body. You may experience some numbness, and yet you are caught in the idea that this body is you. You are caught in the notion that the disintegration of this body is your own disintegration. That is why you are fearful. You are afraid you are becoming nothing. The disintegration of the body cannot affect the dying person’s true nature. You have to explain to him that he is life without limit. This body is just a manifestation, like a cloud. When a cloud is no longer a cloud, it is not lost. It has not become nothing; it has transformed; it has become rain. Therefore, we should not identify our self with our body.”

— No Death, No Fear, Thich Nhat Hanh

I once heard about a young Irish mother who lost three children and a husband to influenza, all in the space of a month. The month was October, and when the last knot was tied on the last shroud, her tongue was tied with it, and she didn’t speak or leave the house all winter. Come spring, the town’s fiddler came to camp out under her window. He propped up a lean-to against the side of her house, filled it with a sheepskin bedroll and woollen blankets, and began to fiddle. He had played at her wedding, and he played those songs again. He knew her children’s cradle songs, and he played each one. He played sea shanties from the town where her father’s people lived, and tavern tunes he’d belted out over ale with her husband. He played shire songs from her mother’s country, ancient songs originally gifted to the people by faeries. Slowly, inside the house, she began to stir, then move, then cry, then scream, then … she began to talk. The fiddler untied her grief-stricken tongue with music: an invisible cure for an invisible problem.

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Ayoga student of mine recently lost a parent. She’s been navigating the situation with remarkable grace and presence. However, the other day when I checked on her after class, she admitted somewhat sheepishly that she was feeling a bit guilty because she was having a really joyful day.

It is a truly remarkable part of the human condition that we can feel the deep soul-shaking sadness of gut-wrenching grief that comes with losing a loved one, and also feel truly joyful, delighted by the shining sun, a warm house, and the dog who greets us with a wildly wagging tail when we arrive, even if we’ve just stepped out for a moment to get the mail from the mailbox.

One of my favorite quotes from Walt Whitman’s poem Song of Myself, 51 captures this phenomenon perfectly and succinctly:

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

While it might be tempting to demand only one static expression of a single sentiment in any given circumstance, we do ourselves – and humanity at large! – a disservice to expect this. It is certainly more palatable to meet and manage one emotional state at a time but we are simply more complex than that.

Imagine a sound engineer at the mixing board during a recording session. As the band plays the song, the engineer is manipulating the sounds, constantly working to find the right balance in order to produce a particular mood from the music. She might be increasing the volume on the keys at a certain part of the song or emphasizing the vocals in another.

We are like this too. All of the instruments of our song are always playing but sometimes a situation requires us to mix those sounds in a different way. Lots of times this is dictated by social situations and etiquette. We choose to filter in certain ways based on the audience. But other times, we don’t feel quite so in charge of the song. Maybe that mournful violin solo is taking center stage, prompting unwelcome tears in the grocery store aisle. We might prefer a bouncy synth vibe but turning up the volume on that particular sound can be difficult when we are swept up in the moment.

Similarly, we can be caught off guard when the sounds we hear are in contrast to what we expect. My student, who was feeling the profound sadness of grief and loss, was totally prepared for Coldplay’s song “Fix You”, and instead she unexpectedly heard Pharrell Williams’ song’ “Happy”. When we can recognize that we contain multitudes, to borrow Mr. Whitman’s phrase, we start to be less surprised by the moments when we hear Pharrell instead of Coldplay.

In the Bhakti Yoga tradition, our emotions are known as rasas, sometimes translated literally as the flavors. The invitation here is to consider how our emotional responses add spice and a necessary variety to our life. When we experience and allow the variety of emotional responses to happen simultaneously without disregarding or casting off the unwanted responses too quickly we are fully immersed in the Divine play called lila. Often described as a dance, lila is an epic game of hide and seek, conceal and reveal. We have moments where we feel so confidently stuck in our dark spaces that it can seem that our access to the Divine is gone forever. However, lila promises us that time will prevail and our Divine self will soon be revealed once again.

Yoga Sutra 2.33 invites us to take this even one step farther beyond simply recognizing and allowing the full range of our emotional selves to purposefully cultivating seemingly opposite feelings. In Sanskrit, the line is:

vitarka-bādhane pratipakṣa-bhāvanam

Alastair Shearer translates this as:

“When negative feelings restrict us, the opposite should be cultivated.”

I want to be super clear that this is not the same thing as spiritual bypassing. We are not meant to use glib platitudes to side-step trauma or to shove down or drive away unpleasant and difficult things. Imagine a pushy salesperson, trying to get you to buy into the notion that your suffering can be alleviated with a quick fix, saying something like: “You feel sad? Angry? Are you anxious or depressed? Forget all that! Peace, love, and light are the only truth!”

I’ve certainly spent a fair bit of time in yoga communities that espoused those sorts of attitudes. However, instead of pushing away the negative feelings, we are meant to give them some space. Shearer’s word choices here suggest that we first need a moment to come up against the restriction of our negative inclinations before we take action.

I also want to clarify that pratipakṣa bhāvana is not simply telling us to find happiness in times of sadness, though many translations, including Alastair Sherear’s, may seem to recommend that.

Four Chapters on Freedom, Swami Satyananda Saraswati’s translation and commentary on the Yoga Sutras, offers a slightly different perspective for us:

“When the mind is disturbed by passions one should practice pondering over their opposites.”

In other words, pratipakṣa bhāvana isn’t just about cultivating joy in times of sadness.

The Oxford Dictionary defines passion as a strong and barely controllable emotion. Many so-called positive emotions fit that bill. So what happens if we experiment with touching sorrow in times when we feel the most euphoric of highs? Cultivating the opposite in all situations, even in times of elation, prepares us for the inevitability that we will at some point feel the lowest of lows.

This all points to the concept that belies the technique of pratipakṣa bhāvana. Impermanence, known by the Pali word anicca and the Sanskrit word anitya, posits that a huge cause for our tribulations is the delusion that something is permanent and unvaried. Buddhism offers the idea that our thoughts, emotions, circumstances, and even physical objects are part of a constant cycle of arising, abiding, and dissolving. The timeline for that cycle varies widely but gripping too tightly to anything will always cause more suffering.

Pratipakṣa bhāvana is the antidote to grasping. It is a technique that allows us to fully accept and embody the ephemeral. It is a celebration of our comprehensive nature and an expression of the notion that we are complex and necessarily inconsistent.

A huge part of yoga practice is doing work to inhabit these contradictions fully. While the word yoga is often defined as union, it is far less about a single moment of connection and more of a constant awakening to concurrent and often conflicted internal and external happenings. Yoga constantly encourages us to perceive ourselves as big enough to accommodate the whole breadth of our humanity, physically, spiritually, mentally, and emotionally. As my grieving student noticed, this could mean feeling both delighted and heartbroken at the exact same time. Nothing is more yogic or more human than that.

Thank you for reading.

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