II.50 बाह्याभ्यन्तरस्तम्भवृत्तिर्देशकालसङ्ख्याभिः परिदृष्टो दीर्घसूक्षमः

bāhyābhyantara-stambha-vṛttir deśa-kāla-saṅkhyābhiḥ paridṛṣṭo dīrgha-sūkṣmaḥ
bāhya-abhyantara-stambha-vṛttiḥ deśa-kāla-saṅkhyābhiḥ paridṛṣṭaḥ dīrgha-sūkṣmaḥ

“[The breath consists of] external, internal, paused movement; observed–by means of location, time, and number–[it becomes] long and subtle.”

As we continue to explore the relation of citta to breath, and breath to the body, it is important to consider the complexity of the nervous system itself. It is shaped by and–then in turn–shapes physical condition, individual experience, patterned behavior. As neuroscientist Stephen Porges says, “The nervous system is not solely a brain independent of the body, but a brain-body nervous system” (see The Pocket Guide to the Polyvagal Theory, by Stephen W. Porges).

In Light on Life, B.K.S. Iyengar describes his personal journey in working with the breath. After much frustration in attempting techniques of breath regulation–“I would start gasping and have to stop” (p. 69)–he came to appreciate that he must work with his body more and seek to “control” his breath less. Āsana itself strengthens the pathways that allow breath to move, he came to believe, and in his teaching of breath practice, he emphasizes support of the body and surrender of the will.

Patañjali here tells us that the breath has three parts–bāhya (outer, or exhalation), abhyantara (inner, or inhalation), and stambha (paused)–and that prāṇāyāma involves the observation (paridṛṣṭa) of these parts. He also suggests how to witness the movements of the breath: by means of places (deśa) in the body where one can feel the breath, duration in time (kala)–is the breath quick, slow?–and number (saṅkhyā) of cycles of breath (or the count of the duration of a phase of the breath). The presence brought to the breath anchors our awareness inward; the breath becomes, says Patañjali, long (dīrgha) and subtle (sūkṣma).

The two terms dīrgha and sūkṣma are rich in allusion and significance. Dīrgha means long as well as tall and so could be breath that becomes longer in time–calmer, steadier–but also breath that is more expansive. The “tall” breath–felt perhaps all the way to the feet–becomes a support within.

Sūkṣma refers to fineness of breath. It is also perhaps subtlety and sensitivity in the perception of breath. In sūtras I.44-45, Patañjali uses sūkṣma to describe the layer of matter that is below the most obvious, what “under-weaves”  the surface of things. The suggestion–throughout Patañjali’s prāṇāyāma sūtras, is that as we become more sensitive to the movements of our breath, we will attune ourselves more clearly, more perceptively to the world around us.

The sensitive attunement to the natural world is illustrated most beautifully by English poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. A devoted Jesuit priest, whose poems were unpublished in his lifetime, he kept through his life journals of his observations of nature. His eye to the particular, and his surprising use of sound and word combinations, bring a power and freshness to his writing (see “Pied Beauty” or “The Windhover”). Here is a sample of one of his journal entries. How fine it is. How expansive. How focused.

The winter was long and hard. I made many observations on freezing. For instance…the garden mould very crisp and meshed over with a lace-work of needles leaving (they seemed) three-cornered openings: it looked greyish and like a coat of gum on wood. Also the smaller crumbs and clods were lifted fairly up from the ground on upright ice-pillars, whether they had dropped these from themselves or formed them from the soil: it was like a little Stonehenge–Looking down into the thick ice of our pond I found the imprisoned air-bubbles nothing at random but starting from centres and in particular one most beautifully regular white brush of them, each spur of it a curving string of beaded and diminishing bubbles.

–Gerard Manley Hopkins, Journal, 1870, found in A Hopkins Reader, edited by John Pick.

I have heard it said that each breath is unique, no one like another. Can I turn to my breath with the curiosity, the interest, the pure observation, that Hopkins gives to the air bubbles in ice? It is in the subtlety that breath work happens–not by forcing or pushing or willing–often by releasing. It is an interplay between the voluntary and involuntary, between control and no control, between conscious intention and automatic response, between being and doing.

Note: The sounds of Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtras are generally melodic. Composed before a widespread availability of written texts, they originated in an oral tradition. Their inner rhythms and euphony made them easier to memorize and pass on. This sūtra has an especially onomatopoetic sound–with many long vowels, stressed syllables, and aspirated consonants. It has a lot of breath in it.


“By prāṇāyāma Patañjali probably means something much simpler than the complex, occasionally strenuous patterns of later tantric practices. In light of these, prāṇāyāma (literally, ‘breath energy’ plus ‘discipline, restraint’) is generally regarded today as a set of practices in which one consciously directs the breath and its energies in deliberate patterns. Patañjali’s emphasis, however, is different: he describes instead the process by which sustained observation of the breath without deliberation brings about natural and spontaneous changes in its qualities, enabling the deepest levels of focus and bodymind stilling, or nirodha.” —Chip Hartranft, The Yoga-Sūtra of Patañjali, p. 40

“Breathing itself gets longer with regular, continuous practice over a long period. Subtlety intervenes on two levels. On the external level, the absence of disturbance is reflected in fluid, fine, regular respiration. On the internal level, a greater perceptual acuity appears, and one develops a sort of intimacy with oneself.” — Bernard Bouanchaud, The Essence of Yoga, commentary on II.50

“Philosophically speaking, inhalation is the movement of the self to come into contact with the periphery: the core of being moves with the breath and touches the inner layer of the skin–the extreme frontier of the body. This is the outward, or evolutory process of the soul. Exhalation is the return journey: it is the involutory process, where the body, the cells and the intelligence move inwards to reach their source, the atma, or the core of the being….In kumbhaka, the self becomes one with the body and the body becomes one with the self.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Tree of Yoga, p. 57

• What is your experience of inhalation, exhalation, the pause between the two? What has helped you lengthen or expand your breath? What has helped you bring greater calm to your breathing?
• What has been your experience with exercising control over the breath vs. letting go of control and volition? What is the interplay between effort and non-effort when bringing awareness to your breath?
• What places in the body do you feel the breath? What different qualities do you notice in your breath?
• How does your breath affect your perceptions?


adjective in compound

exterior (from bahis, “outside”)


adjective in compound

interior (from abhi-, “to,” + antar, “inner, within”)


adjective in compound

paused (from stambh, “to stop, fix, prop, uphold”)


feminine noun, 1st case singular

movement, pattern of movement (from vṛt, “to abide, to move, to turn, to condition”)


masculine noun in compound

place, location  (from diś, “to point out”)


masculine noun in compound

time (from kal, “to drive”)


feminine noun, 3rd case plural

number (from sam-, “with, all,” + khyā, “to declare”)


masculine past perfect participle, 1st case singular

observed, seen (from pari-, “around,” + dṛś, “to see”)


adjective in compound

long, deep, tall



masculine adjective, 1st case singular

subtle (possibly derived from sūc, “to pierce, point; hint, intimate”)

II.49 तस्मिन् सति श्वासप्रश्वासयोर्गतिविच्छेदः प्राणायामः

tasmin sati śvāsa-praśvāsayor gati-vicchedaḥ prāṇāyāmaḥ
tasmin sati śvāsa-praśvāsayoḥ gati-vicchedaḥ prāṇāyāmaḥ

“Being in that [āsana], prāṇāyāma is the interruption of the [ordinary] movements of inhalation and exhalation.”

I spoke with a friend, a woman I study Sanskrit with, and I asked her, what teachings about breath have been important to her. She immediately mentioned her first yoga āsana class. She said, “It was the first time I had ever been asked to breathe differently. The teacher asked me to feel my breath in different parts of my body–like my belly or back…. I had never brought so much awareness to the breath before. I had thought it was just something you did.”

Patañjali will describe prāṇāyāma in the next five sūtras (II.49-53). This first sūtra connects back to II.46-48. Tasmin sati, “once doing that,” meaning āsana, he says, there is an interruption (viccheda) in the normal movements (gati) of inhalation and exhalation (śvāsa-praśvāsa). That interruption is prāṇāyāma.

Traditional commentators, beginning with Vyāsa, have interpreted viccheda to mean suspension of the breath, holding the breath, as in kumbhaka. Yet a larger meaning looms up. In an important way, āsana interrupts–changes, transforms–our ordinary breathing. Whatever state we are in when we begin practice, whatever pattern our breath is in, practice marks the start of paying attention. It is the time to feel the breath in the body and feel the body through the breath. We may direct the breath, or we may just watch it. Either way, the breath is affected. And we are affected by it.

My first experience of attending to the breath came not by means of yoga but was in body and movement classes at New York’s Laban Institute of Movement Studies. There, I was encouraged to feel the expansion and contraction of inhalation and exhalation, the biological rhythm of life in my body, and to connect my movements to that breath. (See quote below by Peggy Hackney, who describes principles developed by Irmgaard Bartenieff.) The observed movement of my breath softened and collected disjointed parts of myself; it freed up range in my stiff and guarded body. It was a profound thing for me. It led me to live in a more felt way, and to respect the body’s essential connection to mind.

In his Hatha Yoga Pradipika, Svatmarama begins his chapter on prāṇāyāma emphasizing the connection of citta (mind or consciousness) to breath:

cale vāte calam cittam
disturbed the breath, the mind disturbed
niścale niścalam cittam
undisturbed [the breath], the mind undisturbed
yogī sthānutvam āpnoti
the yogi stability reaches
tato vāyum nirodhayet
therefore, breath practice

Hatha Yoga Pradipika, II.2

In clearer English: “When the breath is disturbed, the mind is disturbed. When the breath is undisturbed the mind is undisturbed, and the yogi reaches a stable state. Therefore, one should do breath practice.”

Svatmarama does not here seem to be describing stopping or suspending the breath (though he does include specific practices that do that later in the text). Instead, he addresses disturbed breathing. He says, Work with the breath to help the mind in a disturbed state (he uses the word cala, “disturbed,” from cal, “to tremble, shake, be agitated”).

Breath is core to the work of āsana. We work with the breath to find stability and ease (II.46) and to release unnecessary tension (II.47). With the breath, we anchor our awareness–we open ourselves to experience.

B.K.S. Iyengar describes prāṇa as the hub of yoga (see I.34) and says that it acts as a bridge to the inner body and to the soul. In Light on Life, he discusses the link between breath and the emotions, and in all his writings, he highlights that prāṇāyāma must not be forced. Prāṇa cannot be willed to steadiness.

What is a good translation for prāṇāyāma? Prāṇa is breath, life force, cosmic energy. Āyama means discipline, restraint–also, extension, expansion. This variety of meanings is often expressed by this fourth limb of yoga as “breath regulation.” One could also say breath restraint, breath control, or breath expansion. But words almost fail to describe the intimate, delicate process of breath awareness. In the end, I prefer “breath practice” (a term used in the Śiva Samhita). Do we sometimes direct the breath, locate it in one part of the body or another, alter its course? Yes. We do interrupt our ordinary breathing pattern. We tie our awareness to the breath, and the breath takes our awareness inward, to our inner weather, our inner state, our inner being. It is a kind of tender connection to our selves, a connection of love.

It is time to put up a love-swing!
Tie the body and tie the mind so that they swing between the arms of the Secret One you love.

–Kabir (interpreted by Robert Bly)


“The body grows and shrinks as a single undifferentiated mass, as an amoeba, the simplest form of life, the most basic sense of being. The most fundamental movement, lungs and also oxygen in blood flow and saturation of cells (cellular breathing), moves through a rhythm of expanding and condensing. When breath is integrated throughout the body, then all parts of the body will move at least slightly in coordination with the in / out breath rhythm. Use the breath pattern to recuperate and get in touch with one’s own ‘internal state’, with one’s body self, ‘proprioceptive self’, ‘where you are in the moment’, to find your entire body connected through your internal core.” –Peggy Hackney, Making Connections – Total Body Integration through Bartenieff Fundamentals, p. 53

“All vibrating energies are prāṇa. All physical energies such as heat, light, gravity, magnetism, and electricity are also prāṇa. It is the hidden and potential energy in all beings, released to the fullest extent as a response to any threat to one’s survival…. [It] is usually translated as breath, yet this is only one of its manifestations. According to the Upaniṣads, it is the principle of life and consciousness….We live with our individual consciousness with its limited intelligence, often feeling lonely and puny, when there is a conduit available directly to cosmic consciousness and intelligence. Through this conduit flows prāṇa, joining each individual among us to the highest original principle of Nature.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Life, p. 66-68

“Our breath is interrupted and flows in a zigzag manner. Patañjali suggests the sādhaka [practitioner] regulate the in-breath and out-breath by listening to and maintaining a smooth, steady sound along with a soft flow” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Core of the Yoga Sūtras, p. 155

“Steady observation alone is enough to bring about unforced changes in the breath’s shape and texture. Indeed, no form of conscious, deliberate effort can make the breath as soft and unhurried as it becomes spontaneously through sustained mindfulness. And as respiration grows inconceivably spacious and subtle, it ceases to be a suitable environment for agitated mental states.”  –Chip Hartranft, The Yoga-Sūtra of Patañjali,  p. 41

• What teachings on breath have been important to you?
• Do you remember your first experience paying attention to the breath? What was the setting? What were you doing?
• What does awareness of your breath bring to your āsana practice? How do you use breath in your practice?
• What do you learn from pausing in your day and noticing your breath?


neuter pronoun, 7th case singular



neuter participle, 7th case singular; here, part of an absolute phrase: tasmin sati

existing (tasmin sati is literally “upon that existing”)


masculine noun in compound

inhalation (from śvas, “to breathe)


masculine noun, 6th case dual, “of”

exhalation (from pra-, “forth,” + śvas, “to breathe)


 feminine noun in compound

movement, gait (from gam, “to go”)


masculine noun, 1st case singular

interruption (from vi-, “away,” + chid, “to cut”)


masculine noun, 1st case singular
breath practice (from prāṇa, “breath, life force,” + ā, an intensifying prefix, + yam, “to regulate, extend”

II.48 ततो द्वन्द्वानभिघातः

tato dvandvānabhighātaḥ
tataḥ dvandva-anabhighātaḥ

“From that, non-affliction of the pairs of opposites.”

Patañjali makes a third statement on āsana that flows out of the first two. From that (tataḥ), meaning from āsana, he says, the practitioner is un-afflicted (anabhighātah) by the dualities (dvandva). The dualities could refer to any pair of opposites: up/down, hot/cold, pleasure/pain, good/bad, success/failure.

The suffering that arises from the pairs of opposites–and our perception of them–is basic to Patañjali’s definition of spiritual suffering (he begins this chapter with his discussion of the five klésas–the universal afflictions). In II.5, he asserts that the foremost affliction, the field out of which other affliction arises, is avidya (not-knowing). He then, interestingly, defines avidya as an assertion of knowledge where there is not knowledge: “naming permanent what is impermanent, pure what is impure, happy what is painful, and self for what is not-the-self.” (See II.5.)

The practice of yoga asks us to suspend our certainties, our conceptual orthodoxies, and to direct our awareness to a point of focus. In āsana practice, the point of focus is often the sight, sound, sensation of the moment.

Sanskrit teacher Vyaas Houston (II.11) describes the significance of the yogic discipline in how he teaches, and how, after decades of experience, he came to appreciate the amount of fear driving most students’ learning (or not-learning):

The inherent logic behind the fear of not getting it right, could be roughly represented by a set of subliminal beliefs: “I must get it right, If I don’t get it right, I will fail. If I fail, people will neither love me nor respect me. I am powerless to get free from the confines of my own limitations. I will never succeed. I am a failure. I cannot survive.” The other side of the illusion is that “if I get it right I will be liked, respected, successful. I will have money, power and happiness.” … Sanskrit is learned by immersing yourself in its pure and ever blissful vibrations, and seeing, only seeing, and hearing, only hearing, the consistent and symmetrical patterns of its grammatical structure.” –Vyaas Houston, Devavāṇī, pp. 21-26

Real learning, says Vyaas Houston, comes from only seeing, only hearing.

Some commentators (see Edwin Bryant) have asserted that the transcendence of the dualities comes as the practitioner detaches from body sensations and “loses awareness of the body.” B.K.S. Iyengar describes the process differently. It is the mind, he says, that creates duality. The physical āsana unites the mind, the body, and the soul. A joy and peace comes from this–a larger view. The mind, grounded in the body, locates itself in the soul.

In some sense, we enter and engage with the dualities in āsana practice. We press the feet down, stretch the arms up, come to the mid-line, spread to the East and West. We discover the space around us, the space within us, experience all as space (Hatha Yoga Pradipika, IV.55). Furthermore, we test the limits of our discomfort. Is this a good pain or a bad pain? many of us have asked. We pretty much have to find the answer to this ourselves. What will stretch and strengthen the body? What will harm it?

“The sun will not strike you by day. Neither the moon by night,” says Psalm 121, promising that the seeker who turns to the ultimate, the source, will find protection. The physical practice of āsana, done with love and heart, is such a turning. It brings strength and vitality that is sustaining.

The dualities represent the vicissitudes of life: gains and losses, delights and sorrows. Yet our perception of opposites is often off, reductive, tied perhaps to the nervous-system fight-flight response. Patañjali’s yoga is a successive process of being less certain of conclusions, of releasing black-and-white thinking that prevents us from seeing the grays, that closes our minds to depth, fullness, potential.

Our labels, our language, constructs our sense of the world. They also limit it. Last week, I attended a lecture by author Ibram X. Kendi and was profoundly affected by his message. Current genetic research, he explained, shows that 99.9% of humanity’s DNA is held in common. The concept of humanity having separate “races” of people is relatively new. It was born in the fifteenth-century, and it served to justify the burgeoning European slave-trade of people from Africa.

In his must-read book How to Be an Anti-Racist, Kendi tells his own story in relation to the idea of race. He describes how we are all soaked in the concepts of racism; our society is structured around it. He urges us to strive to be anti-racists. This means that we commit to learning. We pay attention to racial inequity and injustice, open our eyes to the effects of the social policies we support (or ignore). We can be racist by what we don’t do.

Our yoga off the mat calls us to be curious about our world, to be learners, to be participants. To do so, we will probably have to let go of a lot of old labels, of old certainties and illusions. We do so to make room for the bigger idea, for the possible.

And then I was answered in my mind, as if by a kindly go-between: “Look for the courtesy of God–and see it–in things in general, as [she] has already shown you. For it gives more praise to God to see [her] in all things than in one special thing.”

I accepted this, and by this I learned that it is more praise to God to understand all things in general, than to set your heart on one thing in particular.

And if I am to live wisely by this teaching, not only should I not set too much store by any one thing, but I should also not be too distressed by any one thing, either–“for all shall be well.”   –Julian of Norwich, from The Revelations of Divine Love, ch. 35, translated by Sheila Upjohn


“When body, mind and soul unite in a perfect posture, the sādhaka is in a state of beatitude. In that exalted position, the mind, which is at the root of dualistic perception, loses its identity and ceases to disturb him. Unity is achieved between body and mind and mind and soul. There is no longer joy or sorrow, heat or cold, honor or dishonor, pain or pleasure. This is perfection in action and freedom in consciousness.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on the Yoga Sūtras, commentary on II.47

“It must not be just your mind or your body that is doing the āsana. You must be in it. You must do the āsana with your soul. How can you do an āsana with your soul? We can only do it with the organ of the body that is closest to the soul–the heart. …Many people try to think their way into an āsana, but you must instead feel your way into it through love and devotion. In this way, you will work from your heart, not your brain, to create harmony. The serenity in the body is the sign of spiritual tranquility.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Life, p. 63

“Stillness is a reflection of our growing openness to the unpredictable unfolding of the world as it is, a freedom from the constant effort to bend things to our liking, to make them conform to our conditioned notions of good and bad.” –Chip Hartranft, The Yoga-Sūtra of Patañjali, p. 39

• What  pairs of opposites are active in your āsana practice?
• How well do you accept difficult things?
• What is your experience of doing āsana from the head? The heart? How do you move toward serenity in a pose?
• Has yoga practice helped you become a better learner? Participant?



from that


neuter noun in compound

duality, pairs of opposites (from dva + dva , stem form of dvi, the numeral two)


masculine noun, 1st case singular

non-affliction, non-attack (from an-, “not,” + abhi-, “upon,” + han, “to strike, to hurt”)




II.47 प्रयत्नशैथिल्यानन्तसमापत्तिभ्याम्

“[Āsana becomes steady and happy] from the relaxation of effort and an intimation of the infinite.”

Patañjali has told us that āsana is stability and happiness (sthira-sukham āsanam). Here, he elaborates. Sūtra II.47 connects to II.46 by its grammatical construction, that is, by its noun-ending. The string of four words form a compound of two parts, and the entire compound is governed by the fifth-case, dual ending: -ibhyām. The fifth case describes causation. What brings the qualities of stability and happiness to āsana? They come from prayatna-śaithilya (the relaxation of effort) and ananta-samāpatti (intimation of the infinite).

In chapter one, Patañjali defined abhyāsa as the effort to maintain focus (see I.13). Perhaps for this reason–though śaithilya literally means relaxation or loosening and prayatna is effort–B.K.S. Iyengar emphasizes a dynamic tension between the two values with his translation of śaithilya as “effortlessness,” setting up the koan-like and beautiful expression “effortless effort.”

The phrase “effortless effort” comes up often in Iyengar Yoga classes, and it has intimately shaped my sense of what the yogic enterprise–and the spiritual path–is about. “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me,” says Jesus. “My yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11.29-30.) The discipline, the effort of practice, brings relief, lightness.

Āsana moves toward effortlessness when we release unnecessary actions and locate the necessary, when we balance, in other words, our various parts and bring them into harmony. Āsana practice often reveals the grace of the body, as the practitioner, bit by bit, activates dormant areas, relaxes tense or overworked ones, liberates the integrity of the whole. The body often feels lighter, the effort feels less–yet effort  has been made, is being made, will be made again. The non-effort and the effort appear at once.

Ananta means infinity (“not-ending”); it is a name for Vishnu, and it is a name for the snake that supports Vishnu in the cosmic ocean of being. The sage Patañjali is said to be an incarnation of the snake Ananta; according to Hindu myth, Ananta asked to be born. He brought to humanity the supports of yoga for consciousness, medicine for the body, and grammar for language.  The Invocation to Patañjali, often chanted at the beginning of Iyengar Yoga classes, alludes to these gifts. (Find my literal translation here.) The pose anantāsana is often called Vishnu’s couch. It can also be considered the pose of infinity. In this āsana, the practitioner lies on her side, balanced, not dropping to the front body or back, making a line in space through herself, resting, observant, supported in flux and flow–in infinity.

Samāpatti, a term Patañjali uses in chapter one, is full perception, direct experience, union. I have translated it here as “intimation” to emphasize how subtle, how delicate, our experiences of the ineffable, the infinite, often are. Many commentators (including the foremost Vyāsa) have emphasized that the practitioner must keep his or her focus on the divine. B.K.S. Iyengar has taught that the āsana itself, in its very finiteness, its material definitiveness, reveals the infinite within–the space between the molecules and atoms (see quote below). The infinite moves through and through every part of our lives. What brings us to the perception of it?

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
–Walt Whitman, Song of Myself


“In āsana, we are trying to broach the mass of our gross body, to break up the molecules and divide them into atoms that will allow our vision to penetrate within. . . . Initially we need to exert ourselves more as resistance is greater. Of the two aspects of āsana, exertion of our body and penetration of our mind, the latter is eventually more important. Penetration of our minds is our goal, but in the beginning to set things in motion, there is no substitute for sweat. When effort becomes effortless, āsana is at its highest level.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Life, p. 45

“It is difficult to speak of bodily knowledge in words. It is much easier to experience it, to discover what it feels like. It is as if the rays of light of your intelligence were shining through your body, out your arms to your fingertips and down your legs and out through the soles of your feet. As this happens, the mind becomes passive and begins to relax. This is an alert passivity and not a dull, empty one. The state of alert repose regenerates the mind and purifies the body.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Life, p. 32

• What has been your experience of effort and relaxation in āsana practice? Has it changed over time?
• How would you describe effortless effort?
• In what way do you experience the intelligence of the body?
• What connects you to the infinite? What does the infinite mean to you?


masculine noun in compound

effort (from pra-, prefix that here gives a sense of excellence or completeness, + yat, “to try”)


neuter noun in compound
relaxation (from the adjective śithila, “loose”)

neuter noun in compound

the infinite (from an-, “not,” + anta, “end”)

feminine noun, 5th case dual “from”

full perception, apprehension


II.46 स्थिरसुखमासनम्

sthira-sukham āsanam
“Steadiness and happiness–[that is] āsana.”

Āsana, or posture (literally, “sitting”), is the third of the eight limbs of Patañjali’s yoga. In early usage, it specifically meant the seat that a practitioner would take to meditate. Over time, its sense expanded to include a large variety of body positions and movements that invite attention and inward awareness.

The thirteenth-century Hatha Yoga text Viveka Mārtaṇḍa states, “There are as many āsanas as there are species of living things.” (Viveka Mārtaṇḍa, verse 10.) The allusion to the natural world is important: often named after animals (dog, crow, frog, eagle, horse…) or plants (tree, lotus…), āsanas form a bridge for us to the natural world and our membership in it.  They encourage body experience and awaken the senses. In āsana practice, we experiment with gravity by balancing and inverting; we explore the dimensions of space vertically, horizontally, saggitally; we play with forces and enact shapes that expand our sense of self and open possibility.

Geeta Iyengar, the daughter of B.K.S. Iyengar, writes that the āsanas are “seemingly physical,” and I believe she means by this that the mental and the spiritual are expressed in the physical. We move our bodies and we affect our minds.

Yoga–as it is practised today by millions around the world–often begins with the practice of āsana. It is a practice that, though probably influenced by nineteenth- and twentieth-century forms of gymnastics and other movement, has various and deep roots that include the Hatha Yoga of the thirteenth- to fourteenth-centuries, Tantra (100 CE – 1300 CE), the classical yoga of Patañjali (100-400 CE), and the earlier Upaniṣads and Bhagavad Gītā (dating back as far as 2500 BCE). (For a clear description of the literary sources of yoga, see Georg Feuerstein’s The Deeper Dimension of Yoga, pp. 64-69.) What many contemporary practitioners recognize as yoga (a practice referred to by some scholars as “modern postural yoga”) has been significantly shaped by the teaching of T.M. Krishnamacarya and his students B.K.S. Iyengar, K. Patabhi Jois, and T.K.V. Desikachar.

I was introduced to yoga in a New York Soho studio in 1988, when Iyengar teachers Judy Freedman and Peentz Dubble demonstrated Caturāṅga Daṇḍasana, a pose in which the torso hovers, crocodile-like, a few inches off the ground. It was eerily non-physical (as Geeta Iyengar suggests) and physical at once. Clearly, the pose took strength. But it took a kind of release of strength as well, a suspension of disbelief, an integration of being. I was entranced–and I began the practice from that day.

B.K.S. Iyengar has declared that all eight limbs of Patañjali’s yoga are implicit in the first Tadāsana a student does. He is a champion of āsana and of the significance, the impact, of “body knowledge” on every being.

In this first and very lovely sūtra of the three sūtras in which Patañjali describes āsana, he says that āsana is sthira-sukham, steadiness and happiness. We can interpret this to mean that āsana is an expression of these two qualities and/or that āsana brings them. Either way, they are integral to the purpose, the essence of āsana.

Sthira, “steadiness,” derives from the verbal root sthā, “to stand,” which not only is cognate with the English “stand,” but as in English connects to a family of  words with related meanings–steadiness, stability, strength. To come to stand is an underlying theme of the Yoga Sūtras. In sūtra I.3, Patañjali states that the purpose of yoga is to bring one to “stand in the identity of the seer” (tadā draṣṭuḥ svarūpe avasthānam). Words derived from sthā  weave in and out of the text (see I.35 and II.28 as examples). But to get a fuller sense of the importance and beauty of the idea of coming to stand in the self, we might turn to the Bhagavad Gītā:

sthita-prajñasya kā bhāṣā
[she who is] steady of wisdom, what description [would you give]
samādhi-sthasya Keśava
[she who is] steadfast in samādhi, O Kriṣna,
sthita-dhīḥ kim prabaśeta
steady in thought–how does she speak,
kim āsīta vrajeta kim
how sit, how move?
Bhagavad Gītā, II.54

There are three words in this verse that derive from sthā, forming a kind of chorus of emphasis: the yoga endeavor is steadiness of consciousness, stability of mind and emotions. This inner standing is reflected in our embodiment, and vice-versa–the body that stands, that establishes itself in gravity and space, supports the inner being.

But āsana is not just steadiness; it is also sukha–happiness, sweetness, mobility, ease. Āsana, like the body itself, is not meant to be hard or fixed. As Meister Eckhart says, “The path is beautiful and pleasant and joyful and familiar.” (Meditations with Meister Eckhart, edited by Matthew Fox.) Perhaps it is a surprise that a path of discipline is a joyful path–that a steadiness of purpose might also be light and pleasant–that, as we approach the heart of things, we learn to be, in Mary Oliver’s words, “that wild and loving.”


I had a dog
who loved flowers.
Briskly she went
through the fields,

yet paused
for the honeysuckle
or the rose,
her dark head

and her wet nose
the face
of every one

with its petals
of silk
with its fragrance

into the air
where the bees,
their bodies
heavy with pollen

and easily
she adored
every blossom

not in the serious
careful way
that we choose
this blossom or that blossom—

the way we praise or don’t praise—
the way we love
or don’t love—
but the way

we long to be—
that happy
in the heaven of earth—
that wild, that loving.

–Mary Oliver, “Luke”


“[The] process of relaxing the brain is achieved through āsana. We generally think of mind as being in our head. In āsana our consciousness spreads through the body, eventually diffusing in every cell, creating a complete awareness. In this way stressful thought is drained away, and our mind focuses on the body, intelligence, and awareness as a whole. This allows the brain to be more receptive, and concentration becomes more natural. How to keep the brain cells in a relaxed, receptive, and concentrated state is the art that yoga teaches.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Life, p.15

“The seemingly physical āsanas have a great potential to change the behavioral pattern of the practitioner, which in turn changes the mental stature, enabling the practitioner to proceed further and remain on the spiritual path. This systematic classification is based on the anatomical structure and function of the body and a sequential progression of movement. It brings a progressive activation of the internal body so that one penetrates through the outer body to the inner one, and again, through the body and the mind to excavate the hidden energy of one’s very existence, to reach the source of being, the Soul.” –Geeta Iyengar, Yoga in Action, Preliminary Course, p.11

• How does stability and strength in the body affect your mind and attitude? When you have suffered injury, feel tired, stiff, weak, or unbalanced, what is the effect on your mind and spirit?
• Do you cultivate ease in your practice? A sense of play or fun? Love?
• Has yoga brought you greater stability in your consciousness? How would you describe that? What does it feel like, for you?
• What has āsana practice taught you about sukha (happiness, ease, delight)? What have you learned about duhkha (pain) through āsana practice?


neuter noun in compound

steady (from sthā, “to stand)


neuter noun, 1st case singular

happiness, ease (from su, “good,” + kha, “axle hole, space”)


neuter noun, 1st case singular

posture (from ās, “to sit”)

II.45 समाधिसिद्धिरीश्वरप्रणिधानात

samādhi-siddhir īśvara-praṇidhānāt
samādhi-siddhiḥ īśvara-praṇidhānāt
“The ability to perceive directly and fully [comes] from turning toward the source within.”

Who or what owns it all? Who or what do I defer to, commit to, surrender to? What brings me the widest perspective that I can have? What support lies underneath the support?

Just as sūtra I.23 introduced īśvara-praṇidhana as the ultimate yogic act, implicit in all yogic practices, so does Patañjali’s discussion of the yamas and niyamas culminate with this same great injunction: turn inward, turn to the source.

As I have described, the word īśvara (from īś, “to own,” +   vṛ, “to choose”) can be an adjective that means powerful, capable. As a noun, it refers to one who is the owner, a rich person, a king or queen. It is commonly translated Lord or God. To understand Patañjali’s idea of īśvara, it is useful to return to chapter one and consider sūtras I.23-29. There, Patañjali describes īśvara as the self that is untouched by circumstances (I.24), a place within, beyond time, the holder of the seed of knowledge, the original teacher (I.25-26), understood by vibration, not concept (I.27-28). The sound of īśvara is OM, and OM takes us inward, to the connection to what īśvara is in us (I.29).

Praṇidhāna (from pra-, “towards,” + ni-, “under”, + dhā, “to place”) carries with it the sense of placing something down and before, turning something over, as it were. It is translated surrender, devotion, commitment.

In the context of the practice of yoga, and specifically, Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtras, what we surrender–what we lay down–is our preconceptions, patterns of thought, reactive tendencies. Rohit Mehta translates īśvara-praṇidhāna as aspiration to what is highest, orientation to ultimate reality. He says the yoga aspirant must be “poor and penniless in the psychological sense” to come to the view of reality, to “live in the open spaces.” (See quotation below.)

To view reality, to see clearly, is samādhi, and Mehta here echoes the definition of samādhi that Patañjali will give in sūtra III.3, where he describes an “emptying” of citta so that the object alone shines there. This emptying allows the fulfillment (siddhi) of what samādhi is. In today’s sūtra, Patañjali simply says, samādhi-siddhiḥ īśvara-praṇidhānāt, which I have translated: the ability to perceive directly and fully [comes] from turning toward the source within.

Patañjali will describe the turn inward, the how of it, in the following sūtras. It is worth pausing here to reflect on a quality that Mehta mentions in his discussion of santoṣa and that relates to īśvara-praṇidhāna as well: self-containment. The spiritual person, says Mehta, is neither a conformist nor non-conformist, but finds authority within. I was fortunate to see an interview with the young Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg this week. Greta is diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome and has chosen to be forthright about it. Asked how it affects her as an activist, she answered:

It is thanks to my diagnosis, my Asperger’s syndrome…because without that I wouldn’t have noticed this crisis…. Everyone else saw the same pictures and films that I did, the destruction of nature and what was happening with the climate, but no one of them seemed to really … I didn’t understand why their lives weren’t turned upside down like mine was.  —https://theintercept.com/2019/09/13/greta-thunberg-naomi-klein-climate/

Most of us gauge our responses based on what our families or neighbors or fellow citizens do. Greta Thunberg took in the facts of climate change directly and has directly responded. She is an exemplar of what we aspire to as yoga practitioners.

The turn inward, the surrender or commitment to seeing as the seer within sees, is central to yoga practice. So, is īśvara-praṇidhāna–and therefore yogatheistic? Rohit Mehta argues that Patañjali’s īśvara is neither anthropomorphic nor a personal deity. And though religious practitioners can readily recognize the principle of surrendering to God, īśvara-praṇidhāna is a more universal expression of faith–non-sectarian, even secular. To not know, to let go, to trust, these are the attributes of Patañjali’s īśvara-praṇidhāna.

What supports me? What do I turn to? What is the support under the support?

There is a basket of fresh bread on your head, yet you go door to door asking for crusts. Knock on the inner door. No other. Sloshing knee-deep in clear streamwater, you keep wanting a drink from other people’s waterbags. Water is everywhere around you, but you see only barriers that keep you from water. A horse is moving beneath the rider’s thighs, yet still he asks, Where is my horse? Right there, under you. Yes, this is a horse, but where’s the horse? Can’t you see? Yes, I can see, but whoever saw such a horse? Mad with thirst, he cannot drink from the stream running so close by his face. He is like a pearl on the deep bottom wondering, inside the shell, Where is the ocean? His mental questionings form the barrier. His physical eyesight bandages his knowing. Self-consciousness plugs his ears. Stay bewildered in God and only that. –Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks


“Patañjali says that while making effort, while training, while studying, become aware that there is a principle permeating everything. Toward It, have an attitude of surrender–otherwise you might mistake yourself as this master of your body and master of the cosmos or the universe. You are in a limited form and all your actions are limited. You have to work in a conditioned, limited structure, so whatever you do has limitation. But there is an unlimited, all-pervading principle that is omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent–these three beautiful terms explain everything that is indicated by the word īśvara. There is no other meaning to the word īśvara as far as Patañjali is concerned.” –Vimala Thakar, Glimpses of Raja Yoga, p. 37

Īśvara or Reality is not in some one direction. It is all-pervading. So right orientation means opening oneself to Reality, and therefore living in the open spaces. It is a condition of an open mind, not open to something or in some direction, but just open. It is a state of openness. … To come to this state the mind has to be divested of everything. To be poor and penniless in the psychological sense is to know what non-possessiveness [aparigraha] is.” –Rohit Mehta, Yoga, the Art of Integration, p. 183

“Pupil: ‘Sir, can one see God? If so, why can’t we see [her]him?’ Sri Ramakrishna: ‘Yes, [s]he can assuredly be seen. One can see [her]him with form, and one can see [her]him also as formless.'” –quoted by Swami Prabhavananda and Christopher Isherwood, How to Know God, p. 158

• What are you committed to? Devoted to?
• In what ways is surrender a rhythm that underlies your practice? What is the interplay between effort and letting go, for you?
• Has yoga practice brought you to a state of openness? What is required of you to become more open?
• What form does God take for you (if any)? What is faith for you?


masculine noun in compound(I.41

absorption (from sam-, “with,” + ā, “towards,” + dhā, “to place, to hold”)


feminine noun, 1st case
power, ability, completion (from sidh, “to fulfill, to reach, to succeed”)

masculine noun in compound

owner (from īś, “to own,” + vṛ, “to choose”)


neuter noun, 5th case singular

devotion, surrender, contemplation (from pra-, towards + ni-, “under,” + dhā, “to place, support”)


II.44 स्वाध्यायादिष्टदेवतासम्प्रयोगः

svādhyāyād iṣṭa-devatā-samprayogaḥ
svādhyāyāt iṣṭa-devatā-samprayogaḥ
“From self-study, union with the beloved within.”

The spiritual path might be described as the journey to discover one’s self. The discipline (tapas) of walking that path includes bringing awareness and honesty to one’s tendencies, proclivities, limitations, adaptations of all kinds. It involves a willingness to observe, to test, to try new behaviors. In short, it involves study.

Svādhyāya, the fourth niyama, is self-study. It derives from sva, “self” + adhī, “to study, to go fully into” (the root verb of adhī is i, “to go”). But the English word self does not quite express the fullness of the expression sva as it is used in Sanskrit. Sva is a pronoun that means “one’s own,” and could be used to indicate anything that belongs to one. As a noun, it is often used to refer to the soul.  It is also a name of the god Viṣṇu, protector and preserver of life. So the word both refers to the individual and that that is greater than the individual–the source, the deep reality.

Mr. Iyengar writes that yoga is an inward journey, and in that journey we move through layers of our being, “from the world of appearances, or surfaces, into the subtlest heart of living matter.” There is a kind of excavation that happens as we go inward; we remove and release old ways of being and thinking; we move toward an innate self. Some describe this as coming into wholeness. In yogic terms, it is discovering the divine within.

The inward experience can happen powerfully in the seemingly “surface” practice of āsana. I may be especially aware of this because it is my tendency to separate from my body–to remove myself from felt experience and dwell on the intellectual or analytical layer of myself. To bring my awareness to the felt–to physical perceptions–acquaints me with me. I know then what I am feeling, what I am sensing around me, and I come alive, become more “sensitive,” as Rohit Mehta would say.

This awakening of the senses has brought me up against hard truths about myself. It has led me to recognize my own self-defeating behaviors. It has revealed a definite inclination toward shame. Thus, a key tool of self-study, I would say, is curiosity. Can I be interested not in the success or failure of a pose, but in the how of it? If I become disturbed by a person or event, can I sympathetically say to  myself, Huh! What is that about? Can I be curious? Can I be loving?

Christian theologian Henri Nouwen writes of the spiritual journey in personal and psychological terms in his 1992 book Life of the Beloved. This work was an attempt to describe the spiritual life to a secular friend. He specifically addresses shame, which he calls “self-rejection”:

Over the years, I have come to realize that the greatest trap in our life is not success, popularity, or power, but self-rejection…I am constantly surprised at how quickly I give in to this temptation. As as soon as someone accuses me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking: Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody.”  (Life of the Beloved, pp. 31-32)

For Henri Nouwen, the quality of being turned against oneself, of rejecting oneself, is a trap. It delays and deflects from the spiritual path, the aim of which is belovedness.

It is not unlike what Patañjali says here. From self-study, Patañjali says, comes union with the beloved within (iṣṭa-devata). In Hinduism, the iṣṭa-devata is the representation of the divine that the devotee particularly connects with; it is the expression of the divine that one loves. In secular terms, we might understand this to be any symbol, place, or activity that connects us to what is beyond ourselves and what is within.

The key to the term iṣṭa-devata, I believe, is iṣṭa. It is the past passive participle of the verb iṣ, “to desire”–it refers to what is desired, longed for…what is beloved. The iṣṭa-devata (again, in secular terms) is the thing that excites us, brings enthusiasm, that supports us in our efforts; it is the habit or practice that holds our attention, that captures our curiosity, that draws us toward truth, toward insight, toward wholeness.

As we come to know ourselves better, we choose our individual path with more discernment. What is right for me may not be right for you. What you love, what connects you, is your guide.

B.K.S. Iyengar was known to say, “Be a learner.” I would add, Be curious. Be the Beloved.

Dear friend, being the Beloved is the origin and the fulfillment of the life of the Spirit. I say this because, as soon as we catch a glimpse of the truth, we are put on a journey in search of the fullness of that truth and we will not rest until we can rest in that truth. From the moment we claim the truth of being the Beloved, we are faced with the call to become who we are. Becoming the Beloved is the great spiritual journey we have to make. –Henri Nouwen, Life of the Beloved, p. 43


“Self-study refers not only to the regular, independent study and recitation of wisdom teachings but also more broadly to the way one applies them to one’s own life. It is not enough simply to arrive at an intellectual, conceptual grasp of the ideas associated with tradition. One must ‘walk the talk’ by actually taking action.” –Chip Hartranft, The Yoga-Sūtra of Patañjali, p. 36

“To a yogi … the path toward spirit  lies entirely in the domain of nature. It is the exploration of nature from the world of appearances, or surface, into the subtlest heart of living matter. Spirituality is not some external goal that one must seek but a part of the divine core of each of us, which we must reveal. For the yogi, spirit is not separate from body. Spirituality, as I have tried to make clear, is not ethereal and outside nature but accessible and palpable in our very own bodies.” –B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Life, p. 18

• Has the practice of yoga brought you greater knowledge of yourself? Has it brought you surprises about yourself? Has it affected your inner dialogue? Have you come to have compassion for yourself?
• Has knowledge of yourself helped you trust yourself more? Has it brought self-reliance? Responsibility?
• What connects you to spirit? Is there a place or an activity that centers you? What is your experience of spirit in the body?
• Is there a form of the divine that is dear to you? What is your source of inspiration?


masculine noun, 5th case singular, “from”

self-study; traditionally, study of sacred books and repetition of mantra (from sva, “self, one’s own” + adhī, “to study, to go fully into”; root verb is i, “to go”)


past passive participle in compound
beloved (from iṣ, “to desire”)

feminine noun in compound

deity (derivation uncertain, possibly from div, “to shine”)

masculine noun, 1st case singular

connection, union (from sam-, “with,” + pra-, prefix that suggests auspiciousness, + yuj, “to join”)

II.43 कायेन्द्रियसिद्धिरशुद्धिक्षयात् तपसः

kāyendriya-siddhir aśuddhi-kṣayāt tapasaḥ
kāya-indriya-siddhiḥ aśuddhi-kṣayāt tapasaḥ

“Strength of the body and senses comes from tapas–the removal of impurities.”

Tapas is the discipline of spiritual practice. It is the discipline to repeat, once more, and once more, those actions that clear, clarify, transform. Tapas is the willingness to begin again. It is the acceptance of the slog. It is determination when encountering resistance.

The word tapas comes from the root tap, “to burn,” and like the word kriyā (sacred act, see II.1), it suggests the lighting of the fire that was central to Vedic ritual. This imagery is vivid in the Bhagavad Gītā, verse VI.1:

anāśritaḥ karmaphalaṁ
kāryam karma karoti yaḥ
sa sannyāsī ca yogī ca
na niragnir na cākriyaḥ

The one who does the actions-to-be-done,
without attachment to the fruits,
that one is a yogi and is free–
not the one without a fire and without sacred acts.

The actions-to-be-done vary for each of us, but we must each light a fire.

In this sūtra, Patañjali emphasizes again that spiritual practice works as an act of removal–aśuddhi-kṣayāt (by the removal of impurities, a phrase used to describe the eight limbs of yoga generally, see II.26). Yoga is not about acquisition.

And yet this process of removal, this lighting of the fire, unveils to us, unblocks in us, our natural potentials. Patañjali states that, by means of tapas, the body and the senses are strengthened; they are brought to fulfillment–kāya-indriya-siddhiḥ. In his recent book, One Simple Thing, A New Look at the Science of Yoga, Eddie Stern describes tapas as “a positive stress” (p. 119). Indeed, there is a growing recognition in modern medicine and psychology that the body and the nervous system need to be stressed to stay strong. We must move, be active, face challenges to keep our bodies and minds healthy.

Patañjali will elaborate on the powers (siddhis) in Ch. 3, the Vibhuti Pāda, “chapter of accomplishments,” but he suggests here that the powers of which the body and the senses are capable are not special or magical, though they may seem so at times. They are rather the abilities revealed when the obstacles to learning are cleared. The body, generally, is ready to learn–it is the mind that says no. The senses, often, are under-used.

Vimala Thakar emphasizes that the limbs of yoga educate the body and the senses and free us of “the clutches of conditioning.” Rohit Mehta, who often speaks of the re-education of the senses, describes in his commentary on this sūtra that tapas brings sensitivity. He considers tapas, essentially, to be an austerity of simplicity, a condition in which “all ostentation and sophistication are put aside.”

Pratyāhāra, the turning inward of the senses, the “bending inward”–as B.K.S. Iyengar says–is essential to this aspect of tapas. Doing nothing, being still, observing inwardly, these renew the senses. They heighten the awareness. They also require a kind of fire of attention. There is a not-doing to the doing that is yogic tapas. One might also say that there is a doing to the not-doing.

When I consider my own tapas, I ask myself, Am I willing to learn? Am I willing to have the conditionings that clutch me released (even if they don’t disappear)? Do I make time in the day for spaciousness? In the body? In the mind? Am I willing to listen, to receive? To be sensitive? I am pretty sure I do not free myself. Space does.

In a word, let this thing deal with you, and lead you as it will. Let it be active, and you passive. Watch it if you like, but let it alone. Do not interfere with it, as though you would help, for fear that you should spoil it all. Be the tree; let it be the carpenter. Be the house, and let it be the householder who lives there. Be willing to be blind, and give up all longing to know the why and how, for knowing will be more of a hindrance than a help. It is enough that you should feel moved lovingly by you know not what, and that in this inward urge you have no real thought for anything less than God, and that your desire is steadily and simply turned toward that. —The Cloud of Unknowing, ch. 34


“The third niyama, tapas, sustained practice, corresponds to pratyāhāra, the hinge between the outer and inner aspects of yoga practice. It implies that cognitive awareness is bent inward with a view to self-knowledge (svādhyāya). It directs one toward the core of being and, like the blacksmith’s bellows, it must always continue to heat the heart of the fire of practice, otherwise the alchemical transformation through extreme heat will never take place. The fire will burn merrily, but it will not turn lead into gold.”–B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Life, p. 263

Tapas is not mortification. No suppression, no repression, no denial–but it is an austerity….Tapas is to educate the body–āsanas, prāṇāyāma, pratyāhāra, etc. You educate the body in speech, in ideas, etc., so that it can set itself free of the clutches of conditionings. You cannot destroy conditionings, but you can release yourself from their hold, their domination, their clutches.” –Vimala Thakar, Glimpses of Raja Yoga, p. 28

“It would be well to regard tapas as simplicity, that condition of the body and mind where all ostentation and sophistication are put aside. In such simplicity there arises a great sensitivity in the functioning of the body and the mind. One is able to respond to the beauty of nature and man.” –Rohit Mehta, Yoga, the Art of Integration, p. 179

• What role has discipline played in your life? What are the disciplines important to your life today?
• Do you consider sensitivity a goal of practice?
• What has brought you transformation–physical, psychological, or spiritual? What “conditionings” do you most need release from? How does practice help with that?
• Is a quality of fire necessary in practice? (How do you kindle that fire? How do you help it burn steady?)


masculine noun in compound



neuter noun in compound

sense organ (from Indra, name of lord of the atmosphere, + ya, suffix that designates belonging)


feminine noun, first case singular

power, ability (from sidh, “to fulfill, to reach, to succeed”)


feminine noun in compound

impurity (from a-, negation, + śudh, “to purify, make clear”)


masculine noun, 5th case singular, “from”

removal, elimination, destruction (from kṣi, “to destroy”)


neuter noun, 5th case singular, “from”

discipline, fire, pain (from tap, “to be hot, blaze, burn”)

II.42 सन्तोषादनुत्तमः सुखलाभः

santoṣād anuttamaḥ sukha-lābhaḥ
santoṣāt anuttamaḥ sukha-lābhaḥ
“From contentment, incomparable attainment of happiness.”

The second niyama is santoṣa–contentment. It can be understood to come, like saumanasya (cheerfulness), from the first niyama, which is śauca, cleanliness. The health, vitality, and sensitivity that śauca brings do themselves give us a feeling of contentment. Yet in this sūtra, contentment is not described as a consequence. Like the other niyamas, contentment is an action.

Generally, as a product of my society, I have viewed contentment as a result of action, as an object to be won. Enshrined in our Declaration of Independence is the phrase “the pursuit of happiness” and I am sure that has influenced me. Matthew Remski remarks that the American standard of living is based on “incessant appeals to our dissatisfaction” (Threads of Yoga, p.112). Our dissatisfaction drives the engine of our economy. I am so accustomed to it as part of life that I hardly know there is an alternative.

Patañjali challenges us to live in a different way. He tells us to practice contentment.

Santoṣa derives from the prefix sam-, “with or all,” and the verbal root tuṣ, “to be satisfied.” Tuṣ is a pretty verb: tuṣyāmi, “I am satisfied”; tuṣyati,“he/she is satisfied.” What leads me to be satisfied? What prevents me from feeling satisfied–even when circumstances are good, when I have much to be thankful for?

One summer when my daughter was in high school, she worked on a permaculture farm run by a family. Her employer, a man named Nick, gave her a list of tasks to do. When she had finished them, she went back to him and asked what’s next. Now, he said, you sit down and absorb what you have done. I always do that, he said.

Do I sometimes not feel satisfied because I have not let myself absorb what I have done? Or enjoy what is happening? Do I feel the water on my skin when I do the dishes? (See Thich Nhat Hanh quote on washing the dishes, II.40.) Do I taste my food when I eat? Do I notice the weather, the seasons, the sky? Do I let myself experience the fullness that is in each moment?  The awakened senses can lead us to be in our lives more.

Many spiritual traditions direct us to find contentment within. At the source of our self, within our self, we are told, we find our self. The Bhagavad Gītā expresses this beautifully in the following verse:

yatra caivātmanā ‘tmānam
where, and indeed, by the self, the self

paśyann ātmani tuṣyati
beholding–in the self, she is satisfied (VI.20)

The word for self–ātman–appears three times. “By means of the self, seeing the self, in the self, she [the practitioner] is satisfied.” To be in the self is to be satisfied.

This satisfaction means, to me, that I am attuned to my everyday self and with my everyday life. It means that I keep things simple. Can I be glad in the body I have, with its idiosyncrasies, strengths, and limitations? Can I be glad, even, in the peculiarities of my temperament? How much do feelings of not being good enough, even more so than not having enough, disturb the contentment that might come if I let it?

Rohit Mehta says the real meaning of santoṣa is “psychological self-containment.” It is a state, he says, in which we are not dependent on external happenings, but find instead a happiness that is incorruptible. I like Mehta’s definition, and it leads me to wonder if the independence that comes of establishing the self in one’s self, that comes of practicing santoṣa, isn’t itself significant.

Indeed, there is much to not be satisfied by in the state of our country. The world is in a climate crisis. Men and women and children seeking refuge at the U.S. border are detained and held in inhumane conditions. I believe it is my obligation to not look away, to be a witness, and to respond as best I can. I don’t always know what I can do, and I often feel deficient, but it does seem to me that the “incorruptible happiness” of santoṣa can strengthen my purpose. This moment in history calls for engagement. May the niyamas support me in that.

“I have no power of miracle other than the attainment of quiet happiness, I have no tact except the exercise of gentleness.” — Oracle of Sumiyoshi, Shinto prayer (thanks to Mark Nepo)

“I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.” – Hamlet, II.ii


“You know how electricity is produced: water flows like a waterfall onto turbines which rotate under the action of the water to generate the current. So also, when we are performing āsanas, we make the blood fall on every one of our cells like water onto a turbine, to release the hidden energy of our body and bring new light to the cells. When that light comes, we experience santoṣa–contentment–which is the second principle of niyama.”–B.K.S. Iyengar, The Tree of Yoga, p. 50

“Contentment comes from mental well-being (saumanasya) that moves us to consider the positive in all beings and situations. Often our frustrations come from regrets, agitation, suffering, or comparing ourselves with others. Focusing on what others have–or don’t have, for that matter–instead of nourishing gratitude, leads to everlasting discontent. Contentment is a dynamic and constructive attitude that brings us to look at things in a new way. It calms the mind, bringing a flowering of subtle joy and inner serenity that are independent of all outside influences and perishable things. It is essential for self-confidence, for succeeding in our personal endeavors, and for relationships, education, teaching, and therapy.” –Bernard Bouanchaud, The Essence of Yoga, p. 126

“So long as man thinks his happiness lies outside, in external happenings, he is destined to remain unhappy, for he can have no control over the external factors. To be psychologically self-contained is to find happiness within.” –Rohit Mehta, Yoga, the Art of Integration, p. 178

• Do you practice contentment? How?
• Is adrenaline a fuel for you? Anxiety? Worry? Is there a way that contentment itself could be dynamic?
• Do you experience a link between self-confidence and contentment? (Do you compare yourself to others?) What supports, for you, feelings of satisfaction, abundance?


masculine noun, 5th case singular, “from”

contentment (from sam-,”with or all,” + tuṣ, “to be satisfied”)


masculine adjective, 1st case singular
having no superior, highest, unsurpassed (from an-, “not,” + ud, “up, high”)

neuter noun in compound

happiness (from su, “good,” + kha, “axle hole, space”)

masculine noun, 1st case singular

obtainment, gain (from labh, “to obtain”)

II.41 सत्त्वशुद्धिसौमनस्यैकाग्र्येन्द्रियजयात्मदर्शनयोग्यत्वानि च

sattva-śuddhi-saumanasyaikāgryendriya-jayātma-darśana-yogyatvāni ca
sattva-śuddhi-saumanasya-ekāgrya-indriya-jaya-ātma-darśana-yogyatvāni ca

“[From this,] clarity about the essence of things, cheerfulness, focus, refreshment of the senses, receptivity.”

There are a few sūtras in Patañjali’s work that stand out as almost complete statements on the aim of yoga (I.3, I.32, I.33, II.28 are examples). This sūtra is one. Describing five qualities of consciousness that come from the practice of śauca (cleanliness), Patañjali gives us an opportunity to consider what the yogic idea of purity is, what it is for, and what a concept of purity might mean for us as individuals.

Sattva-śuddhi (clarity about the essence of things), saumanasya (cheerfulness), ekāgrya (focus), indriya-jaya (refreshment of the senses), ātma-darśana-yogyatva (receptivity) all describe benefits for the consciousness that come from yogic practice. The subject of yoga is consciousness (citta), the apparatus that we perceive with, and through practice–whether this practice is āsana, prāṇāyāma, chanting, or some other form–we soften and release patterns of thinking and processing that obscure our view and our understanding.

Thus, the first word of this sūtra is sattva. Though in sankhya philosophy, the primary sense of sattva is the elemental force (guṇa) of brightness, it here has a broader sense of “what is.”  Sattva (from as, “to be”) is truth, essence, what is at the heart. It can also mean goodness. Śuddhi (from śudh, “to purify, make clear”) is purity or clarity, and so sattva-śuddhi is a phrase that suggests a clearing that reveals truth–it may intimate as well a readiness to see good and do good.

Saumanasya is a sweet-sounding word that suggests its own meaning: cheerfulness. From su-, “good,” + manas, “mind,” it stands in contrast to that affliction of mind that is daurmanasya (from dus, “bad, + manas, “mind,”), which might be translated as depression. If depression is a heavy thing, a state of mind that weighs a person down with past loss, frustration, fear–cheerfulness is the state that is light, free, like Emily Dickinson’s description of hope: “the thing with feathers.” Cheerfulness is perhaps a more generous state of being than depression. A college professor of mine once proclaimed, “It is a duty to be cheerful!” and he cited a rabbi whose name I have never been able to find. The phrase has stayed with me, though, often when I myself have struggled with depression. What can it mean to consider cheer a duty? The phrase has, at the least, helped me to be less satisfied with gloom, which has its own magnetism.

For Patañjali, cheerfulness is related to ekāgrya (one-pointedness, the ability to focus). As we will come to see in chapter three, focus–making the choice to place our attention somewhere and keep it there–is at the center of what yoga is. The choice of where we place our attention is key, though Patañjali has already suggested that any point that attracts the mind is suitable (I.39). In āsana practice, we direct our minds to the points of the body, to shapes in space, to the actions of the pose. In prāṇāyāma, we bring awareness to our breath. In the study of Sanskrit, the practitioner might take attention to the resonance of the word, the vibrations of its sound, to its derivation, its allusions and implications.

The fourth quality Patañjali describes is indriya-jaya, which means victory over or mastery of the senses. This mastery is often described as a restraint of the senses, but I would argue that it is equally a refreshment, a renewal of the senses. Many of us, especially in modern society, are cut off from our sense perceptions. We are de-sensitized. We may indeed be disassociated. Indeed, the conceptual mind often interferes with the direct perception of things. Yoga is a practice of letting go of concept, of conclusions (perhaps formed from trauma), to return to direct perception. The senses are key to this process.

Finally, yoga is considered to remove the obstacles from knowing ourselves, in the profoundest sense that the word “self” might mean. Ātma-darśana-yogyatva is “readiness for the vision of the ātman.” Ātman is self, spirit, soul, the ultimate reality. It is important to not let the concept of God, soul, or spirit interfere with the possibility of what this might be. The readiness for the vision (darśana) is perhaps, ultimately, a not-knowing–an openness, a receptivity of all the senses. “Don’t rush to finish your poem,” writes Rumi. See, feel, hear.

…how happy is the one
whose heart’s ear
hears that special voice
as it begins to arrive

clear your ears my friend
from all impurity
a polluted ear
can never hear the sound
as it begins to arrive

if your eyes are marred
with petty visions
wash them with tears
your teardrops are healers
as they begin to arrive

keep silence
don’t rush to finish your poem
the finisher of the poem
the creator of the word
will begin to arrive

–Rumi, translated by Nader Khalili in Rumi: Fountain of Fire


“The practice of āsanas is done, in general, for a sense of physical well-being. But along with this, one needs to develop the art of penetration, the art of insight and the art of looking at the mind through the body….If the first journey is from the body to the mind, the second journey is from the mind to the body. This kind of exchange between the body and mind corrects the process of breathing and opens the channel for prāṇa to move freely within. The prāṇa floats and swims in the body, reaching nooks and corners of the body along with the main stream or the main path where it finds its extension, expansion, breadth and width. This leads the inner body to bathe in prāṇa. The body is vitalised with prāṇika energy. It is an internal bath.” –Geeta Iyengar, introduction to Yoga in Action: Intermediate Course I

A psychological retreat does not necessarily imply moving away to a place not peopled by human beings. Such physical conditions of quiet may help, but are not absolutely necessary. What is important is to move away from the association of one’s own thoughts. The asamsarga must be with one’s own memory-associates. For it is these which bring in the other … causing distractions. The distracted mind is obviously tired, for it cannot rest even when the place is physically quiet. But he who can have moments of undistracted quiet, his mind is purified showing cheerfulness, one-pointedness, sense-control and a clarity of perception.” –Rohit Mehta, Yoga: the Art of Integration, p. 176

• How does practice help you see your mind through your body?
• Does your practice support you emotionally? Does your practice help you access cheerfulness, clarity, balance, the ability to calmly focus? Do you become more receptive, more attentive with  practice?
• Do you bring cheerfulness to your interactions with others? How do you listen?
• What role does silence play in your life? In your practice? How does silence relate to leaving space, allowing for the unknown?


neuter noun in compound

true essence, goodness; of three guṇas, the quality of brightness (from as, “to be,” +-tva, “ness”‘; literally, “beingness”)


feminine noun in compound

purity (from śudh, “to purify, make clear”)


neuter noun in compound

cheerfulness, gladness (from su-, “good, sweet,” + manas, “mind,” + -ya, suffix that makes an abstract noun)


neuter noun in compound

one-pointedness, focused attention (from eka, “one,” + agrya, “pointed, foremost”)


neuter noun in compound

organ of sense (from Indra, name of lord of the atmosphere,  + –ya, suffix that designates belonging)


masculine noun in compound

victory, triumph (from ji, “to win”)


masculine noun in compound

the self, the true self, inner being, spirit, soul


neuter noun in compound

vision (from dṛś, “to see”)


neuter noun, 1st case plural

readiness, fitness (from yuj, “to yoke” + -tva, “-ness”; literally, fit for yoga)