“If you can, help others. If you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.” - Dalai Lama
People new to yoga are typically surprised to learn that the poses and flows we associate with the practice are a small part of what yoga is all about. They are even more surprised to learn that one can practice yoga without ever lifting the hips into a Downward Facing Dog or reaching the arms overhead into a Warrior 1. In fact, when yoga emerged in the East thousands of years ago, the poses we are familiar with today did not even exist. For centuries, there were a limited number of postures and even these were only briefly mentioned in yogic texts. The few postures that were practiced were fairly simple, consisting mostly of seated poses that had a singular purpose--to help one prepare to sit for long periods of time in meditation.
Over the past two weeks I have referenced Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras, which is regarded as the original textbook of Classical Yoga. The entire text is a rich philosophical work that outlines the process of spiritual transformation. Patanjali’s description of the “Eight Limbed Path”, outlined in the second Pada or chapter, is a very small part of the Sutras, but gets the bulk of the attention as it provides a practical, sequential guide that has become the backbone of much of what we now refer to as “yoga”.
Patanjali outlines the purpose of the Eight Limbed Path very clearly and succinctly: to end suffering by reducing the power of our mental afflictions, or kleshas--those attachments and aversions that lock us into unhealthy behaviors and hold us in ignorance. The Eight Limbed Path provides a detailed practice with a specific sequence through which one can progress. Each step helps to settle the mind as we move toward samadhi, the highest state of meditation in which one experiences a complete sense of union with the universe.
Those who are new to yoga as well as those who are only familiar with a physical practice are typically quite puzzled that the first two steps in Patanjali’s sequence have nothing to do with poses, breathing, or meditation. Instead, the first two limbs on the Eight Limbed Path focus on ethical principles, known as the Yamas and Niyamas. The first path, the Yamas, referred to as restraints, are principles that guide our behavior toward others. The second path, the Niyamas, are personal observances, specific practices we can follow that help us care for our wellbeing. Patanjali details five Yamas and five Niyamas. The five Yamas are ahimsa (nonviolence); satya (truthfulness); asteya (nonstealing); brahmacharya (nonexcess); and aparigraha (nonpossessiveness). The Niyamas are saucha (purity); santosha (contentment); tapas (self-discipline); svadhyaya (self-study); and Ishwara Pranidhanani (surrender). The restraints and observances can be thought of as a necklace containing 10 jewels, with each one contributing to the beauty of the entire strand. At the start lies the Yama of ahimsa, or nonviolence, which is the largest jewel. The jewels that follow ahimsa serve to further illuminate and define its brilliance. At the other end of the necklace, opposite ahimsa, lies the jewel of Ishwara Pranidhanani, or surrender, the act of giving yourself over to the practice without anticipating the fruits. This final jewel completes the strand, bringing integrity to the entire necklace.
Over the next several weeks, we’ll explore the Yamas and the Niyamas. We’ll start tonight with ahimsa, or nonviolence. Since it is the first of the Yamas on the first limb of the Eight Limbed Path, the practice of nonviolence is essentially where a yoga practice begins. The Yama of nonviolence or non-harming asks us to abstain from injuring any living being, at any time, in thought, word, or deed. Thus, we start down the first path with a very demanding principle that is hard, if not impossible, to execute flawlessly because it is hard to exist without causing harm of some type to other living beings. The more we contemplate ahimsa, the harder it becomes to practice. We start to question this restraint—the role of intent, the definition of harm, and the different levels of violence. The more we contemplate ahimsa, the harder it becomes to follow the path.
Perhaps Patanjali did not intend for us to develop a rock-solid interpretation of nonviolence that could be used as a moral compass. Keep in mind that the Eight Limbed Path has the sole purpose of settling the mind. Ahimsa invites us to explore our feelings of hostility, anger, and cruelty and to notice how they impact our relationship to the world. Ahimsa is more concerned with the intent of our actions, directing us away from a predisposition to inflict harm or injury on living beings. Understanding ahimsa is meant to be a challenge, filled with subtleties that present more questions than answers.
We will be disappointed if we look to ahimsa as a moral guide, using it as a “do this, not that” principle for our interactions with others. It may be more useful when framed as a question, practiced when we ask, “How do my actions impact others?”. Keeping in mind that the purpose of the Yamas is to calm our mental afflictions and elevate ourselves from ignorance, asking this question creates a pause in mindless behavior, breaking that automatic jump into our mental ruts that lead us to act in ways that cause harm to others. We all tend to spend a considerable amount of time thinking about how other people impact us, but how often do we stop to wonder about the ripple effects of our own actions on the world? Spend a day observing your thoughts, words, and actions toward others and the world. You may be surprised at what you find.
Many of the yogic sages, including Patanjali, knew that the way we treat others is a reflection of how we treat ourselves. To embrace the true essence of ahimsa, we must also listen to our self-talk, noticing how we treat ourselves, and meet our own needs. Violence toward one’s self can lurk in dark corners and be hard to flush out; it can sometimes be even harder to identify than the harm we cause to others. We can be violent toward ourselves in very subtle ways, disguising it as desirable behavior displayed in socially acceptable outlets such as working long hours, prioritizing the needs of others over our own—even exercise can be done with violence when we “push through” pain. By exploring how our actions impact our wellbeing, or by simply asking whether a given action is nurturing or depleting, we can start to cultivate ahimsa toward ourselves which then flows out to others.
How does ahimsa show up in a yoga practice? Isn’t yoga by, its very nature, non-harming? The answer depends on how you define “harm”. Obviously, a well-designed yoga practice is structured to be safe for all participants, but we still pull hamstrings, tweak lower backs, and wear out wrists. Injuries can always happen—that’s just the nature of physical activity—but they are more likely when we push beyond our edge, ignore our body, or strive for an ideal that is attached to a “should” or a “want” rather than what is happening in the moment. We also create self-harm when we judge ourselves throughout a practice, analyzing how a pose “looks” in our body, or getting annoyed when we can’t get into a pose. And it’s not always pushing that creates harm. Keep in mind that challenge also breaks us out of mental ruts, so holding ourselves too far back from our edge due to unfounded fears is also self-harming in that it limits our ability to grow.
A yoga practice can nourish us but only if we come to the mat with the intention of ahimsa. Practice ahimsa by noticing what happens as you approach your edge. Are you going too close, pushing a bit too hard or are you holding back, afraid of the challenge? Keep in mind that self-harm does not always shout at us; it frequently shows up as a whisper. See how the jewel of ahimsa can inform and enrich your yoga, both on the mat and in your life. How do your thoughts, words, and actions impact your practice? What ripple effects might they have in your life, on others, and on the world?
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