CHAPTER 12
MIND AND BREATH
mind and prana, so it is said, are one, and thus mind and breath are interdependent. Where there is breath there is thought; without breath the activities of the mind will dry up.
These rather unusual assertions must be investigated further, for they are the core of raja yoga. It is not by accident that the German word Atem (breath), and the Sanskrit term atman (the self) have the same root. In our understanding, to cease breathing means to die. In yoga teaching it may mean death but does not necessarily. Certainly, consciousness in a general sense disappears along with breath, but what really happens after that we do not know. “Unconsciousness” is a meaningless term. Do we really know whether dying and being dead arethe same thing, whether so-called unconsciousness does not encompass innumerable subconscious states? These are just a few problems relating to consciousness. We can become conscious only of events that reflect states, never of states. We are unable to grasp with our conscious mind a state that is not reflected by an event.
We are aware of some of our thought processes, among others those that bring the self into reality: this is “self-consciousness.” Everything that I perceive, recognize and judge is a part of my self, for my already existing relationship to the perceived indicates that the image of the object is already part of my store
of experience, and that I therefore already have that karma-producing element (the previously-experienced object) “within” me. And my relation to the object is karmically conditioned, as well as karma-producing. It is thus an integral part of my personality.
To the Indian mind it means that we are under an illusion so long as we consider the self as a constant unit that which exists in itself and does not result from the sum total of consciousness factors. Thus the total of what I “know” (even subconsciously) is my self.
The illusion about human personality is fundamental. Where do we get our concept of human personality? As long as we do not get to the root of this question, we fall victim to illusion after illusion.
We watch our conversation partner, recognizing “in him” his personality. We consciously look above all at the eyes, presuming that these organs, designed for seeing, arealso the mirror of the personality. But while we are thus watching the eyes in much the same way as we previously observed the sound of our name, they suddenly do not seem so important any more; in fact, they become insignificant in relationship to the whole personality. The same is true when we observe other single components: mouth, nose, checks, or forehead. Only the sum total of all makes up the personality. We realize that by observing the details we miss the essence. It is as though we were watching the glass rather than the image in the mirror. Then we realize that not even the sum total of all these details gives us the living image of the whole. But what is it?
The human personality is not “in-itsdf,” it only becomes, within us. If we look mechanically at the surface we see nothing but the surface. Our inner being alone, not the eye, can see behind the surface. We have no specific name for this subtle inner organ. Heart, intuition, feeling, soul, inner eye–all these are current expressions which are as familiar as they are vague, although they all express the right thing.
So let us look with nonmechanical eyes behind the surface, then we see the image of the object within ourselves inwardly. “Seeing” is only a small fraction of perceiving which essentially means to melt the (outer) image and the (interior) concept into one: simultaneously to see and co feel. And it is the same way with everything that we perceive with our sense organs. In reality it is not only sense perception, for all senses are only tools, organs of communication.
This, our personality-shaping inner world in its sum total, is atman. Yet the thousand little stones that make up a mosaic are, in their multitude, far from being a picture. Decisive is the manner in which they are put together into a pattern. It is this unity alone that creates the complete impression, not analytical observation; it is the inner perception that is based on something higher than the sum total of the individual pieces.
These countless elements of consciousness are united into the living total personality through prana, which has its source in breath. Thus the spirit, the human essence, is born of breath. And so, in a way, we breathe in the world, and breathe it out in the “form” of the personality thus created. The problem that concerns yoga is the creation of a harmonious relationship between the static personality components (the atman, the mosaic picture) and the dynamic personality (the creative artist’s mind). In Indian terms, this means the harmonious marriage between static Purusha and dynamic Prakriti (shakti), between the human personality and its inherent forces,
(14) When the mind it still, united with the atman, and prana flows through the sushumna then [even the extraordinary] amaroli. vayoli and sahojoli can be reached [that is. to voluntarily reverse the flow of semen].
In other words, there is no limit to the extent of accomplishments.
(15) How can one reach perfection of knowledge [jnana] when the breath is still living [in consciousness’ and the mind [as a manifesting force separate from it] has not died? He who can cause prana and mind to become suspended, one through the other, reaches liberation.
(16) Once he knows the secret, how to find the way to the sushumna and how to induce the air to enter it, he should settle down in a suitable place [and not rest] until [the kundalini has reached] the crown of the head [brahmarandhra].
We already know why this is necessary. The chakras, these activity centers of karma, have been penetrated, and since the yogi’s karma has thus been eliminated so that his mind is no longer sullied and led astray by blindness and ignorance, this illuminated mind can now melt with the atman into perfect union. This takes place in the brahmarandhra, in the sahashrara chakra.
(17) Sun and moon cause day and night. The sushumna [however] swallows time. This is a secret.
Here is an odd fact: if you observe the flow of breath for a whole day you will observe that you breathe more intensely at times through the right nostril and at other times through the left; now the right nostril seems stopped up and now the left. It seldom occurs that we breathe evenly through both nostrils. There is always a difference, no matter how slight. This is not due to a cold, but to the fact that the supply of breath through the one nostril has a different effect on the prana than that through the other. Breathing through the right nostril furthers extroversion; through the left, introversion. The breathing apparatus regulates itself automatically, so that through the lack of active elements the left nostril closes up slightly from the inside, causing the breath to flow chiefly through the right, and the active side of the body gets the greater supply. Mental fatigue is mostly preceded by a lengthy period of breathing through the left nostril.
One can (and frequently does) even out the imbalance by intensified one-sided pranayama. But the yogi has another method which, though applied externally, has an internal effect: He puts pressure on the side of the body which is overactive by lying on that side with arm strongly pressed to the body. Or he uses a special tool that he carries with him: a short crutch with a cross beam which he clamps into his armpit, while resting the lower end on the ground where he is sitting. After a few minutes the nostril of the side upon which pressure is being exerted will close up, and with this the field of prana changes over to the other side.
Normally the prana flow automatically changes in a regular rhythm, usually every two hours.
The reference here to the sun and the moon is not, as previously implied, to the source of nectar and its opposite pole in the area of the diaphragm, but to the ida nadi (moon) and the pingala nadi (sun). “Day” means prana supply to the pingala nadi (right nostril) and “night” prana to the ida nadi (left nostril). The cleansing of the nostrils (neti) which is part of the shatkarma (sixfold cleansing process) is designed to prevent an unnatural clogging that can block the natural breathing rhythm.
If prana is to enter sushumna then there must be neither “day” nor “night”; breath must flow precisely evenly through both nostrils. This in turn presupposes an exact balance of active and passive elements. In short, only he who has achieved complete inner equilibrium can have success in kundalini.
(18-23) There are 72,000 nadis in this cage [body]. Sushumna is the central nadi which contains the shabhavi shakti. This has the property of bestowing bliss upon the yogi. All others are then useless. –Guide the prana into the sushumna and kindle the gastric fire and awaken the kundalini. Only when prana fiows through the sushumna wilt there be samadhi. All other methods are futile. When breath is suspended then [discursive] thinking also is suspended. He who has power over his mind can also control prana. [For] the two causes that activate the mind are prana [respiration] and the sources of karma [vasanas, latent tendencies]. Death of one [of these] is the death of the other. When mind is absorbed, breathing subsides: when prana is absorbed in the sushumna [not available to the body] then mind also is absorbed.
The deepest sense of this yoga will be understood only by one who is convinced that from physical process to psychological experience and religious phenomena there is one straight (if usually secret) path, and that none of the three can exist and function by itself. He who is prepared to familiarize himself with what naturally seems to be a strange terminology will find not only confirmation of the most modern knowledge, but the possibility of new insights as well, for the problem of relationship between the inner and outer worlds will always be a
topical one as long as the human race exists. The last word on it can never be expected, for each culture, even each phase of individual life presents new perspectives. It is by the great visionary works of antiquity that we are most deeply touched– we who have become so clever.
(24) Mind and prana are related to each other like milk and water. If the one dries up the other one also dries up. In whatever chakra the prana is concentrated mind becomes fixed, and where the mind is fixed prana is conquered.
The fact that men’s cultural levels differ so greatly is not simply a problem of society; nor does it depend on ambition, or even on intelligence. It is really the chakras that cause stratification in culture.
Genius is the product of the highest development potential of that chakra by which it lives. As long as our mind is not nourished by that same chakra we only comprehend the lower levels. At the highest level our understanding is no longer limited. There we need no intellectual hints; we perceive the spirit everywhere, even in silence.
The chakra determines whatever level of development we are on, and this level determines the measure of our consciousness.
(25-27) The one is dependent on the other. They [mind and prana] act in unison. Suspension of one causes suspension of the other. Without intervention the senses [the indriyas] become victorious. If they [mind and prana] are suspended there is liberation [moksha]. The nature of mind is like mercury: in ceaseless motion. When both are made motionless what on earth cannot be accomplished? Oh Parvati! Mercury is held fast and prana steady! Now all diseases are conquered and it is possible to rise into the air.
Alchemy and magic–or only kindred symbols? Mercury is the symbolic square of the earth, the mulandhara chakra. The alchemical process represents the rising to the second chakra, svadhisthana. He who transcends the three lowest centers attains the fourth chakra, anahata, the vibration domain of the air. “He rises into the air.” That is, he ultimately rises above the worldly spheres of earth, water and fire, into higher regions. As long as the spirit is not free from the lower spheres, it is not “held fast.”
(28) When mind is held fast, prana is also held fast, as is the bindu in which the sattva element of the body is established.
In the first sloka of Part Four we translated the word bindu as “sense,” (that is, the principle of intelligence). However, the word is so ambiguous that this translation is just a stopgap. Bindu may stand for: drop, period, zero, seed, the void. These appear to be quite different concepts, and one asks how the translator can add a sixth. Here we get a glimpse of the depth of the Sanskrit language, for each of these concepts has enormous significance.
Period (dot). It does not stand like a tombstone at the end of a Sanskrit sentence, but is the sign for vocal vivification. The dot above the consonant (which is always connected with a vowel) changes a dull ka into a rich kam or kang, a ta into tarn or tang, pa into pam, and so on, through all the consonants. It adds vibration to the dull sound. It is especially significant that it raises o from the chest vibration to the 0m sound in the head, the higher sphere. Thus it raises the physical sound to the chakra of consciousness, the ajna chakra between the eyebrows, and gives it meaning. In this way, the dot becomes the symbol for “sense.”
The zero. Just as the dot is both a “nothing” and the symbol for sense, so is zero. By itself it is a symbol of no-thing. Added to a figure it increases its value tenfold. It gives the figure a value, a value that the figure by itself possesses only potentially. It catalyzes something essential without possessing a tangible value of its own.
The seed. Only when it falls upon fertile ground can it sprout. Like the dot, like the zero. And here the latent value is especially clear.
The void. Here again it is the meaning that makes emptiness purposeful.
Thirty spokes unite around the nave. The void between them makes them useful as a wheel. We shape a pot from day.
Its usefulness depends upon the void that clay surrounds. The house is made of walls, windows and doors. The void between the walls makes it a habitation. We need what is; What-is-not makes it useful. Lao-tzu, Too Te Ching II
Now it should be clear why bindu means “sense.” The sattva principle in which the “sense” is founded is fulfilled purity in the saint, who is all sattva.
(29-30) Dissolution [laya] depends on nada. Laya produces prana. Prana is the lord of the mind [mano]; mind is the lord of the senses [indriyas]. When mind is absorbed in itself it is called moksha [liberation]. Call it this or that; when mind and prana are absorbed in each other the immeasurable joy of samadhi ensues.
We enter a church and feel the sattva element that governs the lofty sacred room. Something like a shiver of enchantment pene-
trates us. It is bindu that (for a moment) transfigures us. We know that it has to do with the divine, to which this place is dedicated. We know it, but the inner concept of this “divine” is more than the word; it is that which speaks within us, nada. Let us recognize this: not the specific term “the divine” exercises its power, but the “inner something” that vibrates with this concept. Then the concept as such, with its thought content, dissolves (laya), and what remains is the experience of the spirit. This phrase, “experience of the spirit,” already contains the duality: prana (experience) and spirit.
So much for our everyday experience. For the yogi approaching samadhi, the process is reversed: he has recognized the meaningful germ, bindu, within himself, and knows that the divine vibrations in him were merely released by the sattva element in the outside stimulation.
Therefore, like the ancient master mystics, he turns inward and finds liberation in detachment from the releasing element. For liberation means “nothing but” freedom from exterior influences.
CHAPTER 13
THE DISSOLUTION
on a cold winter night a wandering monk sought shelter in a desolate mountain temple. A cold wind was whistling through the paper walls and the frozen stranger huddled into a corner, shivering. He longed for a fire. Then he rose, for he had discovered the firewood he needed: the ancient gold lacquered wooden statue of the Buddha. He broke it into pieces, and soon bright flames were leaping up. With a cry of distress the guard rushed in. “Are you a demon, brother? What have you done!” The strange monk looked surprised. “What did I do?”
“You are burning the sacred image of our Lord! Can’t you see? It is the Buddha you areburning!”
The monk smiled. “Do you believe we can burn our Lord? Don’t you know that the spirit of enlightenment is indestructible? Wait until this mortal wood is burnt up, then we will search in the ashes for what is sacred.”
The guardian shook his fists. “It will be too late. You will find nothing in the ashes.” “Nothing?” exclaimed the stranger. “Tell me, did you hold sacred something that could so readily be destroyed by fire?”
The strange monk was Nanzen, one of the great patriarchs of Zen.
Everyone can test his relationship to the essence of a concept. Is it the thing itself that represents the value, or is it something
subtler, something intangible? What is saintly in the saint? What is beautiful in the beautiful? It is our subjective thinking that creates values, and at times even eternal values. The thing itself is nothing but a clear mirror which will reflect that which we know within ourselves to be saintly or beautiful. This holds true not only for things from the outside world, but for our own thoughts and actions as well.
The activity of the mind always projects beyond our momentary situation, overlooks the essential, the Being, and focuses on Becoming. But it is only in Being that we can perceive the Absolute; Becoming is the relative. It is only when mind has become passive, dissolved in itself (i.e. separated from image and concept), unaffected by outside influences, that the Absolute presents itself in all as the true essence of things.
Will, however, is the great protagonist of passive contemplation. The more active elements the yogi can discard–breathing, thinking, desiring, acting–the more passive principles can manifest. And each passive element is a mirror of self-knowledge.
Not-doing in doing. Practice this And know the unknowable.
Lao-tzu, Tao Te Ching 63
(31-33) The yogi who does not inhale or exhale and whose senses have become passive, whose mind does not register anything [no longer experiences subjective inclinations’ has reached laya yoga [dissolution’. –When mental and physical activities have entirely ceased there results the indescribable state of laya yoga which only the yogi can experience, –When subjective views have been suspended avidya [ignorance], which is used to control the indriyas [senses], dissolves, and the power of cognition [jnanashakti] dissolves into Brahman [becomes one with the Absolute].
Avidya (ignorance) controls the senses. In other words, the attraction of the satisfying, purposeful, agreeable-seeming, influ-ences the senses and in this way keeps captive the whole personality, which seems to have no higher means of cognition at its disposal.
To hear this fact and read about it will not cause any inner change; only when you yourself recognize it can you master the senses. Intellectual conviction, though well-intentioned, is only a sign of prejudice here, of pressure in the direction of a belief which can change nothing. And it is the change alone that counts. He who sees Truth is automatically changed. He who forces himself to change has only changed his opinions, but not himself.
This is the principle of the power of cognition: not to develop a new opinion, but to dissolve all dynamic active elements in Brahman. To contemplate and to be changed by that.
A man rising before sunrise searches for a lantern and cannot be persuaded by his friend that he does not need it. When he steps out of the house the sun rises, and he directly experiences the uselcssness of the lantern. The thought of a lantern did not dissolve into another, better thought, but into direct process of realization, into “Brahman.”
All opinions that do not result from direct experience are formed under the influence of relative experience. Experience is fate, experience is karma. “I have had this experience,” says one opinion to another, one karma to another, one fate to another. In the light of knowledge there is nothing more to say, for man stands as living proof. The seed of karma lies in the stimulations of the outside world which can attract or repulse us. Under the influence of direct experience, a transformation occurs in which the senses lose their significance and sense experiences reveal themselves as conditioned and limited.
(34) Laya, laya, people say. But what if laya? –Laya if the state of forgetting [the subjectively colored images of] the objects of the senses, when the samskaras [impressions on consciousness, the seeds of karma] are no longer effective but are conquered.
But this cannot be accomplished by an act of will, for it is the acts of will themselves that block the way to evolution. There is only one way: to cognize and thereby know. As long as cognition is not spontaneous nothing really has happened and the process of dissolution has not taken place. Will always relates to the exterior, but dissolution takes place in the interior. So it is a question of letting the will die out, so that the clear picture of reality appears. Only in the vision of the inner image (which we cannot force) will relativity dissolve and cease to obstruct higher knowledge. True, out imagination is extensive, but never extensive enough to have a presentiment of things to come.
Only the suddenly rising sun which illumines the whole path ahead of us can show us not only the windings of the road that we read on the map, but all that which the best of maps cannot show: the grasses, bushes, stones, and grains of sand, the landscape of the true world in all its fabulous, infinite diversity. Are not all artificial means to stimulate presentiment ridiculous?
