The Deeper Dimension of Yoga Quotes

“The postures are only the "skin" of yoga. Hidden behind them are the "flesh and blood" of breath control and mental techniques that are still more difficult to learn, as well as moral practices that require a lifetime of consistent application and that correspond to the skeletal structure of the body. The higher practices of concentration, meditation and unitive ecstasy(samadhi) are analogous to the circulatory and nervous system." Georg Feuerstein The Deeper Dimension of Yoga”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“To state the obvious, conventional folk have always had their problems with spiritual teachers. The neglect or even oppression of the Hebrew prophets and the Christian mystics is well known to historians. Mohammed, founder of Islam, was badly treated by his own people. So was Jesus of Nazareth. So was Baha’ullah, founder of the Baha’i faith. Gautama the Buddha survived a murderous plot against him by his own cousin. His older contemporary Vardhamana Mahāvīra, founder of Jainism, was ill treated in his younger years as well. Socrates, an early European guru, was forced to drink the poison cup, as his philosophical wisdom was felt to corrupt the youth and thus threaten the very fabric of Athenean society.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Aurobindo’s orientation has yielded important new insights into the thought of the Vedic seers (rishi), who “saw” the truth. He showed a way out of the uninspiring scholarly perspective, with its insistence that the Vedic seers were “primitive” poets obsessed with natural phenomena like thunder, lightning, and rain. The one-dimensional “naturalistic” interpretations proffered by other translators missed out on the depth of the Vedic teachings. Thus Sūrya is not only the visible material Sun but also the psychological-spiritual principle of inner luminosity. Agni is not merely the physical fire that consumes the sacrificial offerings but the spiritual principle of purifying transformation. Parjanya does not only stand for rain but also the inner “irrigation” of grace. Soma is not merely the concoction the sacrificial priests poured into the fire but also (as in the later Tantric tradition) the magical inner substance that transmutes the body and the mind. The wealth prayed for in many hymns is not just material prosperity but spiritual riches. The cows mentioned over and over again in the hymns are not so much the biological animals but spiritual light. The Panis are not just human merchants but various forces of darkness. When Indra slew Vritra and released the floods, he not merely inaugurated the monsoon season but also unleashed the powers of life (or higher energies) within the psyche of the priest. For Indra also stands for the mind and Vritra for psychological restriction, or energetic blockage. Aurobindo contributed in a major way to a thorough reappraisal of the meaning of the Vedic hymns, and his work encouraged a number of scholars to follow suit, including Jeanine Miller and David Frawley.2 There is also plenty of deliberate, artificial symbolism in the hymns. In fact, the figurative language of the Rig-Veda is extraordinarily rich, as Willard Johnson has demonstrated.3 In special sacrificial symposia, the hymn composers met to share their poetic creations and stimulate each other’s creativity and comprehension of the subtle realities of life. Thus many hymns are deliberately enigmatic, and often we can only guess at the solutions to their enigmas and allegorical riddles. Heinrich Zimmer reminded us: The myths and symbols of India resist intellectualization and reduction to fixed significations. Such treatments would only sterilize them of their magic.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Although complete removal is not possible, neutralization (abhibhava) is possible. Just as watery liquidity can be neutralized by mixing [water] with earth, or fiery heat by means of mani, mantra, and so on, just so all the fluctations (vritti) of the mind can be neutralized by means of the practice of Yoga. In describing the condition of the jīvan-mukta, the embodied liberated being, Vidyāranya quotes profusely from the Yoga-Vāsishtha. This extensive Kashmiri work, which is presented as a dialogue between the Sage Vasishtha and Prince Rāma, states (5.90–98): He is a jīvan-mukta for whom, even though he is busy with ordinary life, all this ceases to exist and [only] the space [of ultimate Consciousness] remains. He is a true jivan-mukta whose face neither flushes nor pales in pleasure or pain and who subsists on whatever comes his way. He is a true jivan-mukta who is awake when sleeping, who knows no waking, and whose knowledge is entirely free from any vāsanā. He is a true jīvan-mukta who, though responsive to feelings such as attachment, hatred, fear, and other feelings, stands wholly pure within, like space. He is a true jīvan-mukta whose real nature is not influenced by egotism and whose mind is not subjected to attachment, whether he remains active or is inactive. He is a true jīvan-mukta whom the world does not fear and who does not fear the world, and who is free from joy, jealousy, and fear. He is a true jīvan-mukta who is at peace with the ways of the world; who, though full of all learning and arts, is yet without any; and who, though endowed with mind, is without it. He is a true jīvan-mukta who, though deeply immersed in all things, keeps his head cool, just as anyone would, when engaged in attending to other’s affairs; and whose Self is whole. After leaving the condition of living liberation, he enters into liberation after death, on the disintegration of the body by lapse of tenure, even as the wind comes to a standstill. Depending on their operative karma—the so-called prārabdha-karman—the sages look and behave differently. Some, like the famous King Janaka, are very active; others prefer silence and the solitude of forests or mountains. Some let the body drop as it will; others undertake the gargantuan discipline of transmuting the body into light, as is the objective in some Tantric teachings. These external distinctions tell us nothing about the spiritual realization of those sages. All of them, however, can be expected to emanate a palpable peace that, in the words of Saint Paul, “passeth all understanding.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Either through effort alone or through a combination of effort and grace, we can overcome our spiritual ignorance and actively shape our future destiny. If belief is involved in some schools of Yoga, it plays only a preliminary role. The accent is typically on wisdom (jnāna), even in the more sophisticated approaches of Bhakti-Yoga, the devotional path. The impulse to attain freedom—or, in the bhakti-oriented schools, union with the Divine—underlies all yogic effort. Only in this way can the practitioner be assured of not getting stuck along the path. This impulse is known as mumukshutva, the desire for liberation, wholeness, perfection, or lasting happiness. With the sole exception of this desire, or impulse, all desires (kāma) relate to either the physical world or some subtle object or state, including heaven. Since all manifestation (vyakta)—whether coarse (sthūla) or subtle (sūkshma)—is finite, none of these desires can give us true fulfillment. They are, to put it differently, all part of the world of change (samsāra). The impulse to liberation, however, is directed toward the unmanifest (avyakta), infinite Reality. Having kindled the impulse toward ultimate freedom and adopted an appropriate spiritual path, the practitioner gradually sheds ignorance (or sin) and simply awakens as the ever-present Real. Even this experience of awakening is merely a metaphor. From the perspective of the ultimate Reality (which has no perspective at all), nothing ever happened. We were never ignorant, self-divided, or unhappy, and therefore we also did not awaken. Whenever we talk about the fully liberated or enlightened being, we inevitably get trapped in paradoxes or doctrines. And yet, tens of thousands of adepts have risked opening their mouths in order to convey something of the Unthinkable or Unspeakable to (apparent) others. When we examine the Hindu concept of liberation, or enlightenment, we find that it comes in two fundamental forms: bodiless liberation (videha-mukti) and living liberation (jīvan-mukti). The former type implies perfect transcendence not only of the human condition but of embodiment as such. It is a state of being that is utterly formless and wholly apart from the universe in all its many levels. This is the great spiritual ideal promulgated in the philosophical traditions of Mīmāmsā, Nyāya, Vaisheshika, Ishvara Krishna’s school of Sāmkhya, some Vedānta teachers (like Bhāskara, Yādava, and Nimbārka), and apparently also Patanjali’s school of Yoga. The second type of liberation, jīvan-mukti, is the ideal favored by most teachers of Hindu, Buddhist, and Jaina Yoga. It can be said to be India’s most important contribution to world spirituality. Living liberation, or liberation while still alive in a body, is the idea that it is possible to be inwardly absolutely free while yet simultaneously appearing as an embodied individual.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Ever since the Prajnā-Pāramitā-Sūtras, or the scriptures on the perfection of wisdom, practitioners of Mahāyāna and Tantrayāna have sought to cultivate the recognition that all phenomena are empty (shūnya): Everything that we could possibly point to, talk about, or even merely think of is a conceptual construct. Hence, according to the masters of Mahāyāna and Tantrayāna, nothing that is composite has any essence (sva-bhāva); everything is “without self” (nairātmya). In its most developed form—that of the Madhyamaka school founded by Nāgārjuna—this teaching came to mean that nothing is independently real. In his Madhyamaka-Kārikā (24.18), Nāgārjuna notes that it is the Buddha’s teaching of “dependent origination (pratītya-samutpāda) that we call ‘emptiness’ (shūnyatā).” Everything arises in dependence on causes and conditions or what in modern ecology is known as the “web of life” or “interconnectedness.” When we think of a star, for instance, we must admit that it is not so much a stable thing but a very complex process of limited duration. The same is true of our body, the mind, and every other conceivable thing. But in order to navigate in the world of appearances, we artificially construct a cosmos populated by stable things, as if these had inherent existence. The problem with this is that we begin to take them very seriously—including our body-mind—and start reacting either by attracting or rejecting them. In the case of our body, we even go so far as to identify with it, and as a result we suffer all kinds of negative consequences, notably the fear of death. The cure, according to Mahāyāna and Tantrayāna, is to cultivate the vision of emptiness, realizing of course that “emptiness” itself is a mental construct and therefore empty of inherent existence. Practitioners who forget this truth are apt to take shūnyatā itself as a definitive view (drishti) rather than as an antidote to all abstractions, which is the intended purpose. This kind of thinking has led to accusations of nihilism: that nothing whatsoever is real at any level and that nirvāna therefore is a completely meaningless and undesirable goal. In fact, both nihilism and realism are erroneous. Already the Buddha declined to speculate about the nature of nirvāna; he simply wanted to point a way to its realization. The Madhyamaka school simply developed this fundamental teaching along rigorous logical lines, focusing on the art of refutation of all possible metaphysical standpoints. But the language of emptiness is not meant to be merely a game of logic. Its real function is to shatter the conceptual mind and guide it to the truth about phenomena. For this emptiness must not only be understood intellectually but experienced through the cultivation of wisdom and compassion by means of the ten stages of the bodhisattva path. The inherent selflessness or emptiness of beings notwithstanding, a bodhisattva is altruistically dedicated to their liberation.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Ever since the Prajnā-Pāramitā-Sūtras, or the scriptures on the perfection of wisdom, practitioners of Mahāyāna and Tantrayāna have sought to cultivate the recognition that all phenomena are empty (shūnya): Everything that we could possibly point to, talk about, or even merely think of is a conceptual construct. Hence, according to the masters of Mahāyāna and Tantrayāna, nothing that is composite has any essence (sva-bhāva); everything is “without self” (nairātmya). In its most developed form—that of the Madhyamaka school founded by Nāgārjuna—this teaching came to mean that nothing is independently real. In his Madhyamaka-Kārikā (24.18), Nāgārjuna notes that it is the Buddha’s teaching of “dependent origination (pratītya-samutpāda) that we call ‘emptiness’ (shūnyatā).” Everything arises in dependence on causes and conditions or what in modern ecology is known as the “web of life” or “interconnectedness.” When we think of a star, for instance, we must admit that it is not so much a stable thing but a very complex process of limited duration. The same is true of our body, the mind, and every other conceivable thing. But in order to navigate in the world of appearances, we artificially construct a cosmos populated by stable things, as if these had inherent existence. The problem with this is that we begin to take them very seriously—including our body-mind—and start reacting either by attracting or rejecting them. In the case of our body, we even go so far as to identify with it, and as a result we suffer all kinds of negative consequences, notably the fear of death. The cure, according to Mahāyāna and Tantrayāna, is to cultivate the vision of emptiness, realizing of course that “emptiness” itself is a mental construct and therefore empty of inherent existence. Practitioners who forget this truth are apt to take shūnyatā itself as a definitive view (drishti) rather than as an antidote to all abstractions, which is the intended purpose. This kind of thinking has led to accusations of nihilism: that nothing whatsoever is real at any level and that nirvāna therefore is a completely meaningless and undesirable goal. In fact, both nihilism and realism are erroneous. Already the Buddha declined to speculate about the nature of nirvāna; he simply wanted to point a way to its realization. The Madhyamaka school simply developed this fundamental teaching along rigorous logical lines, focusing on the art of refutation of all possible metaphysical standpoints. But the language of emptiness is not meant to be merely a game of logic. Its real function is to shatter the conceptual mind and guide it to the truth about phenomena. For this emptiness must not only be understood intellectually but experienced through the cultivation of wisdom and compassion by means of the ten stages of the bodhisattva path.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The practice of radical self-transcendence can be described as conscious growth toward the transcendental or transpersonal Self-Identity, the ātman. Some call this “God-Consciousness.” The Self of Vedānta/Jnāna-Yoga is also completely different from the Self talked about by Jungian psychotherapists. The Jungian Self is the ego-transcending spiritual center of the mature human personality; it is not a superconscious transcendental Being. The Self, or ātman, of Vedānta is by definition beyond space-time and the whole body-mind complex. It is not a property of the individual person. Therefore, the Self is never “my” self, nor is Self-realization “my” Self-realization. When Self-realization happens, “I” am not there! So long as we believe that we are a particular man or woman, with a particular character and distinct tendencies, habits, or likes and dislikes, we live out of the ego-fiction. Then we necessarily fear the loss of what we consider to be our “own”—our various material and intellectual possessions as well as our social relationships. Above all, we fear the death of the individual we believe ourselves to be. But when there is genuine understanding or wisdom (prajnā), we begin to see a larger truth. We may even catch a glimpse of the Being-Consciousness-Bliss (sat-cid-ānanda) that is the underlying Identity not only of “me” but of all beings who, from the unenlightened point of view, appear to be separate entities. Even describing that Ultimate as Being (sat), Consciousness (cit), and Bliss (ānanda) is saying too much. Hence some sages, especially in Buddhism, have preferred to call it “Emptiness” (shūnyatā). The wisest among them have remained silent.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The kundalinī is thought to exist in the dormant state at the basal center where she must be awakened and invited to rise along the central channel to the top of the head where she reunites with pure Consciousness. This reunion is described as the communion of Shiva and Shakti, God and Goddess, or Consciousness and Energy. On the complete ascent of the kundalinī, the individuated consciousness of the adept at least temporarily melts away in the state of nirvikalpa-samādhi or transconceptual ecstasy. While this state reveals our true nature—as the transcendental Being-Consciousness-Bliss (sat-cid-ānanda)—it excludes body awareness. It could therefore be considered an incomplete enlightenment. So long as the unconscious contains karmic seeds awaiting fruition, this elevated state of consciousness sooner or later is replaced again by the ordinary state of awareness. Through repeated awakening of the kundalinī and nirvikalpa-samādhi, the karmic seeds can be gradually thinned out. Ultimately, the Tantric yogin seeks to “irrigate” the body with the nectar of immortality that oozes from the awakened thousand-petaled center. This esoteric process transfigures and transforms the ordinary physical body into a supraphysical energy body endowed with extraordinary capacities (siddhi) and immortality. For this to occur, the adept must transcend even nirvikalpa-samādhi and attain complete enlightenment in the waking state as well. This final ecstatic condition is not, strictly speaking, a state of consciousness. It is that which is Real. In the Tantric tradition, it is sometimes known as sahaja-samādhi or spontaneous ecstasy, which is constant and continuous. This realization has been summed up in the Buddhist Tantric formula “samsāra = nirvāna,” or immanence equals transcendence.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Often called the “serpent power,” the kundalinī is the Energy of Consciousness (cit-shakti), or Goddess Power (devī-shakti). According to Tantric metaphysics, the ultimate or divine Reality is far from impotent and possesses all conceivable (and inconceivable) powers. On the one hand, it is pure Consciousness; on the other, pure Energy. The Tantric branch of Kashmiri Shaivism speaks of the ultimate Reality as a supervibration (spandana). Everything else is but a stepped-down version of that incomprehensible vastness of Energy. The energies of the manifest physical cosmos are a mere trickle by comparison. It is the life energy (prāna) that animates and sustains the human body; but it is the kundalinī that, when awakened from its dormant state, transforms the body from a sentient biological organism into a field of light transcending the laws of Nature and fully responsive to the enlightened will of the Yoga adept. The goal of all schools of Tantra-Yoga, as with any form of Yoga, is enlightenment or liberation. But many Tantric schools seek the kind of enlightenment that includes the body and the world. Thus the Tantric adepts speak of a vajra-deha (“adamantine body”) or divya-deha (“divine body”). The kundalinī is instrumental in the creation of this extraordinary vehicle of the enlightened adept. According to Tantra, it underlies all spiritual evolution. Not all branches or schools of Yoga, however, avail themselves of this concept. In fact, this concept did not come into vogue until the emergence of Tantra around 500 C.E. Thus it is not mentioned in the Vedas, the early Upanishads, the Bhagavad-Gītā, or the Yoga-Sūtra (c. 200 C.E.). But later texts, like the Bhakti-Sūtras ascribed to Nārada and Shāndilya respectively, make no reference to it. There is some discussion about whether the Tantric claim to the universality of the kundalinī is in fact correct, or whether enlightenment is possible without the involvement of the kundalinī process. Since there have been adepts who claimed to be enlightened but did not experience the typical symptoms of a kundalinī awakening, we may assume that enlightenment is possible without manifestation of the typical symptoms, such as the experience of explosive luminosity, inner sounds, sensations of heat, dizziness, drowsiness, inability to sleep, and so on. In his book The Kundalini Experience, the American psychiatrist Lee Sannella makes the useful distinction between the kundalinī proper and what he calls the physio-kundalini, that is, the psychosomatic manifestations of awakening.1 The twentieth-century sage Ramana Maharshi, who, as far as anyone can tell, was genuinely enlightened, made the point that the kundalinī rises from whatever lakshya (locus of concentration) an adept has chosen. In”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The gāyatrī is explained in many places in the Sanskrit literature. For instance, the Tripurā-Tāpanī-Upanishad, a fairly late work belonging to the Shākta tradition, connects this mantra with the worship of the Goddess Tripurā. She is celebrated as the great Power (Shakti) behind all manifestation. In that scripture, we learn that the Sanskrit word tat (“that”) refers to the eternal, unconditioned Absolute (brahman), the transcendental Reality out of which the world in all its many layers has evolved. Savitur (or Savitri), the Upanishad further tells us, refers to the primal power of the Goddess Tripurā, even though the Sanskrit name Savitri is a masculine word standing for the “Impeller,” that is, the Sun or Solar Spirit. Savitri must not be confused with the Goddess Savitrī, who presides over all learning but also over the mighty river by the same name that once flowed from the Himalayas to the Indian Ocean. The name Savitri derives from the verbal root su meaning “to urge, instigate, impel,” which is closely related to the second connotation of this root, namely “to extract, press.” What Savitri extracts out of himself are two closely connected things: life-giving light and warmth. Varenyam means “most excellent” or “most beautiful,” designating that which has no superior. This word qualifies the term bhargas. Bhargo (from bhargas or “splendor”) is said to be the transcendental aspect of Savitri, which strikes us with awe—a splendor that cannot be seen with human eyes but that discloses itself only to the inner vision of the great Yoga adept. Devasya (from deva) means “of God,” that is, “of Savitri.” Dhīmahi means “let us contemplate” and implies a heartfelt desire to focus the mind on the ultimate Reality through the medium of contemplation (dhī). In the Rig-Veda, the archaic term dhī stands for the later term dhyāna, which means “meditation/contemplation.” Dhiyo (from dhiyas) is the plural of dhī. Repeatedly the ancient sages fixed their minds on that One, and contemporary yogins still follow the same age-old practice. As their contemplations deepen, Savitri increasingly illuminates the mind. Yo (from yah) is simply the relative pronoun “who,” which here refers to God Savitri. Nah means “us/our” and qualifies the contemplations of the sages. Pracodayāt is derived from the verb pracodaya (meaning “to cause to be inspired”). Without Savitri, the masters of yore felt, their contemplations lacked inspiration. Only Savitri could inspire or illuminate their inner world, just as he illuminates the Earth through his radiant physical body (the visible solar orb).”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“According to an esoteric explanation, the Sanskrit term mantra signifies “that which protects (trāna) the mind (manas). Specifically, mantra is a sound (letter, syllable, word, or phrase) that is charged with transformative power, such as the letter a, the sacred syllable om, the word hamsa, or the phrase om mani padme hūm. Thus a mantra could be explained as a potentized sound by which specific effects in consciousness can be produced. Most high-minded practitioners are reluctant to use mantras for anything other than the greatest human goal (purusha-artha, written purushārtha), which is liberation. In Tantric rituals, mantras are used to purify the altar, one’s seat, implements such as vessels and offering spoons, or the offerings themselves (e.g., flowers, water, food), or to invoke deities, protectors, and so on. Yet, the science of sacred sound (mantra-shāstra) has since ancient times been widely put to secular use as well. In this case, mantras assume the character of magical spells rather than sacred vibrations in the service of self-transformation and self-transcendence. The serpent energy hidden in the body is associated with the Sanskrit alphabet constituted of fifty basic letters, or sound vibrations, which go into the making of mantras. In contrast to ordinary words, however, mantras most often do not have a particular meaning, and their potency is tapped into through frequent repetition, whether mentally, whispered, or aloud. It is not commonly understood that for a sound to be a mantra, it must have been given in the context of initiation (dīkshā), whether formally or informally. Only then does the mantra have truly transformative power. For a mantra to become “active” or “awakened,” it must be recited at least 100,000 times. A mantra lacking in “consciousness” is just like any other sound. As the Kula-Arnava-Tantra (15.61–64) states: Mantras without consciousness are said to be mere letters. They yield no result even after a trillion recitations. The state that manifests promptly when the mantra is recited [with “consciousness”], that result is not [to be gained] from a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand, or ten million recitations. O Kuleshvarī, the knots at the heart and throat are pierced, all the limbs are invigorated, tears of joy, gooseflesh, bodily ecstasy, and tremulous speech suddenly occur for sure . . . . . . when a mantra endowed with consciousness is uttered even once. Where such signs are seen, that [mantra] is said to be according to tradition. Mantras of concentrated potency are known as “seed syllables” (bīja). Om is the original seed syllable, the source of all others. The Mantra-Yoga-Samhitā (71) calls it the “best of all mantras,” adding that all other mantras receive their power from it. Thus om is prefixed or sometimes also suffixed to numerous mantras, such as om namah shivāya”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The seventh limb of the classical yogic path is meditation (dhyāna). This is a deepened state of concentration in which the same object is held unwaveringly for a long period. It is a more complete form of surrendering the mind. It is no longer a mental effort, but a state of reposing in a noncontracted condition of the body-mind. This condition is beautifully described in a passage in the ancient Chāndogya-Upanishad (7.6.1) where we can read: “Meditation certainly is more than thought (citta). The Earth meditates as it were; the atmosphere meditates as it were . . .” That is to say, meditation is abiding in the natural state, without mental complications. The practitioners of Yoga surrender the mind’s tendency to appropriate different objects, whether external or internal. Instead they trust in the Self as the Experiencer of all, the unfailing Continuity behind the incessant change of the finite world. The last limb of Patanjali’s eightfold path is samādhi, which is generally rendered as “ecstasy.” The world-renowned historian of religion Mircea Eliade proffered an alternative rendering—enstasy. This coinage takes into account that samādhi is not so much a state of exuberance, as suggested by the word “ecstasy,” but a condition of great stillness and focusedness in which we “stand in” (en stasis) our true nature. Eliade’s coinage, however, has not achieved wide currency, and therefore, after using it in several of my publications, I reverted to the more common term “ecstasy.” The previously described techniques of concentration and meditation cause a slowing down of the movement within the mental world. In the state of samādhi, our inner architecture can be said to collapse altogether. For the practitioner surrenders the characteristic feature of human consciousness, which is its bipolar nature, its tension between subject and object. In samādhi, the experiencing subject becomes the contemplated object. At the highest level of this paradoxical condition, the experiencing subject awakens as the transcendental Self, realizing that he or she has never been anything else but the Self.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The third component of yama is nonstealing (asteya). Once again, this is to be understood in a very comprehensive sense. As a form of dispassion it is the abstention—in deed, word, and thought—from grasping after another’s property. Even merely coveting our neighbor’s strawberries, let alone his wife or her husband (who is of course not property), constitutes an infringement of this moral commandment. This virtue is connected on the one hand with nongrasping (aparigraha) and on the other hand with contentment (samtosha), which will be discussed below. Where does faith come into play in this case? The Yoga practitioner’s faith is placed in the Self as the inexhaustible Fullness (pūrnatva) that, once it has been realized, leaves nothing to be desired. Our external grasping after, or seizing of, things (and also relationships) is an expression of the ego’s strategy to overcome its basic fearfulness created by its self-isolation (or separation from the Self). But in this endeavor to extend its radius, the ego necessarily encroaches on the life-space of others, and this violates the first law of nonharming. Through surrender to the Self as the absolutely self-sufficient Reality, the ego’s harmful activity is gradually neutralized. The yogins or yoginīs who live this ideal are no longer at war with the world or themselves. The next element of yama is chastity (brahmacarya). The literal meaning of this old Sanskrit word is “brahmic conduct,” that is, the “behavior of a brahmin” or “mode of the Absolute.” Here the principle of reversal, spoken of above as the very essence of the yogic process, is most clearly expressed. To behave like the Absolute means to model one’s life on the ideal condition of the genderless Absolute. This is the underlying idea of chastity. Our ordinary experience of the world is always framed in terms of male and female (and occasionally neuter). “Chastity” is, first of all, the attempt to break away from this binary compartmentalization of life. True continence begins in the mind. Spiritual practitioners who have mastered this virtue regard all people as the same (sama), irrespective of their sex. On the physical level, chastity involves the abstinence from sexual activity. Some schools make this an unqualified condition, whereas others hold a more lenient view. The latter apply the principle of moderation to this aspect of one’s personal life, but also have rather definite notions about what is to be considered as legitimate sex. Sexual exploitation between men and women, which is often what today’s sexual revolution is about, is in yogic terms not only a waste of precious vital energy (ojas), but also a kind of violence, theft, and deception. Certain that the eternal Self not only transcends all bodily distinctions but also is inherently blissful (ānanda), Yoga practitioners are able to surrender their desire for the transient pleasure afforded through sexual activity.3”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“In the following paragraphs I will show how faith and surrender are present in the practice of all the limbs of Yoga. The foundation of any authentic yogic approach is moral discipline or yama (restraint or control). This is meant to regulate the social behavior of spiritual practitioners. Moral integrity is a must for the yogins and yoginīs who do not wish to fall prey to any attitudes and habits that countermand their spiritual aspirations. Through the universal application of the rules of yama, they ensure that they will never abuse the power—whether psychic or social—that is acquired in Yoga. There are five such rules. The root of all of them is said to be nonharming (ahimsā). This Sanskrit word is also frequently translated as “nonviolence.” It consists in unconditional nonmaliciousness toward all beings at all times and in all situations. Ahimsā has to be practiced not only in deed, but also in word and in thought. Thus it includes refraining from gossip and even thinking ill of a person, a whole group of people (e.g., xenophobia, racism, etc.), or even animate beings in general (i.e., speciesism). This presupposes a considerable degree of detachment or dispassion (vairāgya), which, as readers of the Yoga-Sūtra will know, is one of the two poles of Yoga—the other pole being constant application (abhyāsa) to the practical disciplines. How can ahimsā be said to be an expression of surrender and faith? The faith component in it is found in the recognition that our authentic Being, the Self, is beyond hurt (ahimsā), beyond ill (anāmaya), beyond sorrow (aduhkha), beyond pain (aklesha). We may surrender to it by acknowledging that our own authentic Being also is the authentic Being, or Self, in all other creatures and by treating them not as potential or actual enemies but as that universal benign Self. The virtue of nonharming, then, is grounded in the recognition that there is no cause for fear with regard to anybody or anything, since everyone and everything is that same Reality, or Singularity. Once we have overcome this fundamental fear, which is conjured up by the ego experiencing itself as an island apart from others, we also will be able to practice nonharming with consummate skill. The second constituent of the category of yama is truthfulness (satya). Here the traditional scriptures again demand of us that we cultivate this virtue in action, speech, and thought. The yogins or yoginīs who practice truthfulness in this way cannot possibly be prone to lying, hypocrisy, or deception. It is easy to see how this virtue is rooted in the moral principle of nonharming. Our faith in truthfulness is our faith in Truth, also called satya. And Truth is another name for the transcendental Reality, the Self. The Self is that in which there is not a single trace of falsehood; it is the Real. The sages also refer to it as tattva (thatness) and tathatā (thusness).”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Here we are interested in the dynamics of a true loving relationship between sexual partners. They are by definition “equal,” for their surrender must be mutual. Of course, such mutual surrender presupposes great individual maturity. Starry-eyed teenagers who have “fallen” in love are incapable of this act, although to outsiders and to themselves, they may seem to be completely absorbed in one another; in fact, their “love” is a subconscious projection of themselves onto the partner. Strictly speaking, they love themselves in the other. Hence, when reality hits, they “fall out of” love again. That not only teenagers but also so-called adults succumb to this “falling in and out of” love is a commentary on their level of maturity. I am making so much of this because in spiritual surrender, the element of mature love is present as well. When the lover surrenders “body and soul” to the beloved, really what she or he yields up is the usual self-identification with the body and with bodily and emotional and even mental processes. There is a melting away of conventional propriety, shame, and guilt. Indeed, lovers delight in pouring their hearts out to one another, in confiding long-kept secrets or long-cherished hopes, and in “daring” each other to demonstrate their love by overcoming inhibitions and taboos. They are self-forgetful—or so it seems. At least they are on the way to being self-forgetful. That they never quite succeed is as obvious as it is subtle. Their surrender is necessarily incomplete, because their love is imperfect. This lies in the nature of ordinary human love, however extraordinary it may be by conventional standards. Perfect love is possible only with regard to a perfect “object” or, to be more precise, when love is without a specific object but includes all possible objects, the whole universe. This, again, means that perfect love is possible only when there is no ego to create the usual barrier—however tenuous—between an experiencing subject and an experienced object. A genuine loving relationship, especially at the height of its sexual expression, approximates this condition of subject-object transcendence. But it only approximates it. For this condition of near-genuine love to turn into genuine love, the lovers’ images of each other (and of themselves) would have to be sacrificed. In other words, it is only when they come to love the whole person that they love perfectly. Here “whole person” refers to the human being in his or her entirety, comprising both the visible aspects and the invisible dimension; as a manifestation of the Whole (or God) and as that unmanifest Whole itself.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“In the third chapter of this “Song of the Lord,” Krishna instructs Arjuna—and us—in what is called “skillful action.” Krishna argues that activity is an inseparable attribute of finite existence. Nothing that exists in the realm of Nature is, in the last analysis, inactive. The cosmos (prakriti), which is composed of three types of primary qualities (guna), is a perpetual motion machine. If it ceased to move even for a moment, the cosmos would collapse. This view coincides with the findings of modern physics, which has revealed to us a universe that is continually vibrating. Therefore, concludes Krishna, it does not make much sense to want to abstain from action. Mere inactivity is not the answer to our existential problems. It is fine to renounce the world and dedicate one’s life to contemplating the Divine, providing one can really do it. But few people have the necessary stamina for the rigors of such a solitary lifestyle. Besides, argues Krishna, there is a better way to Self-realization (or God-realization) than renunciation. And that is to continue to be active but to act free from egoic attachment. In this way, the continuation of human life is ensured, while at the same time it is being transformed by one’s self-transcending disposition. Krishna’s activist gospel, then, does not ask us to carry on as usual. True, the karma-yogin continues to get up in the morning, use the bathroom, eat breakfast, go to work, interact with people during the day, return home, eat dinner, spend time with the family, read, listen to music, make love, and sleep. But he endeavors, by degrees, to do all this with a subtle yet significant difference: All of these actions are engaged in the spirit of self-surrender. In other words, they are all opportunities to go beyond mere egoic preferences and fixations and to cultivate instead quiet awareness and communion with the Divine. An important aspect of the practice of Karma-Yoga is the nonneurotic disinterest in what Krishna calls the “fruit” (phala) of one’s actions. Ordinarily, our actions are governed by so-called ulterior motives—those mostly hidden expectations that would see us rewarded for our deeds. For instance, by putting in an extra hour at work, we secretly, or otherwise, hope to impress the boss. By taking our children to sporting events on Saturdays, we hope for them to share our own excitement, or by sending them to medical school, we seek to live out our own dreams through their lives. By helping an elderly or blind person cross the street, we expect, below the threshold of our conscious mind, to be thanked and thus receive an emotional boost. Or, more subtly, we may do things out of a sense of duty, but without heart. In that case, our actions remain as self-involved as ever. Grim determination is no substitute for the spirit of self-transcendence.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The fact that self-transcendence is even possible indicates that Consciousness exceeds our biological and mental-psychological conditioning. If self-transcendence is so natural to our being, why does it appear to be so difficult? The simple answer is that our conditioning to identify not with our true Self but any number of substitute identities is extraordinarily strong and requires a powerful sustained effort on our part to be overcome. We must dismantle our misidentifications as we become progressively aware of them, not merely once but over and over again until this new habit of discernment (viveka) is firmly established. Then, regardless of the circumstance, we can remain in a witnessing disposition instead of losing ourselves in our habit patterns. The discovery of the Self as the witness (sākshin) of all mental contents—whatever the level or state of consciousness—is a most important event in our life as spiritual practitioners. This witnessing is not merely an intellectual activity, for the intellect is transcended in the process of witnessing. Rather it is a tentative or, when the process has fulfilled itself, the actual and permanent recovery of our Self-Identity. The Yoga of witnessing is buddhi-yoga, the yogic path of wisdom through which we perceive our habitual and therefore binding (karmic) patterns of thought and behavior. The term buddhi stems from the same verbal root (budh) as bodha meaning “enlightenment/awakening” and buddha (awakened). Thus when wisdom dawns in us, our sense of identity shifts from the body and mind and the external world to the witnessing Self. To the degree that this shift has occurred within us we are free. This inner freedom from our karmic conditioning coincides with our realization of undiluted happiness or bliss (ānanda), which, like Being and Consciousness is a hallmark of the transcendental Self. Self-realization is the end of all suffering (duhkha). This is the highest human objective. We are not born to suffer. Suffering is merely a function of our spiritual ignorance (avidyā), which occludes our innermost identity, the ātman. When we have realized the ātman, the body, the mind, and the world at large cease to be objects for us. We recognize them as our very Self. Then our Self-vision (ātma-darshana) encircles everything. We realize ourselves as the ultimate essence and foundation of all beings and things. Yet we no longer fix on particular beings and things—i.e., on a particular body, mind, or world—as demarcating us. We see through all eyes, we hear through all ears, breathe through every breathing being in the universe, illuminate every single mind, shine in every star, and also are spread out infinitely in the interstices between galaxies and even between the infinite universes that constitute the cells of our space-transcending, time-transcending Being-Consciousness (sac-cid). Tat tvam asi!4 That art thou!”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Many of the early Upanishads are in dialogue form, which gives us a sense of participating in the disclosure of the Upanishadic secrets. We encounter such charismatic wisdom teachers as Yājnavalkya, King Ajātashatru, and Uddālaka, who were once surely inaccessible to all but the most serious seekers after wisdom. It is quite amazing that today we can obtain inexpensive paperbacks that reveal what was once the most concealed esoteric teaching and the price of which was certainly much higher than a few dollars: it called for obedience and submission to a teacher, often for many long, trying years, before anything at all was disclosed to the student. Perhaps because we think we can come by this wisdom so easily and cheaply, we generally do not really value it. For instance, how many of us have actually changed our lives significantly after delving into these esoteric scriptures? The transmission of the Upanishadic teachings was not merely a matter of passing on theories. Rather it involved the transmission of the spiritual force or presence of the teacher, who had at least glimpsed the Self, if not fully realized it. Hence the qualified aspirant was expected to be like an empty vessel into which the guru’s grace and wisdom could be poured. The Upanishadic sages showed little concern about justifying any of their teachings philosophically, precisely because their verity could be demonstrated to the initiate through direct transmission. Only as other metaphysical traditions—both Hindu and non-Hindu—started to rival Advaita Vedānta, did the Vedānta teachers have to become more sophisticated philosophers and defenders of their faith.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The Self is not conscious in the ordinary sense of the word. However, it is also not unconscious. It is, rather, pure Awareness or Superconsciousness (cit). All other attributes are simply superimpositions, projections of the mind. For the Self to reveal itself in its native splendor, all these projections must be withdrawn, or pierced through. This is achieved by means of the via negativa of the neti neti method. This approach of negation is succinctly illustrated in the Nirvāna-Shatka (Six [Stanzas] on Extinction), which is one of the many didactic poems attributed to Shankara. The full text reads as follows: I am not the mind or the wisdom faculty (buddhi), the I-sense, or thought; neither hearing nor the tongue; neither the nose nor the eyes; nor am I ether, earth, fire, or air. I am Shiva in the form of Awareness (cit) and Bliss (ānanda). I am Shiva. I am not what is called the life force (prāna), nor am I the five airs [circulating in the body]; nor the seven [bodily] constituents; nor the five [bodily] sheaths. I am also not mouth, hands, feet, genitals, and anus. I am Shiva in the form of Awareness and Bliss. I am Shiva. I am Shiva. I have neither hatred nor passion, neither greed nor delusion; neither exhilaration nor the mood of envy. I am without virtue or prosperity, without lust or liberation. I am Shiva in the form of Awareness and Bliss. I am Shiva. [In me there is] neither good nor evil, neither happiness nor suffering, neither mantra nor pilgrimage, neither the Vedas nor sacrifices. I am not food, the eater, or eating. I am Shiva in the form of Awareness and Bliss. I am Shiva. I am not [subject to] death, fear, or category of birth. I have no father or mother; [in fact, I have] no birth. I have no relatives or friends, no teacher or pupils. I am Shiva in the form of Awareness and Bliss. I am Shiva I am undifferentiated, of formless form. Due to [my] omnipresence I am everywhere [present for the benefit of all the senses. I am neither in bondage nor in liberation. [I am] immeasurable. I am Shiva in the form of Awareness and Bliss. I am Shiva.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“mind and breath (or life energy) are closely connected. Influencing the one means influencing the other. When we are upset, we breathe faster. When we are calm, our breathing slows down. Yogins understood this early on and invented a battery of techniques for controlling the breath in order to control the mind. These techniques are called prānāyāma, which is widely translated as “breath control.” The literal meaning of this Sanskrit term is “lengthening of the life energy.” This is accomplished through breathing rhythmically and slowly and through the special yogic practice of prolonged retention of the breath, either before or after inhalation. In Patanjali’s eightfold path, breath control constitutes the fourth limb. He did not describe or prescribe any specific technique, and elaboration was left to the adepts of Hatha-Yoga many centuries later. They, like most other Tantric adepts, were eager to explore the prāna-maya-kosha, or the “etheric body,” and its subtle energetic environment. By contrast, most contemporary schools of Hatha-Yoga ignore prāna and prānāyāma, just as they ignore the mental disciplines and spiritual goals, and instead promote a plethora of physical postures (āsana). This emphasis is problematical, as it has led to an unfortunate reductionism and distortion of the traditional yogic heritage. The gradual re-inclusion of prānāyāma into contemporary Hatha-Yoga, however, is very promising, because this practice sooner or later leads to an experiential encounter with prāna, which is distinct from mere oxygen. According to Yoga, we are meant to live a full 120 years. Since we take 21,600 breaths every day, the total number of breath in our lifetime will be 946,080,000 breaths. This may seem like a lot, but we also know that life goes by very quickly. Therefore it makes sense to want our every breath count, and Yoga makes this possible. 53 Cultivating Wisdom WISDOM ARISES IN US whenever the quality of sattva grows stronger in the mind. Sattva, which literally means “being-ness,” is one of three primary qualities (guna) of creation. The other two qualities are rajas (the dynamic principle) and tamas (the principle of inertia). These primary qualities underlie absolutely everything that is other than the superconscious Spirit, which is pure Awareness. According to Yoga and Sāmkhya, they are the behavioral modes of prakriti, often translated as “Nature” but standing for the universe in all its dimensions. Together, in various mixtures, they shape all forms at whatever level of existence, material and mental. Only at the transcendental level of prakriti—which is called prakriti-pradhāna or “creatrix foundation”—do the three qualities exist in perfect balance. As soon as this primordial balance is disturbed, the process of creation sets in, beginning with the most subtle (mental) manifestations and terminating with the material realm. Sattva represents the principle of lucidity or transparency, as it manifests in and through wisdom. Just as the moon, which has no atmosphere, oceans, or vegetation, reflects the light of the sun, so sattva reflects the super-conscious Spirit”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Many contemporary Yoga practitioners, especially those in Western countries, look upon āsana as a tool for achieving physical fitness and flexibility. The yogic postures have certainly demonstrated their physiological benefits in millions of cases. They improve musculoskeletal flexibility, strength, resilience, endurance, cardiovascular and respiratory efficiency, endocrine and gastrointestinal functioning, immunity, sleep, eye-hand coordination, balance. Experiments also have shown various psychological benefits, including improvement of somatic awareness, attention, memory, learning, and mood. The regular practice of postures also decreases anxiety, depression, and aggression.1 All these effects are clearly beneficial and highly desirable. Yet, the traditional purpose of āsana is something far more radical, namely to assist the Hatha-Yoga practitioner in the creation of an “adamantine body” (vajra-deha) or “divine body” (divya-deha). This is a transubstantiated body that is immortal and completely under the control of the adept’s will (which is merged with the Divine Will). It is an energy body that, depending on the adept’s wish, is either visible or invisible to the human eye. In this body, the liberated master can carry out benevolent activities with the least possible obstruction. ĀSANA AS A TOOL OF NONDUAL EXPERIENCE2 The transubstantiated body of the truly accomplished Hatha-Yoga master is, realistically speaking, out of reach for most of us—not because we are not in principle capable of realizing it but because only very few have the determination and stamina to even pursue this yogic ideal. Does this mean we have to settle for the more pedestrian benefits of posture practice? I believe there is another side to āsana, which, while not representing the ultimate possibility of our human potential, is yet a significant and necessary accomplishment on the yogic path. That is to cultivate and experience āsana as an instrument for tasting nonduality (advaita). Almost all Yoga authorities subscribe to a nondualistic metaphysics according to which Reality is singular and the world of multiplicity is either altogether false (mithyā) or merely a lower expression of that ultimate Singularity. Typically, Yoga practitioners assume that the experience of nonduality is bound to the state of ecstasy (samādhi) and that this state is hard to come by and is likely to escape them at least in this lifetime. But this belief is ill founded. In fact, it is counterproductive and should be regarded as an obstacle (vighna) on the path to enlightenment. While we might not have an experience of ecstasy, we can have an experience of nonduality. The ecstatic state is simply a special version of the nondual experience. As Karl Baier, a German professor of psychology and practitioner of Iyengar Yoga, has shown, posture practice can be an efficient means of nondual experience in which we overcome the most obvious and painful duality of body and mind.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Human consciousness is characterized by a strong extravert tendency that reaches for objects via the senses. Hence the Yoga masters call for the control of both the mind and the senses, citta-nigraha and indriya-nigraha. Buddhist Yoga speaks of three types of “thirsting” (trishna), or grasping: (1) thirsting for things of the world, (2) thirsting for rebirth, and (3) thirsting for liberation. While thirsting for liberation is preferable over the other two, it still represents a limitation. Therefore it, too, must be overcome. Nirvāna (nonblowing) was originally defined as the nonblowing of the wind of desire—for anything, including the impulse toward liberation. Nirvāna is realized only when every form of grasping is transcended. According to an old Buddhist model, human life unfolds as a play of twelve factors of dependent origination (pratītya-samutpāda): Ignorance (avidyā), which gives rise to Volitional activity (samskāra), which can be bodily, vocal, or merely mental and which represents either meritorious or demeritorious karma; this leads to Consciousness (vijnāna), which causes “Name and form” (nāma-rūpa), which stands for what today is called the body-mind as a whole and which gives rise to The “six bases” (shad-āyatana) consisting of the five senses and that part of the mind which processes sensory input; this leads to Contact (sparsha) with sense objects, which gives rise to Feeling (samveda), comprising pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral sensations; this evokes Craving (trishna), or the desire to unite with pleasant or separate from unpleasant experiences, which leads to Grasping (upadāna), which consists in one’s holding onto specific experiences, views, behaviors, or the sense of self as such; this causes “Becoming” (bhava), or a particular state of existence that corresponds to a person’s inner constitution, which leads to Birth (jāti), or the actual incarnation as a specific individual, which brings Ageing and death (jarā-marana). This causal nexus seeks to explain cyclic existence (samsāra) in terms of an individual’s journey from birth to death to rebirth, ad infinitum. This model makes it clear that cyclic existence is not due to any outside agency but the human mind itself. In other words, we are creating our destiny in every moment. Yoga further tells us that samsāra is not inevitable but that we can stop the vicious cycle by modifying our volitional activity and behavior. This good news is fundamental to all forms of Yoga. Greed is a phenomenon of the unregenerate psyche, which is under the spell of the conditioned nexus and has not taken control of its own destiny. Freedom from greed comes with nongrasping (aparigraha), which is based on the recognition that we are inherently complete and need nothing for our perfection.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Writing in 1964, C. G. Jung accurately observed: Modern man does not understand how much his “rationalism” (which has destroyed his capacity to respond to numinous symbols and ideas) has put him at the mercy of the psychic “underworld.” He has freed himself from “superstition” (or so he believes), but in the process he has lost his spiritual values to a positively dangerous degree. His moral and spiritual tradition has disintegrated, and he is now paying the price for this breakup in worldwide disorientation and dissociation.3 Once we accept that we do not live in the best of all possible worlds, we can perhaps also see that we are coresponsible for our present situation. As Jung observed, we must see the shadow in our own psyche if we want to perceive reality clearly or, as the Buddhists put it, “see things as they really are.” We cannot become whole without this work on our shadow, the swampland consisting of all those aspects of our personality that we prefer to deny and instead project onto others: egotism, fantasy, greed, cowardice, laziness, irrationality, fanaticism, etc. To put it starkly: In order to become whole, we must discover the potential of terrorism in the complex circuitry of our own psyche. Terrorism is an expression of spiritual deafness, moral blindness, and irrational anger. Only when we can acknowledge the presence of these dark forces within us can we take responsibility for them. This brings me back to the mental discipline of Karma-Yoga by which action is transformed in such a way that it is not rooted in the shadow and therefore is not karmically tainted. Morally and spiritually sound action must be accompanied by self-observation, self-understanding, self-acceptance, self-transformation, and self-transcendence. Without these disciplines, we are likely to succumb to projection and wrong action (vikarma). These, in turn, are not conducive to inner and outer peace. On the contrary, if our behavior fails to be anchored in sound spiritual virtues and practices, it will predictably cause disturbance, disharmony, harm, hurt, and even chaos in the world. Krishna taught that there are circumstances when it is not only appropriate but essential to take a firm stand against evil. He was not a romantic pacifist who, in the interest of an abstract principle (however noble), allows evil to conquer good. When the moral or spiritual order is at stake, we must actively oppose the forces that seek to undermine it. He even condoned war to accomplish this end, though a war not tinged with hatred and conducted for selfish reasons.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Prince Arjuna, though born into the warrior estate, was at heart a peace-loving man. When the two colossal armies lined up on opposite sides, he began to have serious doubts about his task. It was not so much personal fear of death that swayed his heart but, rather, acute moral qualms. Has anyone the right, he wondered, to use force in order to promote the larger good? His dilemma was greatly aggravated by the fact that among those whom he was supposed to fight—maim and possibly kill—were kinsmen and revered teachers. Arjuna’s duty as a warrior was clear enough; he had to fight. But the moment he contemplated the larger implications of this action, he was terrified to abide by his decision to reconquer his lost kingdom. Arjuna’s attitude is typical of human life itself. We are all the time engaged in decision-making or in decision-avoidance. The more consciously we live, the more we realize that life is really an incessant stream of potential decisions. Arjuna, as we know, did fight his war and also emerged victorious. But first he had to learn an important spiritual lesson. Lord Krishna, who acted as his charioteer, convinced the prince that his whole confusion was the result of a faulty perspective. The God-man demonstrated to the prince that the problem that caused him such anxiety was a problem conjured up by the ego. It had no existence apart from the ego. The divine teacher made Arjuna understand that we can never transcend our circumstances merely by closing our eyes, by avoiding action, by dropping out. Even avoidance is an action, which will have its inevitable repercussions since avoidance is rooted in the ego. What Lord Krishna recommended instead was a cognitive shift, a new view of the whole matter: away from the delimiting, anxious ego and toward the boundless Self. All action must be sacrifice, he explained. We must not hold on to any conventional ego-derived scheme. Only when we abandon the delusion that we, as ego-personalities, are the ultimate initiators of actions can we have knowledge of what is truly right and good. That is to say, when we discover the “witness,” the transcendental Self, we realize that life unfolds spontaneously and mysteriously, and that the ego is merely one of the countless forms arising within the flux of life. For the Hindu authorities, the general deterioration of spirituality and the decline of humanity’s psychological health in no way precludes the possibility of spiritual aspiration and success. It is nowhere denied that contemporary humanity, feeble as it may be in comparison to its ancestors, can swim against the stream. On the contrary, all spiritual teachings affirm that we must do our utmost to cultivate spiritual values in the midst of the great darkness surrounding us.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“The following is a quotation from the Mahābhārata that describes our present era and the immediately preceding yuga, revealing a progressive deterioration of humanity’s moral fiber. Again, in the dvāpara-yuga the moral order (dharma) exists [only] half. [God] Vishnu becomes yellow, and the Veda is now fourfold [i.e., the original wisdom is split into the four Vedic hymnodies]. Thence, some [adhere to] four Vedas, others to three Vedas, or two Vedas, or a single Veda, while yet others have no hymns [at all]. Thus, owing to the broken traditions, rites become manifold and creatures, fond of austerities and almsgiving, become rajas-motivated2. Due to ignorance about the single Veda, the Vedas become multiple and because of the collapse of truth, few adhere to truthfulness. Many diseases appear for those who have fallen from truth, and there are desires and disasters caused by fate. Afflicted by these, [some] men perform very severe austerities; others, filled with [worldly] desires or desiring heaven, conduct sacrifices. Thus with the onset of the dvāpara, creatures perish through their lawlessness. In the kali-yuga, O Kaunteya, the moral order (dharma) exists by one quarter only. With the onset of this tamas-motivated3 age, O Keshava [i.e., God Vishnu] becomes black (krishna). The Vedic ways of life end, and so do the moral order, sacrifice, and rites. Plagues, disease, sloth, blemishes such as anger, as well as calamities, sickness, and afflictions prevail. In the course of the yugas, the moral order diminishes increasingly. With the diminution of the moral order, the people (loka) diminish. This description of the kali-yuga is not as daunting as it is in some other scriptures. But the message is clear enough: Ours is a sinister age. What thinking person would not agree? Can we not, by now, fill a whole library with tales of human foolishness, of humanity’s thoughtless interference with the life-world and its almost unbelievable lack of concern for fellow beings, both human and nonhuman? Is there no hope, then, for humankind? Is historian Oswald Spengler’s dark prophecy of the decline of the West (and with it, also of the East) coming true?4 Or are there, today, forces at work that countermand the Zeitgeist, the spirit of the age? This latter appears to be the case. It could not be otherwise. Or else our species would have perished long ago, right at the outset of the kali-yuga. The kali-yuga, then, does not signal total spiritual darkness or inevitable doom. Inverting a popular maxim, one can perhaps say that where there is shadow there is also light. Here and there, the present dark age is pierced by shafts of light. It is not without its benign counterbalancing influences.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“But Hindu chronology does not stop there. The four world ages are collectively known as a mahā-yuga or “great age,” and it is thought that two thousand of these supercycles form but a single dawn and night (called kalpa) in the life of the Creator (God Brahma). His life-span extends over a “century,” that is, a period of 311,040,000,000,000 human years. At the demise of the Creator, the whole manifest universe becomes dissolved. After an immeasurable period, the process is reversed and the whole cycle of space-time existence starts all over again. A truly awesome vision! It leaves no doubt about the utter insignificance of the human race, never mind the individual. Only liberated beings (jīvan-mukta) have cause for humor, for they alone stand well clear of this cosmic perpetuum mobile. Their dissolution is not merely a temporary respite from the whirling wheel of existence, but it amounts to a permanent establishment in the transcendental condition of Being-Consciousness-Bliss. This unsurpassable attainment is called “absolute dissolution” (atyantika-pralaya) and is distinct from both pralaya and mahā-pralaya. Where do we of today stand in this immense time game? As I have mentioned already, we find ourselves in the opening phase of the last of the four world ages.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Some critics acidly observed that people throughout the ages have always believed they were living in particularly crucial times. There is some truth to this criticism, because human history is indeed continuously decisive, for in humanity’s march through time every step determines the future of our species. But only the cynic would sneer at the idea that some steps, some historical periods, are more decisive than others—not only in the shaping of a particular race or nation, but for humanity as a whole. Possibly one such decisive historical threshold was what the German philosopher and psychiatrist Karl Jaspers styled the “axial age”—the period between 800–500 B.C.E. when “thought turned back upon thought”: the epoch of Confucius, Lao Tzu, Buddha, Zoroaster, Heraclitus, Plato, and Socrates.1 In the West, this development gradually led to what can only be described as the enthronement and autarchy of cold reason and the consequent suppression of nonrational modes of consciousness. As many contemporary thinkers have shown, this inflation of ratio lies at the root of today’s moral and spiritual bankruptcy, and its disastrous effects can be witnessed all around us (and in us, if we care to look). What is perhaps most disheartening is that this lopsided orientation to life is now being thrust upon the “underdeveloped” world, which merely magnifies the existing threat to our planet’s ecology and to the survival of countless life forms, not least our own human species. When we take stock of the folly of humankind we begin to realize the extent of the global problems induced, in the last analysis, by hypertrophied (egocentric) reason. We may also be impressed with the traditional Hindu explanation of the particular spirit of our era. For, according to the computations of the Hindu pundits, we are well into the “dawn phase” of the kali-yuga, or “dark age.” Like so many premodern mythologies, Hinduism views the evolution of humanity as a cyclical process of progressive moral degeneration from an original state of purity and spiritual wholeness. The”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Looked at differently, these various levels are possibilities of “bodily” existence. Depending on which “body,” or state of existence, we set our heart on, we will obtain that very form of embodiment once we have quit our present physical vehicle. Thus we may resume a human form, become an angelic being (deva) inhabiting the subtle realm, sink into the cosmic matrix itself as a prakriti-laya, or recover our true identity as the Self in the blissful “company” of the Divine Person, Lord Krishna. The phrase “to set one’s heart on something” is perhaps more expressive of the intended meaning of “remembering” than is “thinking.” The latter has too abstract a flavor, while the former is indicative of a deep-level process. This becomes clear when one realizes that one of the synonyms of “meditation” is in fact “remembering.” Meditative remembering means sending taproots down into the hidden recesses of our being, into the depth-mind (buddhi). The depth-mind is the storehouse of the essence (i.e., karmic deposits) of our world experience. It has been likened to a net whose knots are the impressions left behind by our volitional activity. Meditation is a partial enactment of the process of dying. Conversely, death is the meditative process taken to its logical conclusion. At death, the mind disentangles itself from the physical body, and the center of identity is shifted to the subtle vehicle—the so-called astral body or “subtle vehicle” (sūkshma-sharīra). The quintessence of the contents of the mind, in the form of the subliminal impressions (samskāra) stored away in the depth-mind, is the factor that determines the after-death fate of the deceased according to the iron-law of moral retribution or karma.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice

“Silence is not merely a discipline; rather, it is primarily a state of being. It is in, through, and as silence that we discover our authentic identity, the Self (ātman, purusha). Thus silence partakes of the golden nature of the ultimate Reality. By comparison, speech is like the silver-bodied Moon, which has no light of its own but is illuminated by the radiance of the Sun. Through silence we can attune ourselves to the supreme stillness of the single Being, which is utter silence that is never disrupted by sound. Jean Klein, a twentieth-century exponent of Advaita Vedānta, comments: The Self is silent awareness and cannot be defined in terms of a silence as opposed to noise. How should we react towards silence or its opposite? If you want to rid yourself of agitation so as to attain a state of silence, you reject, you fight, you defend yourself. But if on the contrary you were to accept it, the agitation—which is part of this silence—will disappear within it. Then you will reach the silence of the Self, beyond silence and agitation.2 Once that great, sustaining Reality has been discovered, all our actions, thoughts, and utterances become spontaneous signals of that infinite silence, which is sheer bliss. Thus, the words of the enlightened adepts have transformative power, because they address that part in us which instinctively knows of that unsurpassed silence. Just as in ordinary life, speech and silence are intimately interwoven, so also in spiritual life do they complement one another. This has been recognized particularly in Taoism. In the language of the I Ching, speech is yang, or the masculine pole of silence; silence is yin, or the feminine pole. Together they are responsible for the creativity of human interaction. In spiritual life we cultivate sacred silence to regenerate our inner being so that we can return to our daily activities and to speech from a new perspective. In his monumental work A Study of History, the great British historian Arnold Toynbee has written about the creative withdrawal of the spiritual heroes of the past—the founders and inspirers of religions. They sought out the wilderness in order to find the fountain of truth within their own being. Then they returned, strengthened and ready to uplift humanity by sharing with others their extraordinary discovery. “Silence,” said Ovid, “is strength.” We need not have the spiritual standing of a Moses, Jesus, Mahāvīra, or Gautama the Buddha to practice sacred silence and benefit from it.”
― Georg Feuerstein, The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice