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Standing On the Shoulders of the Past
By Ganga White
Reprinted from Yoga Beyond
Belief, Insights to Awaken and Deepen Your Practice
If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders
of giants.
—Sir Isaac Newton, in a letter, circa 1676
Yoga’s growing popularity in the West raises many
questions. For example, is yoga becoming “Americanized”
and does that Americanization degenerate the purity or
authenticity of the teachings? If yoga is being changed
in the West, what right do we have to make these modifications?
These concerns also raise deeper questions: What is the
nature of tradition and authority? Can we truly know exactly
what was taught and practiced in the past? Is there any
actuality to the concept of “pure teachings”
from the past?
I first realized the importance of these questions at
a lecture series in the early seventies on one of the
foundation texts of yoga, The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali.
The lecturer was my great friend and mentor, Swami Venkates
(1921–1982), a much-loved and respected yogi and
Sanskrit scholar from India.1 He explained that very little
is actually known with much certainty about Patanjali,
whom many consider one of the early codifiers, if not
the father, of yoga. I use Patanjali as an example because
his yoga sutras are used by many teachers as the touchstone
of yoga, yet the text can be interpreted in widely differing
manners. My swami friend emphasized that any translation
or commentary on any text always involves someone’s
point of view. In fact, the translation process itself
is interpretation. Even if we read or listen to a text
in its original language, we must acknowledge that a large
amount of personal interpretation still goes on in the
way we receive it.
Language usage, meaning, and circumstance change over
time. We have heard the story in Psychology 101 of the
man who runs menacingly into and out of a classroom with
a banana and the students are asked to write a report.
Nearly everyone describes having witnessed the man doing
different things; some saw the banana as a gun, a flashlight,
or a telephone. What does this case of multiple interpretations
of a single event imply about the possible purity of subtle
teachings handed down over thousands of years? What should
we learn about the limits of tradition and authority from
our observation of the phenomenon of every major religion
and tradition breaking down into dozens of sects and subgroups
with conflicting opinions, often with each one asserting
that only its members have the actual truth? Even secular
laws written in contemporary times with clear intent are
prone to conflicting interpretations. Carefully written
laws can be stretched, interpreted, and argued in different
directions. Spiritual concepts and teachings, especially
from the ancient past, are far more vulnerable. Spirituality
is not an exact science to be laid out in narrowly defined
paths.
Tradition and Interpretation
An adept scholar can find many different,
often contradictory, meanings in the ancient texts. There
are many examples in every tradition where, in order to
support various philosophical positions, the same texts
are translated in different ways. For example, some teachers
believe Patanjali was an advocate, if not one of the originators,
of Hatha yoga, while others assert that Patanjali’s
sutras do not support the practice of physical yoga at
all. When I first started teaching, I mentioned in a class
that I was taught that the sutras were the foundation
of Hatha yoga. A few days later a well-known elder swami
from another organization called me and angrily chastised
me, asserting that Patanjali was not at all an advocate
of physical yoga. He stated that Patanjali’s mention
of asana and pranayama, posture and
breathing, only referred to sitting quietly and stilling
the breath for meditation. The swami said spending time
and energy to cultivate the body would lead to attachment,
body consciousness, and would detract one from the true
spiritual path. This opinion is the antithesis of what
most modern, Western yoga students believe.
Another example of differing opinions in the yoga sutras
is the word brahmacharya. Usually translated
as celibacy and abstinence, brahmacharya has also been
reinterpreted by some teachers in modern times to mean
responsible sexuality or spiritual sexuality aimed toward
God. This shows how the same text can be assumed to have
opposite meanings. There are texts that prescribe renunciation
in order to attain godhood and those that say indulgence
is the path. Some ancient scriptures say the doors of
heaven are only open to vegetarians and others that say
the opposite. I remember Swami Venkates pointing out that
yogic texts and teachings are so vast and so complex that
we can find traditional support and authority for almost
anything we want to do. In spite of these limitations,
students and teachers often spend great energy in debate
to try to bolster an edict or find an exact meaning of
a Sanskrit sutra in English. This quest may ever elude
them. How can truth or the immensity of life and spirit
be confined and captured in explanation? How can wisdom
and spiritual realization be attained by mechanical processes
or the practice of specific techniques? In this book you
will see how these questions or problems should not cause
us despair but, rather, strengthen us in following our
hearts and minds.
Yoga is a cherished and valuable tradition. We can learn
from and use the tradition in an approach tempered by
the realization that what we call tradition is truly our
own, or another’s, interpretation of what something
may have been in the distant past. My swami friend
Venkates suggested that we use ancient writings to stimulate
our inquiry and to catalyze our direct perception and
understanding of our own lives without becoming overly
dependent on tradition. Relying too much on doctrines
and texts for guidance in living cuts one off from direct
perception and from the living awareness of insight. Yoga
should be viewed as an art as well as a science. Structured,
more scientific, aspects of yoga and techniques also involve
unstructured, indefinable dynamics that require artistry
and awareness to apply. Living in wholeness and creativity
has structural components, but life is more an art than
a science.
Even in asana practice there is structure
as well as the artistry of application to the individuality
of the person and the moment. Yoga is practiced within
the tradition but must be applied according to the uniqueness
of each person’s life and situation. We should not
simply idealize the past and assume that teachings, purportedly
unchanged from the ancient past, are perfect, superior,
or appropriate for the present. It is impossible truly
to know the ancient past. Giving teachers, and even teachings,
the status of perfection is the beginning of authoritarianism
and a recipe for abuse. When teachers say they are presenting
a perfected teaching, there is the veiled implication
of unquestionable authority. The teacher is elevated as
the pure vessel of this perfected path. It is important
to be aware of what power, stature, and position a particular
viewpoint gives to the teacher expounding it. There is
no single interpretation of yoga. We cannot learn to fly
by following the tracks left by birds in the sand. We
must find our own wings and soar.
Another great teacher, J. Krishnamurti, said, “The
observer is the observed,” meaning, among other
implications, that when we study something it is affected
and colored by our own interpretations and projections.
This influence is also a problem in setting up scientific
experiments. The way the experiment is set up affects
the outcome. Is light matter or energy? It turns out that
it depends on how we look at it. The method of observation
has a direct relationship to the way the observed object
is perceived. Krishnamurti also said, “Truth has
no path, and that is the beauty of truth, it is living.
A dead thing has a path to it because it is static.”2
He pointed out that because we have exactness and authority
in the technological world, we unconsciously carry the
ideas of authority and structure over to the spiritual
arena where they have no place. We are living, changing
beings. We can learn from and honor tradition and we can
also grow beyond it to develop the ability to listen to
our own uniqueness by incorporating contemporary insights
and discoveries. If we are too busy trying to relive the
past, we may miss birthing the new. We do not have to
limit ourselves to searching backwards through the musty
corridors of the ancient past for answers to the mutating
and constantly changing questions of the living present.
Tradition can be valuable and useful, but we should not
forego the much more relevant insights that can be found
right here and now on our own yoga mats, and in the laboratory
of our own lives.
Freedom from the Known
An insatiable appetite and energy for learning and a
fresh inquiring mind are among life’s greatest assets.
This is why the concept of beginner’s mind
has been emphasized in the East. When we come to learning
as a beginner, we are open, questioning, looking. When
we approach a subject as an expert, we are more closed
and fixed in the accumulated information we have gathered,
in the past experiences we have had. When we’re
an expert, or experienced, when we know something,
even a yoga posture, we tend to approach it mechanically,
from the past. We lose the freedom of discovery, the freedom
of being fresh and new.
As our journey in the unending process of learning and
growing in wisdom progresses, we must endeavor to keep
a fresh context, a fresh attitude, a beginner’s
mind. We must keep the content we acquire from hardening
and clouding the context in which we hold information
and experience. Our context, the ground of being with
which we hold the information, should be kept open, flexible,
and free.
There is an ancient saying: “He who knows, knows
not. And he who knows not, knows.” Or: “He
who knows doesn’t say. And he who says, doesn’t
know.” One of the messages of this saying is that
there is much more to wisdom and understanding than mere
knowledge and information. Knowledge and information are
limited, as there is always room for growth and change.
One who thinks he knows doesn’t understand
this limitation and has therefore a restricted perception.
One who sees his or her own limitations, and the limits
of knowledge, may actually see more clearly. The word
intelligence, from inter legere, means
to see between the lines. Intelligence is seeing between
the hard lines of fixed information and knowledge, having
the subtle, flexible perception that can see beyond the
norm, beyond limited definition and formula. I once heard
a very wise man discussing this concept and also what
brings about a state of clear intelligence and penetrating
perception. His inquiry revealed that the necessary ground
for awakening intelligence is an open state of consciousness
that begins with not knowing. Saying “I
don’t know” is the beginning of the awakening
intelligence. As this wise man was explaining this, he
looked up at his questioner and said, “And you don’t
know either!” pointing out that this type of seeing
does not happen by looking to others to fill our void.
The vulnerable state of humility, of saying “I really
don’t know” opens one to discovery—but
we must also be vigilant not to allow ourselves to become
susceptible to those who would like to fill us with their
dogmas and doctrines.
A Fresh Point of View
A famous Zen story is told about a student coming to
learn from a wise teacher. During the introductions the
student tries to show his worthiness to the teacher by
narrating a history and explanation of his studies. The
teacher begins to pour the student a cup of tea while
listening to the monologue. He fills the cup, then keeps
pouring until it overflows onto the table and into the
student’s lap, causing him to jump up and shout
at the teacher, saying, “How could you! You’re
supposed to be an aware person; can’t you see my
cup is full?” The teacher replies, “Yes, your
cup is full. You’re so full of yourself, in fact,
that there’s no room for anything new. Please come
back when your cup has some space in it.” This story
points out that we must have inner space and receptivity
to learn. But I have never heard this popular parable
looked at from the perspective of the student. Spiritual
teachers are usually assumed to have authority and higher
knowledge. The story can be seen to cut both ways, however,
and can also point to the teacher being so full of himself
and what he has to offer that he devalues the student’s
knowledge and chastises him.
The idea of keeping a fresh, open context and not getting
stuck in explanations, words, and descriptions resonates
in the first verse of the honored, ancient text, the Tao
Te Ching. Verse one of the Tao says, “The Tao
that is explained is not the Tao. Now an explanation of
the Tao.” With that opening paradox and contradiction,
the teacher cautions that his explanation only points
toward something—toward direct perception and revelation.
We need to teach and educate each other, but we must be
careful not to get stuck in the words we use to do so.
We are cautioned in the beginning not to get stuck in
the text, the words of the Tao that follow. Instead, we
are urged to see beyond words, to see what the words are
pointing toward.
In Sanskrit, a mahavakya refers to a great saying
or formula that should be contemplated. Tat Twam Asi,
meaning Thou Art That, is considered by many to be one
of the greatest mahavakyas. We see in many ancient Sanskrit
texts the word Tat, or That, used to point toward
the sacred, the immeasurable. The English word that
comes from the Sanskrit word Tat. It is interesting and
informative to note that this great saying uses the word
that instead of a description, a specific name,
or a less abstract word. That is a word used
to point. When we point our finger we often say “that.”
This word was chosen in this great saying to remind us
it is pointing toward something we should not overly describe
and limit with words and names. Overly describing, defining,
or personifying the sacred leads to division and religious
conflict. We are all part of the infinite, the immeasurable,
the ineffable. You are that.
The
word Vedanta also points toward freedom from
the limitations of knowledge. Vedanta is one of the ancient
yogic philosophical systems. The word Veda means
knowledge and anta means the end. Vedanta
is the end of the ancient Vedas and is often said to imply
the end philosophy or the highest philosophy. The double
entendre and hidden message in the word Vedanta is that
it also means the ending of knowledge, or freedom
from the known—that which is beyond the known. A
central practice in Vedanta is negation—discovering
the actual by removing, or negating, what it is not. For
example, if you negate or remove arrogance, humility may
come into being. There is a related form of inquiry or
meditation approach called Neti Neti—not
this, not this. Neti Neti aims one toward the realization
that the transcendent cannot be contained in an object.
We can explain love but love itself remains beyond words.
By removing what is not love from our lives, we create
more possibility for love to come into being. The greatest
things in life are not obtained simply by acquiring knowledge
of them.
As a final example to point out the distinction between
context and content, between the accumulation of knowledge
and that which is beyond, consider a modern koan. A koan
is a cosmic riddle pondered to achieve an insight that
catalyzes a non-rational flash of understanding and illumination.
One of the most famous such koan questions is, “What
is the sound of one hand clapping?” In koan style
inquiry, one isn’t supposed to circumvent the process
by giving the answer. The process of questioning, pondering,
and breaking the riddle yields a light of understanding.
A humorous, modern Zen koan addresses the paradox of
contradiction encountered when trying to convey the teachings.
In this story a teacher gives a student a question to
solve: “How many Zen masters does it take to screw
in a light bulb?” After working for weeks on the
riddle, the student finally has a flash of seeing. “It
takes two,” he says. “One to screw the light
bulb in and one not to screw it in!” The
student saw that the true meaning of Zen lies in the explanations
and at the same time is beyond them. Words and descriptions
can only be part of the equation, part of the actual.
That which lies between the lines cannot be conveyed in
words.
This book raises many questions, perhaps more than it
answers. It is often more important to question our answers
than to answer our questions. The process of questioning
and holding a question within ourselves becomes part of
the light on the path of discovery, softening and opening
us to new realizations. When we trust ourselves enough
to begin to question tradition and authority, we begin
the process of direct discovery. It has been said that
the highest learning comes in four parts: One part is
learned from teachers; another part from fellow students;
a third part from self-study and practice; and the final
part comes mysteriously, silently, in the due course of
time. Inquiry and questioning can free us from the rigid,
mechanical life of strict adherence to one belief, and
can move us into the joy of continuous learning.
Once, while walking in the mountains, an old Chinese
teacher said to me, “If I teach you, you must stand
on my shoulders.” This is a beautiful metaphor.
We don’t throw away tradition: we stand on the shoulders
of the past to find how we can see a bit farther.
© 2007 Ganga White, All Rights Reserved.
Used by Permission. From Yoga
Beyond Belief, By Ganga White. www.whitelotus.org
White Lotus Foundation, 2500 San Marcos Pass, Santa Barbara,
CA 93105
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