It is generally agreed that Patanjali is the father of yoga. In the second yoga sutra he defines yoga. Yoga, he says, is surrendering the projections of the mind. To master yoga therefore is to be able to surrender anywhere, anytime. Not only in the quiet of the meditation room, or the peace of the mountain side. Not only in random moments of absorption or rapture. The practice of surrender is subtle and elusive, and can only be an invitation: surrender cannot be brought about directly, but only as a result of the most profound and exhaustive insight. The invitation involves a process of total acceptance, total commitment and total attention. It is detailed by patanjali as yama and niyama.

The fruits of yoga are not always easy to recognise. Because of this many of us fall into a fatal trap. A trap set by our ambition. A net in which we cast about looking for an equivalent of diplomas, medals, certificates of achievement. We master the art of placing our feet on our heads in backbends. We become adept at placing our leg behind our neck. We amaze and stun our friends by our ability to perform 108 sun salutations. We amaze and stun ourselves by our ability to come up into a handstand from dandasana, from bakasana, from navasana. But satisfying and impressive as these feats are, they are not indications of mastering yoga. Baryshnakov could do them all at first attempt. So too could many dancers, gymnasts, acrobats. But, as long as we are looking to impress, even if only ourselves, we are nowhere near mastering yoga. As long as we look for signs by which our skills can be recognised we are enslaved. As long as we seek credentials which symbolise our accomplishment, we are still driven by a mind disturbed by the winds of passion. We are still slaves to our ambition.

Accomplishment in a specific asana, for example is not so much determined by the movement of our body, but the activity of our mind. Of course, the two are not separate. When we do utthtitatrikonasana, for example, it becomes asana not when we place our hand on the floor, or align our shoulders with our pelvis. It does not improve just because the feet are aligned, the legs are straight, the spine extending, the chest opening. It improves because our awareness penetrates the activity of each part of our body. And in that penetration the mind must be sensitive enough, still enough, to feel strain, to recognise distortion, and to adjust accordingly. As the body responds to the subtle perceptions of the mind, it begins to align itself more precisely. With this anatomical alignment comes a freedom on the more subtle, vital levels of the body. Within this freedom awareness and energy can flow freely and harmoniously. This flow further deepens the sensitivity and quietness of the mind. And the cycle of competence is enriched further and further, as alignment and awareness take us deeper into the grace and harmony of our bodies, and the stillness and rapture of our minds. As the body becomes more and more stable and free, as the physical effort become less, the mind grows gradually quiet. Not through holding the postures passively for a long time. But penetrating them dynamically, more and more deeply, more and more fully. With mastery this can be achieved rapidly, even instantaneously. The body and mind, through practice become one.

But it is possible to ape the mastery of asana through strength, through flexibility, through agility. But it is not the same thing to do a handstand as it is to do adhomukha vrksasana. It is not the same thing to do the crab as urdhva danurasana. And the difference is clearly visible to the eye that has sensitised itself by going inwards and exploring the subtleties of its own anatomy, its own bodymind. But the rewards that physical accomplishment, that exotic agility give to the ego are very seductive, and inimical to mastery of yoga. They must be abandoned if we are to know the deeper rewards of a quiet mind.

The fruits of yoga are often more obvious in their absence, and more easily to others. Our progress, the level of our mastery should not be a concern to ourselves. We practice yoga only when we do so simply to enter more deeply and fully into the nourishing abundance of each moment. If we do what we do for effect, any effect at all, we are not yogis; simply contortionists, acrobats, clowns. When, however, we practice simply to flower into the moment, to awaken to the depth and beauty of what already exists within and around us, although we will go as far as we can, we do not measure. And we do not compare. We do not struggle to go beyond, or even reach the experience of yesterday. Never do we struggle to reach what we think we know another can do. Nor do we reach towards some intellectualised goal. We simply honour the moment as it is, in its own fullness. In doing that, no matter how free or limited the movement of our body, the opening of our mind is unrestricted, and then we taste the fruit of yoga, the radiance, the peace, the joy, the love. Then we are accomplished. But we no longer care.

1992 london