The Invisible Threads of Yoga

How I weave yoga in the fabric of daily life

I forgot the last time I unrolled my gunmetal blue yoga mat, but I remember precisely when was the last time I practiced yoga. Today. Because although I stopped doing downward facing dogs and sun salutations, I haven't stopped doing yoga.

I found yoga when I was a stressed out student, with my body tearing at the seams because of looming exams, all-nighters and the usual existential dread of a lost twentysomething. My reason for doing it at first was a mix of fascination and accessibility. I was drawn to it because it married movement with spirituality, while having the allure of an ancient Eastern practice. And it was accessible because it did not require and equipment other than a mat, but apparently a dirty rug worked too, and I could also adapt it to my own level of fitness.

Over the years I learned that yoga isn't just poses with animal names¹ or intricate flows. The Yoga Sutras² of Pantanjali, codified two thousand years ago, outline eight limbs.³ It is a holistic way of life, with a limb covering breathwork, another concentration or another moral acts. The first two limbs are called Yamas (translated as restraints) and Niyamas (translated as observances).

I didn't know it at first, but the Sanskrit "sutra" (meaning thread) is directly upstream from the English term "suture." It made sense why I felt like yoga was putting me back together. With every pose, every transition, every flow, I could feel a painful needle piercing my being, sharp with the pains of acceptance, doubt, or humility. Trailing from its point was a thread - a sutra - binding my spirit in its transformative embrace.

But the magic often happened off the mat.

Yoga made me realize how attached I am to my preferences. How deeply I'm wired to avoid pain and pursue pleasure. It could be understandable if these instincts kicked in when I were truly in danger - a gun pressed against my temple for example, but I apply the same logic to much more mundane inconveniences.

A while ago, I made a white bean and sweet potato stew that tasted like a winter in Siberia: each mouthful transported me to a barren landscape devoid of warmth and comfort. I would have preferred a frostbite than to take another bite. The problem wasn't that it tasted bad, it just didn't taste like anything at all.

My initial reaction was to salvage it with more spices or serve it with a zingy rice. But then I remembered the Niyama of Santosha, or contentment. It's the practice of cultivating equanimity in every situation we find ourselves in. So I resolved to eat the stew for dinner that week, as it was. The experience was underwhelming at best, but not because of the stew’s taste. Once I stopped telling myself the story of how it should have tasted, I actually became okay with its flat flavor. It was a classic case of "Here goes nothing!" When I dropped my preference, I simply relaxed into what was there: just a banal bowl of beans.

Unfortunately, it’s not always this straightforward, as the next story will show.

I don't live below a bowling club, but my upstairs neighbors sure make it hard to believe sometimes. A cacophony of stomping feet, screeching furniture and banging sounds, which often goes on for longer than a TED Talk, is a regular occurrence. And for someone who values a quiet space, this is more infuriating than my worst enemy spilling red wine on my favorite shirt, on purpose. I need silence to think and write - basically two of the most important things in my life.

There's a Japanese proverb that says: "The noise does not disturb you; you disturb the noise." It implies that it's our own reaction to the external event that defines our experience, more than the event itself. Well, I consider this noise atrocity my final boss.

Whenever I hear that awful familiar sound, I suddenly channel my inner tyrant, and can't help but dream of intricate revenge scenarios that may or may not involve psychological warfare.

I can't say I am close to laying down the arms, but the practice of yoga teaches me how to soften a little, how to not get attached to my comfort - that of having a quiet home all the time, or of not being disturbed by outside factors. There is one Niyama in particular that is relevant here, called Ishvara Pranidhama, meaning surrendering to a higher power.

While I am not religious in the traditional sense, I see the value in this notion. At its core, it asks that I let go of my need to control every situation. And more importantly, it asks that I trust in the process. Trust that as incredibly annoying as that noise is, it hides a lesson for me, one that I can’t afford to ignore: that inner peace shouldn’t be contingent on external factors.

Even as I write this, I hear those darn footsteps. But they have lost some of their power.

---

I may not have stepped on my mat for a few months, but I am untroubled by that fact, because I know it's not the asanas (poses) that need work. It's my own mind. Sure, a yoga pose trains the mind as well as - if not more than - the body, but it's no excuse to give up the practice when I’m away from the confines of that rollable rectangle.

It's said that the secret sauce of yoga involves taking the insights we got in the physical practice and applying them to the life at large - in our relationships, our work, our mindset. But I've noticed the reverse is also true and equally useful. It's when I bring new ideas and attitudes gained in the outside world and apply them to my yoga flow.

So the next time I unroll my mat, I know I'll bring a different flavor, informed by my recent encounters with life.

But until then, I'll continue to practice in all the moments - big and small - of life.

1. Some examples include frog pose (Mandukasana), camel pose (Ustrasana) or pigeon pose (Kapotasana).

2. Essentially, a sutra is a concise statement on the philosophy of yoga, explaining how to practice this way of life. One of the most famous sutras is “Yogas citta vritti nirodhah” which translates to “Yoga is the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind.”

3. The eight limbs are Yama, Niyama, Asana, Pranayama, Pratyahara, Dharana, Dhyana, Samadhi.