PUT INTRO TO JÑĀNESHWAR HERE
Jñāneśvarī Chapter 6, verses 152-
adapted from the translation by Catherine Kiehnle ~ INCOMPLETE
[BG 6.10] “The yogi should constantly restrain himself, staying in solitude, alone, with controlled heart-mind, without hope/desire, without clinging or fear (aparigraha).”
[v. 152] In that way clarifying [the matter], Śrī Hari said on that occasion, “Arjuna, listen to the king of paths, where at the foot of the tree of activity are seen innumerable fruits of nivṛtti. Groups of yogis first set out before us on the [way to the infinite] space [of liberation] so that the footprints of [their] experience created a road [for us]. They forged ahead by the direct road of self-realization, abandoning all other paths made of ignorance. After came the maharshis by this [method], sādhakas became siddhas, knowers of the Self became great by this very path. When this path is perceived, thirst and hunger evaporate. One does not know whether it is day or night. Where the foot comes down while one walks, there a mine of liberation opens, [and even] one who has made a detour gets the bliss of heaven. One has to walk along this path steadily. To which [place] one goes by this road, that village one becomes oneself. Should we tell this? You know [it] naturally.”
Then said Arjuna, “O God, when will that be? Why should you not draw [me], who am drowning, out of the ocean of desire?” Then Krsna said, “What sort of impatient talk [is that]? We are telling [everything] spontaneously; moreover, you asked.”
[BG 6.11 “Having established, in a clean area, a firm seat (sthiram āsanam) for oneself . . .”]
“Then it will be told now in detail, but it will be useful [only] by experience. ~ One will have to look for such a [suitable] place where, with fondness of contentment, when one has sat down, one feels no need to get up [again], [and] when one has seen it, dispassion (vairāgya) grows twice as great, which place, [when] inhabited, becomes a support to contentment (santoṣa), and an armor of firmness for the mind, where practice accomplishes itself [by itself, and] experience itself teaches the heart, [and where] such greatness of charm is constant; coming into the shelter of which even the confidence of an unbeliever in the desire for tapas takes root, and even a sense-addicted person when coming that way, expressing desirous sentiments, is affected unexpectedly and forgets to go back. In that way it makes one who does not [want to] stay, stay, and one who roams about, sit, and giving a pat, awakens dispassion. “Even the most excellent of kingdoms [may be] abandoned, and one may be just here, cooling down,”—so it appears even to a lascivious man, the moment he sees [it]. It is just as beautiful as it is pure, there where the abode [of the yogi] is spread before one’s eyes. This should also be understood: it should not be disturbed by frequent traffic, and should become inhabited by sādhakas. Dense trees abound, always bearing fruit, also with roots sweet like nectar; clear water at every step, even when it rains; and a spring which is easily reached. Yes! Also, when a little sun-heat is felt, it is moderated by a sense of coolness; the wind is very faint and soft with its breeze. For the most part it is silent, herds of animals do not enter, and there are not too many parrots or bees. Swans living on the bank of a stream, several cranes, a cuckoo (if he is only there sometimes), and also peacocks coming and going at times—we do not say no to that. It is necessary, O Pāndava, that one finds such a place, [ideally] with a secluded monastery (matha) or Śiva temple (śivālaya) [nearby], whichever is acceptable to one’s heart-mind. One should sit alone there for the most part. Therefore one should recognize [whether] it is as described, and watch whether the mind becomes still [there]. If it remains [quiet], one should install there this [kind of] seat: on top a pure deer-skin, in between a clean folded cloth, below unbroken kuśa shoots, soft, even, and well-bound, properly placed. But, of course, if [the seat] will be [too] high, then the body will sway, if [too] low, it will be disturbed by the earth. It should be fixed with good balance. I have almost said too much, let it be: the seat should be like that.
[BG 6.12: There, making one’s mind one-pointed, controlling & channelling the activities of thought & emotion and of the senses (yata-citta-indriya-kriyaḥ), after sitting down on the seat, one should practice yoga for the purification of the self.] Then there, after one has made the mind (antaḥkaraṇa) one-pointed, one should remember one’s teacher, feeling [the beneficial impression of that connection]. By that respectful remembrance, one is filled inside and outside with sattvik [emotions, i.e. ones that are pure, light, & uplifting], when the hardness of the feeling of ego dissolves. Sense-objects are forgotten, the force of the sense-organs breaks, and unity of the mind comes about in the heart. (Or: the mind’s seat solidifies in the heart.) [Until] one attains such a unity naturally (sahaja), so long one remains [sitting contently and waiting for it]; with that awareness (bodha) one is [truly] seated then on the seat (āsana).
Now the body sustains the body, breath supports breath—such light of experience starts to arise. The outgoing activity of the mind recedes, samādhi comes near, and all practicing comes to an end the moment one [truly] sits down. [BG 6.13: Holding the body, head, and neck all in a straight line, steady and unmoving, gazing at the tip of one’s nose, not looking in other directions] Listen, it will be told now, the strength of the mudrā [ = the posture siddhāsana with all three bandhas]. Join the thighs with the calves, and place the soles of the feet firmly at the base of the ‘tree’ of the mūlādhāra. The right heel goes at the base, thereby pressing the perineum, then the left foot rests naturally upon it. . . . By the upper part of the heel it is pressed, with the body balanced on top. Let the spine imperceptibly elongate, and let the body become balanced & self-existent in every respect. Arjuna, know that [posture] to be mūlabandha, also known as vajrāsana. Such a mudrā comes to be in the mūlādhāra, and the outward path [of the breath] in the lower body is closed off. There, apāna begins to recede inside. Then the cupped hand automatically rests on the left leg, and the shoulders appear to broaden. In between, due the elongation of the spine, the ‘lotus’ of the head becomes steady, and the doors of the eyes want to close. The upper lids do not move, the lower ones relax, and the eyes become half-open. Sight, having turned within, gently puts a foot outward [as it were], and finds a sacred resting place (pīṭha) on the tip or bridge of the nose. The half-gaze stabilizes there. Desire to visit the directions [of the surrounding environment] [with one’s attention] ceases, as does expectation of appearances. The chin drops towards the chest and touches it. The adam’s apple disappears inside. This bandha, when established, is called jālāndhara [after the Tantrik pilgrimage site in the Puñjab region]. The navel is pushed [in and] slightly up, the belly disappears and inside, the encasement (kośa) of the heart expands. Above svādhiṣṭhāna, at the bottom of the navel area, the bandha produced there is called uḍḍiyāna [after the Tantrik pilgrimage site in the Swat Valley].
[BG 6.14: Serene & calm, free from fear, established in the vow of the brahmacārins, controlling the faculty of attention, with the heart-mind on Me, disciplined (yukta), one should sit, focused on Me.] When the ‘armor’ of these practices [described above] is worn by the body, inside one may break the strength of the wayward mental faculties. Imagination & thinking subsides, the normally outgoing activities of the mind become equanimous, and the mind and body settle down. What became of hunger, where did sleepiness go? Even the memory of them has been snatched away and does not soon return. The apāna that was blocked by mūlabandha turns back again, accumulates and intensifies. Its activation (kṣobha) increases, it vibrates in the relaxed space between the bandhas, and it ‘fights’ with the maṇiphula (‘jewel-flower’) cakra. Then that whirlwind comes to rest, and after taking a thorough search of the whole ‘house’, throws out the waste matter of childhood. Inside, it cannot turn downward, but enters the stomach region, where it provides no shelter for kapha or pitta (i.e., it casts out excess kapha and pitta). It turns upside down the ocean of the dhātus, clears away the mountain of excess fat, draws out the essence of the marrow in the bones, releases the veins & arteries (nāḍis), loosens the limbs, and frightens [some] practitioners—but there is nothing to fear. It reveals the presence of a disease, and then removes it, and casts away excess water and earth elements.
The heat caused by this posture [if held for sufficiently long] awakens kuṇḍalinī śakti. As a young serpent, bathed with saffron, curled up in its bed, like that is this kuṇḍalinī dormant, in exactly three and a half coils, like a female serpent with her head downward, like a coiled vine of lightning, a rope of flaming fire, or a ring of the purest gold. Like that, well-bound, confined in a crucible, pressed by mūlabandha, she begins to awaken (lit., ‘become attentive’). There, like a star (nakṣatra) travelling along the ecliptic, or the seat of the sun undone, like a seed (bīja) of light become a sprout [of flame] – loosening her coils, relaxing her body out of curiosity, this śakti mounts up to the ‘bulb’ (the kanda, 3.5 finger-widths below the navel, or midway between the svādhiṣṭhāna and maṇipūra cakras – but in other sources the kanda is coterminous with the prostate). [Cf. Haṭhapradīpikā 3.107 and 3.114] Naturally hungry [to rise] for many days, on top of it awakened, then she forcefully spreads out her ‘mouth’ straight upward. There she embraces all the wind that is below the space of the heart. With the fire of her mouth she reaches up and down and begins to eat morsels of flesh. She devours excess flesh and also provides it [where needed]. The she searches out and purifies the soles of the feet and the palms of the hands, pierces the upper parts, and clarifies the joints of every limb. Although she remains rooted in the mūlādhāra, she cleanses the tissues and unites with the bones. She scrapes the hollows of the bones, rubs the fibres of the head, then the outside sprout of hair-seed gets scorched. [?] Then the thirsty one takes a gulp in the ocean of the seven dhātus and immediately produces dry heat. Lengthening the back of the neck, the wind that goes 12 finger-widths out of the cavity of the nose pours back inside. The lower breath contracts above, the upper breath attacks below. In that embrace the cover of the cakras remains. Otherwise just then the two mix, but kuṇḍalinī, for a while irritated such that she says to them “How are you over there?” Listen, consuming the whole element belonging to the earth she does not leave anything, then cleans away the water. Eating both elements in that way, then she is completely satisfied. Then, softened, she remains near suṣumnā. By the ‘poison’ she vomits there through her mouth with the pleasure of satiation, breath lives. [Here ‘poison’ might be a code word for orgasmic sensation.] That fire comes out from inside, but starts to cool down outside. There the limbs build again the strength that was [previously] abandoned. The paths of the nāḍīs break, the distinction of the nine breaths disappears, therefore the qualities of the body exist no more. Iḍā and piṅgalā unite, the three knots (granthis) are loosened, the six covers of the cakras are rent. Then moon and sun pause and wind is not seen on a wick, no matter how much one tries [to discern it]. The last particle of intellect (buddhi) dissolves, smell in the nose remains, and comes together with the śakti in the central channel. Then pours from above the fount of moon-nectar, and turning over, merges into the mouth of the śakti. Through that tube the fluid (rasa) fills in and is kept in the whole body, where itself it merges with the wind of breath (or: where itself the wind of breath merges). As in a heated mould the wax disappears, and the mould then fills with molten bronze and remains so, like that, that very power becomes manifest in the shape of the body, and is (as it were) covered with a mere screen of skin. As the sun is veiled by clouds, but cannot withhold his light when they disappear, like that is the light contained by this crust of skin. As the husk is shed from the grain, as the self-born sprouts of a growing crystal, like that appears the lustre of the beauty of one’s limbs, like the color of the sky at sunset, extracted and turned into that body, like the liṅga of inner light made manifest, like a mass of kumkum, or mercury (siddharasa) cast in a mould – to see it is to see peace embodied. It is like the strokes of a painting of bliss, or an image of supreme happiness, or like a well-grown sapling of the tree of contentment. It is like the bud of the golden campaka flower, or an image of nectar, or an orchard of tenderness in bloom; as if the lunar disc had blossomed with autumnal moisture, or light solidified into form on a seat (or: in a posture) – like that becomes the body when kuṇḍalinī drinks the moon. Then death fears the form of such a body. Old age turns back, the knot of youth is untied, the lost state of childhood reappears. Such a yogī erases the difference between the words ‘strength’ (bala) and ‘youth’ (bāla): his or her fortitude & steadiness (dhairya) is incomparable. . . . his eyes are washed clean. . . . they may look the same as before, but his sight embraces the heavens. . . .
Listen: holding the hand of the breath, ascending the stairs of the sky, over the rungs of the central channel, She comes to the heart—the one who is kuṇḍalinī, the mother of the world, the radiant beauty of the emperor that is consciousness, who made a shade for the sprout of the seed of the universe, who is the seat of the liṅga of the void, the crucible of Śiva who is the highest Self, and the manifest birthplace of breath—when this kuṇḍalinī has come into the heart, then She babbles the ‘words’ of the unstruck sound (anāhata-). This was faintly heard by the mind (buddhi) that had become pure consciousness, stuck to the body of the śakti. In the well of the deep sound, the charming forms of the image of sound (nāda), the outlines of the praṇava [OṂ], are as if painted. This has to be [first] imagined, then it is known—but from where is it now brought [to the mind] by someone who imagines it? . . . Then, with that cloud of anāhata, space begins to resound. Then the window to the domain of brahman opens spontaneously.
Listen,
TO BE CONTINUED
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