Winning Essay of YREC's 2003 Essay Contest
YOGA AND WORLD PEACE
By Megan McDonough
Last week my husband and I went to war with each other.
It was nothing as dramatic as a divorce or separation; just a commonplace
marital spat with intense emotion behind it. It all started with what
should have been a joyous occasion: a trip to the maternity ward to
visit a nephew and his wife who had just given birth to their new son.
After holding the baby and congratulating the parents,
my husband went on to rib my nephew who had gained some weight. Women
know that it is absolutely taboo to tell another woman how much weight
she appears to have put on, and even worse, to proceed, as my husband
did, to give instructions about how to get rid of the unwanted paunch.
I tried to divert the conversation to safer grounds. I failed.
After we left the maternity ward, we had a monumental argument over
the issue. I thought the weight discussion was inappropriate. He thought
I was making a big deal over nothing.
Marital peace seems as unlikely as world peace at times.
Whether we’re struggling with the fear of a terrorist attack or
the need to re-establish family harmony, the ancient wisdom of Yoga
can shed light on the roots of warfare.
Action
Work can be like a battleground at times. One woman related
a story to me about a tense situation at work where she had to constantly
practice patience. During a private Yoga session, she had a revelation.
Eyes closed, combining movement with breath, she exclaimed, “I
think I’m confusing patience with passivity.”
When it comes to working for peace it’s easy to
mistake passivity for patience. The typical yogic caricature is of a
serene, enlightened being that is impervious to disturbances. That,
however, is not the picture Krishna paints for Arjuna on the epic battlefield
in the Bhagavad-Gîtâ. While Arjuna wants to throw
down his weapons, preferring to acquiesce rather than to kill friends
and family, Krishna urges a call to action. There is a time for peaceful
patience and a time for passionate convictions.
Examining the difference between patience and passivity
require self-reflection. They can look the same externally, but internally
they can have subtle yet important differences. Someone waiting under
a porch roof for a driving rain to stop can be practicing patience or
passivity; the only one who knows is the doer. Yoga cultivates an inner
awareness designed to ferret out the truth of passivity masquerading
as patience.
Passivity can come with a feeling of resignation, helplessness and hopelessness.
Patience, on the other hand, comes with a feeling of simply waiting,
knowing that the circumstances will change and the time for action will
reveal itself in due course.
Taking action is as basic as life itself. The Bhagavad-Gîtâ
says, “No one, not even for an instant, can exist without acting.”
The very process of breathing, the primordial process of simply existing,
demands action. Even if we wanted to stop all action, the Gîtâ
proclaims, “It is hard to renounce all action without engaging
in action.”
Action begets creation, and it is through this process that we create
our reality. As Krishna informed Arjuna on the battlefield, peace is
not in conflict with strong action. However, most of us run into trouble
when we remain unconscious of the automatic, habitual assumptions that
drive our actions.
With my husband, the action I took immediately upon leaving the maternity
ward was to point out the error of his ways. Well, of course, who wants
to hear that? I was taking action based on a limited perspective: mine.
Rather than point out his error, I would have been well-advised to take
action upon my own mental model before attacking his.
This war—as with any other war since the beginning of time—had
begun in the mind first.
Attention
Attention comes before action, whether we are conscious of it or not.
When my husband was giving my nephew tips for a thinner body, I was
placing my attention on my judgments. My thoughts ran a course like
Miss Manners reciting culturally acceptable norms. “He shouldn’t
be giving advice about weight. That’s inappropriate. He should
just be focused on the joy of a new baby. A woman would never say this
to another woman.”
According to Patanjali, the result of my thought pattern was predictable.
War ensued. In the Yoga-Sûtra, Patanjali describes three
components of the mind. These components construct the framework through
which we interpret the world, mentally creating war or peace. The first
component records the experience (manas); another classifies
the experience (buddhi); and the last component (ahamkâra)
relates that experience to your person.
Here’s how the components played out in my mind. I heard my husband
giving advice on how to lose weight, as reported by manas.
Buddhi classified the information, drawing the conclusion that
it was inappropriate behavior. Ahamkâra related this
information to me, making the case that his behavior was embarrassing
me, personally. Based on this framing, I made a decision to call him
on it after we left the maternity ward.
Put another way, my thoughts caused my suffering, not my husband’s
behavior.
Using our attention in a conscious and aware manner can circumvent the
destructive thoughts before they get a strong hold. As Georg Feuerstein
writes in The Shambhala Guide to Yoga, “The yogins are
very careful about where they place their attention, for the mind creates
patterns of energy, causing habits of thought and behavior that can
be detrimental to the pursuit of genuine happiness.”
The impact of attention can be demonstrated while performing asanas
as well. Take, for example, Virabhadrasana III. The tendency many people
have is to focus the majority of their attention on the foot that is
on the floor, thinking that balance is found by concentrating hard on
that one point of connection. In fact, the opposite is true. If you
allow your awareness to spread to your outstretched hands and extend
fully through the raised leg, the balance naturally occurs. Shifting
the focus from one small point and spreading attention to the edges
of the pose itself, creates, paradoxically, less stress and more ease.
When it came to the war with my husband, my attention was focused on
my own framework, which I considered “right,” without questioning
the validity of that assumption. How many wars have been fought because
they are right and just?
Acceptance
The other day my son was playing with an exercise ball that was as big
as he was. He had great fun running to the ball and then rolling right
over the top. Most of the time he just rolled onto the bedroom floor.
One time, however, he misjudged and hit his head on the bed. He kicked
the ball and cried, calling it “stupid” in an outraged four-year-old
voice.
It is the nature of the ball to be round, and it cannot be anything
else but round in this moment. The ball just is as it is. This roundness
may change in the future if it deflates, but right now, as my son is
playing with it, it’s round. As such, there is an inherent risk
of rolling off the ball if you choose to play with it. It’s fruitless
to kick the ball and call it “stupid” when the ball is just
being a ball.
As I watched his tirade, I realized how often, as an adult, I have rebelled
against the reality of something or someone. For example, I can fume
about my husband’s perceived lack of sensitivity around the weight
discussion, but that doesn’t change the reality of the discussion
itself.
War breaks out when we fight what is, thinking it should be something
else. A round ball should not roll me on my head. My husband should
follow my interpretation of socially acceptable rules. The stories we
tell ourselves conflict with reality, and suffering arises. Then we
perpetuate the story by elaborately constructing scenarios of how to
right a wrong. It’s not to say we can’t take action, since
it’s impossible not to take action, as described previously. It’s
just helpful to see clearly how much of our angst comes from reality
and how much comes from the story in our head about what “should”
be.
Accepting what is doesn’t mean you agree or endorse the act. It
just means you stop the impossible task of fighting reality. How do
you know the wind is blowing? Because it is.
A verse in the Brihadâranyaka-Upanishad states, “That
is perfect, this is perfect. What comes from such perfection truly is
perfect. What remains after perfection from perfection is yet perfect.
May there be peace.” That’s a whole lot of perfection for
an apparently imperfect world.
What if we were to accept the premise that perfection is everywhere?
How would that change our view of events and our part in them? It takes
trust to believe in perfection when we can’t accept what reality
dishes out. When times are tough, where do you place your trust? Do
you trust your own mental models without question? Do you trust the
support of loved ones? Do you trust some unseen, greater force?
Whether it’s the pain of war that forces us to see the need for
peace, or the pain of death that shows us the value of life, trust can
be something to hold onto until the calmer waters of peace are reached.
Trust, in its broadest sense, implies acceptance of the present moment.
It’s Mine
When you say that something or someone is mine, what effect does it
have on your behavior? If someone hit my car in the parking lot, you
might not get too upset. If someone hit your car, though, that might
be a different story. If the budget at work is about to be cut, it’s
not such a bad thing if it’s a different department. If it’s
your department, however, and layoffs are imminent, anxiety rises.
What encompasses me and mine sets the boundaries, judgments and attitudes
towards a given situation.
Whether the situation is simply a heated budgetary debate at work, or
the threat of war, it is helpful to look at where the lines of yours
and mine are being drawn and decide for yourself if these boundaries
help or hinder the situation.
Here is an exercise to consider. Grab a handful of sand in your fist
and squeeze it tightly. How much sand can you hold on to? Next, open
your fist, cup your fingers slightly and scoop sand into the bowl of
your palm. How much sand is now yours? As you move through your day,
just notice when you are labeling something as yours. Explore how that
affects your relationship to it, and see if you can play the situation
in such a way that it allows for an open palm approach rather than a
tight fist.
What is mine versus what is yours sets the stage for war. My thoughts
about how my husband should behave were different than his. Since I
held onto the thought that my view took preference over his, the battle
lines were drawn.
Ultimately, the idea of “mine and yours” is just a concept.
As Krishna said to Arjuna in the first chapter of the Brahma-Gîtâ,
“The thought 'I am connected with such-and-such' or 'I have lost
such-and-such' merely torments you, subjecting you to joy and sorrow
all round.”
Exploring how we define the concept of mine and yours for ourselves
promises freedom. As the Brahma-Gîtâ states, “He
who is defiled by the impure idea of 'mineness' toward the body, Consciousness
does not shine forth. He who is patient, devoid of the idea of 'I' and
'mine,' the same in joy and sorrow, he, though performing obligatory
and nonobligatory actions, is not stained by his deeds.”
Because of the concept of me and mine, world peace is inseparable from
family peace, which is inseparable from individual peace.
The Pain of Peace
After teaching Yoga this week, a new student came up and asked me if
she should be feeling pain during class. My immediate answer was no.
Then another student joined the conversation. She had been practicing
with me for quite a while, so I was surprised when she said, “I
always feel pain when I practice.”
The medical establishment has long grabbled with how to assess pain.
It’s so subjective. A measurement like your pulse rate is straightforward:
a black and white number that can be benchmarked against a given norm.
This is not the case with measuring pain. Some howl in agony while another
with the same injury only has a slight grimace.
According to Patanjali’s Yoga-Sûtra, thoughts can
be divided into two groups: painful and not painful. Painful thoughts
are those that may feel great when they arise, but are detrimental to
you over the long haul. Thoughts that are classified as not painful
may feel downright miserable at first blush, but work towards your best
interest over time.
Going through a major life transition—like a divorce, the loss
of a job, or the death of a loved one—can have the devastating
impact of a war. Beliefs are shattered, and rubble reigns. Pain can
be a constant companion during such times. Over the years, though, you
can see how the pain of one event can foster growth and possibly even
pleasure over the course of time. The same holds true for those things
that seem so pleasurable in one moment only to haunt you in the next—like
chocolate cake. Rich dessert can feel great in one moment, but soon
afterwards the pain of overeating overshadows the momentary pleasure.
Pain and pleasure are not that separate, are they? Could it be that
war and peace are also connected?
The war with my husband was the impetus I needed to explore my own detrimental
and painful thought patterns. This war, it seems, was a factor for peace.
World Peace
The other morning my son looked out the window and exclaimed, “The
whole world is snow!” There was a storm the night before and the
landscape had completely changed into a winter wonderland. To his young
mind, since all he could see and know was snow, then the world was snow.
In today’s troubled times, many of us are experiencing a blizzard.
Layoffs, increasing workloads, and fear of terrorism can lead to increased
anxiety, uncertainty and sleepless nights. When you pick up a paper,
hear the television news, and talk with others, it can seem like the
whole world is covered with bad news. Peace, it seems, is a scarce commodity.
When it feels like the whole world is covered with snow, and bad news
is everywhere, make like Picabo Street and ski. As she flies down the
mountain, she follows a blue line painted on the slope weaving snake-like
through the course. The lines help Picabo and the other skiers see the
course in shady areas. It keeps them on track.
Yoga is like a line that keeps us on track for personal peace when a
blizzard obstructs our view. Yoga philosophy can be complicated. Yoga
practice, though, can be simple. Just as Picabo followed the blue line
down the hill, Yoga is just following the line of life as it’s
presented in each moment.
World peace can be complicated. Practicing world peace, though, can
be simple. One mind at a time, one thought at a time, peace or war is
cultivated.
From my own little corner of the world, my husband and I have laid the
marital spat to rest and are at peace for the time being. With each
encounter, if I’m willing to be the yogic observer, I discover
more about myself. With such perspective, I can see the possibilities
of my own creations, making my own choice for war or peace one moment
at a time.
Sources
Feuerstein, Georg. The Shambhala Guide to Yoga. Boston, Mass:
Shambhala, 1996.
Prabhavanda, Swami and Christopher Isherwood. How to Know God: The
Yoga Aphorisms of Patanjali. Hollywood: The Vedanta Society of
Southern California/Vedanta Press, 1981.
Stephen Mitchell. Bhagavad Gita, a New Translation. New York:
Three Rivers Press, 2000.
Georg Feuerstein. Brahma-Gîtâ, http://www.yrec.org/brahmagita.html.
June 16, 2002.
© 2003 Megan McDonough
Megan McDonough is a certified Yoga teacher and is on
the staff of the Barre Integrated Health Center. More information about
her can be gleaned from www.urinfinityinabox.com.