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Svadhyaya

11/12/2013

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There’s always room for improvement.

Svadhyaya is self-study and the fourth of five Niyamas, the personal ethics or observances listed in Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras.  Svadhyaya is not always fun to practice, but it is always fun to say. 

Imagine this.  You’re in the dressing room of a department store under those awful fluorescent lights.  You have selected a teeny-tiny bikini (or Speedo if you are of the male persuasion).  Once you have it on, you look into a three-way mirror.  You study yourself.  You cannot help but notice every perceived flaw on your body.  You can see the results of your penchant for late snacking or beer or sweets or bacon or [insert your vice here].  Look again.  You see the places where your age and gravity are evident or the battle scars from surgeries, disease, or childbirth.   Or, perhaps you are diligent of diet and dedicated to a regular exercise and moisturizing routine, so you admire your toned muscles, your curves and skin. Perhaps a bit of both.  You enjoy the “good” and make weird faces at the “bad.”

What can you learn from this study of your physical body?  Are there areas you don’t want to see?  Areas you avoid?  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to replace one cup of coffee each day with a glass of water. What about your best features?  How do you feel when you gaze at your attributes? And what does it all mean? Are you ashamed, proud, judgmental, content?  What else?  When you take the time to reflect on your thoughts about this experience, this is self-study of your mind. You may realize you’re hard on yourself or easy on yourself.  You may realize that you’re hard or easy on everyone else too!

Did you ever hear a recording of your voice or see yourself on video and think, “That’s not what I sound/look like?”

Now, imagine you could hold up a mirror that showed the emotional or mental or spiritual reflection of your habits.  Svadhyaya is about paying attention to your own behaviors, thoughts and actions.  And then thinking about them.  There are many mirrors available. Your yoga practice is a wonderful mirror.  Are you critical of your asanas (poses)?  Proud?  Do you peek at others in the class or secretly hope they are looking at you?  Are you able to sink into the stillness of a surrendering pose or do you dread the quiet time with only yourself for company?  Do you push yourself to the point of injury? Are you habitually the first one to arrive to class? Or the last? Do  you need to have the best yoga mat and apparel?  Why?  Do you always practice at the same spot in the room? To all of these questions, why?  What might it reveal about you and your engrained habits?

Books are mirrors.  Traditionally, the study of spiritual scriptures was considered the key to learning about the self. Religious rituals and practices from all traditions are mirrors. Relationships are mirrors.  Running, biking, dancing, singing, meditating?  All mirrors.  Whatever you’re doing, are you doing it mindfully?  Or out of habit?  Think of the person you most admire.  Would he or she be proud of you?

The bottom line?  Pay attention.  Notice your behaviors.  Adjust according to your core values.  Repeat.


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Lessons from my mother and my yogurt

6/4/2013

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My mother died two years ago.  There will never be another person who loves me so completely and unconditionally, worries about me constantly, and provides the virtual blanket of security that only a mother can offer. My mother was, among a million other things, my first teacher.

She was proud of me, and she believed in me, even when I failed miserably.  She didn’t judge me or scold me when I wasted a lot of money, unable to successfully transition from high school (achiever) to (lost and reckless) college freshman. When I was hopeless and depressed and felt like a big fat failure, she believed I would persevere, and I did, buoyed by her quiet support.  She was proud of me a zillion times, including when I became a yoga teacher.  She witnessed several of my graduations, even—eventually—a college graduation. And then, later, even though she never stopped calling it “yogurt,” (as in, “how was your yogurt class today?”)  she was just as proud of my graduation from Yoga Teacher Training.  I corrected this pronunciation error many times, but eventually gave up, realizing that I would actually be disappointed if she got it right.  I don’t think she had a really clear idea what yoga was all about, but she saw that it made me whole and happy, and that was enough.

When she was not proud of me, when she was clearly disappointed, I felt deep, soul-darkening shame.
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Like most mothers, she was my barometer of right and wrong.  I remember a grocery shopping trip with her when I was very young, maybe four or five.  She had allowed me the luxury of purchasing a cardboard backed, molded plastic covered assortment of varying-degrees-of-tiny little naked dolls.  I can remember these dolls as part of a favorite game.  My brother would hide them around the living room-- on the knobs to the television, on a bookshelf, behind a coaster on a side table.  I found immense pleasure in running around the room locating all of my little naked babies.

We were at the Victory Market in Chittenango, an institution that’s been gone as long as my childhood.  I grabbed a pack of gum from the conveniently located treasure trove in the check-out line, while she was busy putting groceries on the belt.  I don’t remember why I chose not to ask if I could have it or if I even knew that I was stealing. When we got home, she discovered the larceny, and she put me right back in the car to make amends. I had to tell the store manager what I had done, and she paid for the gum.  I lost the privilege of owning the gum and, more upsetting, the naked babies.  I was crushed and ashamed.  

I don’t remember a lot of details from childhood.  I don’t remember a lot of details in general.  I tend to remember things in terms of feelings and perceptions.  But I remember feeling ashamed, because my mother was ashamed of me.  It certainly wasn’t the last time she taught me right from wrong, but it’s the first time that I can clearly remember.

As practitioners of yoga, we study Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. We learn of the eight limbs of yoga. We aspire to practice, along with the other six limbs (to be savored in future posts), the Yamas and Niyamas, a list of  guidelines for leading a yogic lifestyle of awareness and principle.  

The Yamas are five practices of restraint. 


  • Ahimsa is non-violence, the practice of not harming yourself or anyone else.  

  • Satya is truthfulness.  

  • Asteya, the big one in this story, is not stealing.  

  • Brahmacharya is sexual abstinence or, in a more contemporary sense, balance and moderation. 

  • Aparigraha is non-hoarding or non-coveting behavior.  

The Niyamas describe five self-observances.  

  • Saucha is purity.

  • Santosha is contentment with who you are and what you have. 

  • Tapas is discipline and austerity.

  • Svadhyaya is self-study of life, behavior, patterns, or spiritual texts to promote understanding.

  • Isvara-pranidhana is surrender to a higher power.

If you are blessed, you learn about right and wrong from the people in charge of raising you.  You may learn some from your religious or civic leaders, teachers and friends and role models of all sorts. No matter what form it comes in, the basic tenets of right and wrong seem to all boil down to the same things.

I am constantly reminded of my mother’s teachings.  She never practiced yoga in her life, but she and my father lived a more yogic lifestyle than most people I know.  I will revisit each of these ideals in future posts, as I move through them in life or in classes.  

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    Dena D. Beratta

    Honored to teach, but always a student.

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