A triune: body, mind, and Self

Iyengar’s phrase “triune of body, mind and Self” gives the field three zones. The body is the most visible, the mind is the most restless, and the Self is the most hidden. His teaching on the kośas in chapter 1 of Light on Life places the same layers inside the model of nested sheaths, and he states the aim in one sentence: “When we are able to bring the various sheaths of our body into alignment and harmony with one another, the fragmentation disappears, integration is achieved, and unity is established” (p. 4). The Gītā’s field and its knower provide the orientation, and the five kośas provide the detailed map.

In my own practice, I meet the knower of the field as a sense of witnessing: of being, more than doing. It arrives most easily in still postures, those that ask for little movement. The body rests in its shape, the field lies open, and something watches it with quiet attention.

The essay’s central line also shows a practical hope: “What human beings need is a look into the ‘interior’ of their own Self and see within.” The Bhagavad Gītā’s second half, from chapter 7 onward, turns toward this interior. Light on Life takes the same turn after its chapters on body and breath, when Iyengar writes of “the inward journey toward the core” (p. 22).

Who comes to yoga

A second thought in the same book concerns the question of motives. Iyengar writes: “All those who attempt to learn yoga may not be spiritual seekers. Patañjali encourages them to practise yoga so that they may one day become interested and follow the spiritual aspects of life (see B.G., VII.16)” (Aṣṭadaḷa Yogamālā, vol. 1, p. 197). The verse he points to reads:

“Four kinds of virtuous people worship Me, O Arjuna: the distressed, the seeker of knowledge, the seeker of wealth, and the wise.”
(Bhagavad Gītā 7.16)

Kṛṣṇa calls all four noble, and he describes the wise as especially dear (7.17–18).

This teaching is welcoming. I came to yoga as a spiritual seeker, one who seeks knowledge, jijñāsu. I wanted to inquire and to realize the truth, though I lacked the words for it then. I was studying philosophy at the time, and I had many questions about reality. Many of my students arrive as the distressed, ārta. They come for relief from pain, or for mental relief. With time, many of them begin to look for something beyond these. A student may arrive for a stiff back, a quiet hour, or a better night’s sleep, and the practice keeps its door open for the day a deeper interest wakes. Any community of practitioners includes people of all four kinds, and the Gītā’s list reminds us to treat each one as a real seeker.

Tending the field

The two thoughts belong together. The field must be tended before the knower of the field comes into view, and the tending can begin for any reason. The body-based practice of the early chapters of Light on Life, with its stress on firmness, breath, and alignment, offers precisely this kind of tending. Iyengar describes the body as “the child of the soul” that we must “nourish and train” (p. 23), and he insists that “you cannot catch a glimpse of the divine except through the body” (p. 26).

Tending a field begins with listening. A farmer first checks what the field needs: more sunlight or more water, protection from pests or shelter from the wind. Then the farmer attends to those needs. And every farmer knows that you can plant the seeds and care for the field with devotion, while whether it grows and bears fruit rests beyond your hands. Here the Gītā’s field meets its most famous verse: your right is to the action alone, never to its fruits (2.47). The field is where the work happens, and the knower is the reason the work matters.