Yoga Is Not Pilates — and Why the Difference Matters

Lately, I have noticed a recurring conversation.

Someone speaks about yoga, and the response is often, “Oh yes, I do Pilates,” as though the two are more or less interchangeable.

I understand why this happens. Both involve movement, breath, posture, strength, flexibility, concentration and body awareness. But yoga and Pilates are not the same.

They may overlap in physical expression, but their purpose, psychology and aim are fundamentally different.

This is not a criticism of Pilates. Pilates is an intelligent and beneficial movement system. It can build strength, stability, mobility and body awareness. Many people love it, and rightly so.

But yoga is not simply another form of physical conditioning.

Traditionally, yoga is a complete system for the whole human being. It works with the body, yes, but also with the breath, mind, senses, nervous system, attention, inner life, and ultimately our relationship with the Self.

This is where I feel the distinction has become blurred.

At times, the yoga world itself has contributed to the confusion. As teachers and practitioners have rightly emphasised meditation, philosophy, breathwork and the subtler dimensions of yoga, there has also been a tendency to talk down the physical practice — as though āsana were somehow less important.

Āsana is not just stretching or strengthening. It is part of a whole yogic map of the human being, including the nāḍīs, chakras, bandhas, mudrās and kośas. Through the body, yoga works with the breath, nervous system, glands, mind and subtle body

When approached with awareness, the physical practice of yoga becomes one of the great doorways into self-knowledge.

In a yoga class, we are not simply trying to stretch, strengthen or shape the body. We are learning to inhabit the body. We are learning to listen. We are observing the breath, the mind, our resistance, our ambition, our fear, our tendency to force, avoid, collapse or compare.

The posture becomes a mirror.

This was beautifully reflected in a teaching I heard recently. A student was attempting an inversion, and the teacher pointed out that while modifications can be incredibly useful, there are also times when a student should not attempt a particular pose.

Not because they have failed.

Not because the pose is the goal.

But because yoga asks us to become conscious of what is actually present.

If something is preventing the body from entering a posture — whether structural, physical, emotional, energetic, or simply a limitation of that day — the purpose is not to override it. The purpose is to see it clearly.

This is one of the beautiful things about yoga.

The subject — the person practising — becomes aware of themselves in the attempt.

Not just the shape of the body, but the quality of attention. The breath. The reaction. The story. The impulse to push. The disappointment. The wisdom of restraint.

Yoga is not asking us to perform a pose. It is asking us to come into relationship with ourselves through the pose.

And this brings me to another important point.

Yoga is the medicine.

And if yoga is the medicine, we need to be careful not to dilute it until it loses its potency.

Of course, yoga must be practised intelligently. Injuries, trauma, nervous system capacity, age, illness and lived experience all matter. A good teacher must be able to modify, adapt and support the student in front of them.

But modification is not the same as dilution.

There is a difference between making yoga accessible and reshaping yoga so completely around our preferences, fears, wounds or resistances that it no longer asks anything of us.

Yoga works because it reveals us to ourselves.

This is where the subject-object relationship becomes important.

In yoga, I am not merely the body being shaped into a pose. I am the conscious subject becoming aware of my relationship to the pose, the breath, the sensations, the mind’s reaction, effort, limitation, discomfort, fear, restraint and surrender.

The posture is the object.

The breath is the object.

The sensations and reactions are the object.

And I, the one who is aware, begin to recognise myself as the subject.

At some point, we meet the medicine.

And the medicine meets us.

This does not mean forcing, overriding or harming ourselves. It means entering the practice with humility and sincerity, allowing yoga to show us what is ready to be seen, softened, strengthened, purified or understood.

That is the transformative power of yoga.

Not that it gives us another way to perform.

But that it gives us a way to see.

This is why I often say that yoga is a whole-being practice.

A strong yoga practice can absolutely build strength, mobility, stability, flexibility and tone. It can leave you physically energised, grounded and alive. But its deeper gift is that it does not stop at the body.

When I come to yoga, I am not only hoping to move well. I am hoping to feel well.

In body.

In mind.

In spirit.

Perhaps this is one of the key distinctions. Pilates may often be approached as a way to improve the body — and again, there is nothing wrong with that. But yoga, at its heart, is a path of integration.

It includes the physical body, but it does not reduce us to the physical body.

It includes strength, but also softness.

It includes effort, but also surrender.

It includes discipline, but also discernment.

It includes form, but points us beyond form.

So yes, Pilates and yoga may share some common ground. But they are not the same, and we lose something important when we treat them as interchangeable.

Yoga is a practice of embodiment, self-awareness and transformation.

It is a way of coming home to the body, calming the mind, refining the breath, and remembering the deeper Self beneath all the striving.

And perhaps this is why, even after all these years, I continue to return to my yoga mat.

Not to perfect the pose.

But to meet myself with radical honestly.

Yoga Is Not a Religion

Many years ago, a client I was seeing in counselling responded to a yoga practice I suggested by saying:

“But I’m Catholic. I can’t practise another religion.”

Her response stayed with me.

Not because it was unusual, but because it reflected a common misconception. Many people assume that yoga belongs to a particular religion, or that practising yoga requires adopting a new set of beliefs.

Yet yoga does not ask anyone to convert, abandon their faith, or subscribe to a doctrine. It begins with practice, observation, and direct experience. As Swami Rama wrote:

“Yoga is not a religion, but a systematic and exact science for body, mind, and soul.”

This quote appears in my latest article published by Yoga Australia, where I explore one of the most frequently asked questions in modern yoga:

Is yoga a religion?

I invite you to read the full article:

https://yogaaustralia.org.au/yoga-is-not-a-religion-reframing-yoga-as-method-philosophy-and-path/

Yoga Is Not a Religion: Reframing Yoga as Method, Philosophy and Path⁠

Ahiṃsā: The Practice Begins With You

Yesterday, a yogi friend sent me a post that asked:

Which of the eight limbs of yoga are you practicing?

It led to a lovely conversation. In the comments, someone had written: Ahimsa.

It stayed with me, because Ahimsa is such a simple word, but not always a simple teaching to understand or embody.

There can also be some confusion around the word Ashtanga. Many people know Ashtanga as a strong vinyasa-style yoga practice, but the word itself means eight limbs. In the classical yoga tradition, Ashtanga refers to the eight-limbed path described in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali.

These eight limbs are:

1. Yama – ethical restraints

2. Niyama – personal observances

3. Asana – posture

4. Pranayama – breath regulation

5. Pratyahara – withdrawal of the senses

6. Dharana – concentration

7. Dhyana – meditation

8. Samadhi – absorption

Ahiṃsā is the first of the Yamas, the ethical foundations of yoga. Together with the Niyamas, these teachings offer a way of living, a set of values by which a yogi conducts his or her life both on and off the mat.

Simply translated, the five Yamas are:

1. Ahimsa – non-harming

2. Satya – truthfulness

3. Asteya – non-stealing

4. Brahmacharya – wise use of energy

5. Aparigraha – non-grasping

Ahimsa is often translated as non-violence, but I don’t think that translation is enough.

When we hear “non-violence,” we may immediately think of obvious acts of harm: physical violence, killing animals, squashing a bug, speaking harshly, criticising someone, gossiping, or contributing to harm in the world.

Yes, all of this matters.

But Ahimsa is much closer, much more subtle, and much more intimate than that.

A better way to understand it might be:

First, do no harm.

And this begins with you.

Ahimsa begins in the way we relate to ourselves. It is practiced through thought, word, and deed. It is in the way we speak to ourselves, the way we think about ourselves, the way we treat the body, and the way we move through practice.

In yoga asana, Ahimsa becomes very practical.

It asks us to listen. To tune into the wisdom of the body. To honour our limitations. To know when effort is appropriate, and when we are forcing. To notice the difference between steady discipline and pushing through.

To respect the body, rather than conquer it.

This is often where I begin when I teach Ahimsa. Not as an abstract moral idea, but as something we can experience directly in practice.

Can I meet myself honestly today?
Can I practice without aggression?
Can I place my effort in the right way?
Can I honour where I am, without collapsing and without forcing?

To me, this is where yoga begins.

And in many ways, one who truly understands this first Yama has already touched the heart of the whole path. Because if we are really practicing Ahimsa, we are also practicing awareness, restraint, humility, compassion, truthfulness, and self-knowledge.

This is the kind of yoga I am most interested in sharing. Not just the physical practice, but the way yoga becomes a path of living, relating, reflecting and remembering who we are.

As it is often said, yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the Self.

Yoga Is Not What You Think It Is

A Lifestyle of a Yogi

There is a quiet assumption many of us carry about yoga. That it is something we do once a week. A class we attend. A way to stretch, relax, or reduce stress.

And while yoga can certainly offer all of these things, to stop there is to miss what yoga actually is.

Because traditionally, yoga was never simply a physical practice.

Yoga is a complete system. A philosophical path, as well as a method for understanding the body, the mind, and ultimately, the nature of the Self.

In the West, yoga has largely been presented through the lens of movement.

Āsana, the physical postures, have become the central focus, and for many people this is where the practice begins and ends.

But within the classical teachings, including the Yoga Sūtras of Patañjali, the seminal text on the philosophy of yoga, the physical practice was never the final goal.

It was preparation.

The aim of the movement practice was to cultivate a body and nervous system steady enough to sit, observe, and turn inward.

In other words, the physical practice prepares us for meditation.

Āsana steadies the body. Prāṇāyāma refines the breath and nervous system. Meditation settles the mind.

This is why meditation, and particularly Vedic Meditation, sits at the centre of the way I teach.

This understanding is deeply connected to why I created this home yoga space and why I have designed the timetable the way I have.

The timetable is intentionally small, but complete in its vision. Each class supports a different aspect of practice.

Wednesdays, Hatha Yoga

Wednesday includes two Hatha Yoga classes.

The first is a classical Hatha-style class working with alignment, balance, strength, steadiness, and vitality.

Maintaining a vital physical body is an important prerequisite on the path of yoga.

The second is a Foundations of Hatha Yoga class for beginners, or those returning after time away, who are curious and want to begin properly.

Saturdays, The Complete Practice

Saturday includes āsana, prāṇāyāma, meditation, and deep rest.

A complete practice for body, breath, nervous system, and mind.

This class is especially suited to those already established in Vedic Meditation, although this is not essential.

Sundays, Restorative Yin Style Yoga and Satsang

Sunday offers restorative yin style yoga for those needing rest, nervous system regulation, and deep relaxation.

This is followed by optional satsang, including Q&A, discussion, and yogic teaching to help make sense of yoga as a path, not simply a physical practice.

Over time, I hope to continue deepening this aspect of the space by increasingly bridging Yoga and Vedānta, the study of the Self.

Because while yoga prepares and refines the mind, Vedānta helps us inquire into the truth of who we truly are.

This is the direction I see this space evolving toward, and it is also a path I continue to walk myself as a current student of Vedānta.

Not a studio built around endless classes and constant consumption.

But a space for sincere practice, learning, community, inquiry, inner growth, and spiritual development.

A place where yoga is not simply performed, but lived.

If you are genuinely interested in exploring yoga as a path, my encouragement is to approach it with consistency and curiosity.

Ideally, I encourage students to participate in at least two classes each week, combining physical practice and satsang over time.

For those already initiated into Vedic Meditation, Sunrise Yoga is also offered online each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 6:30am to 7:30am.

“Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the Self.”

Permission to Mourn

Permission to Mourn

My brother’s passing has brought me once again into the terrain of mourning.

I say once again because I am not unfamiliar with death and loss. Many who know me know of the tragic loss of my sister nearly nineteen years ago. That kind of grief does not simply disappear. It changes shape. It softens in places, deepens in others, and becomes part of the fabric of who you are. And now, with my brother’s death, I find myself once again in that ancient, humbling place where loss strips life back to its essentials.

This time has not only brought sorrow. It has brought a deepening awareness of what mourning actually is, and how little space our modern world seems to make for it.

We speak often about grief, but not enough about mourning. Grief is what we feel inwardly. Mourning is how we live that grief. It is grief expressed, witnessed, ritualised, and allowed. Mourning gives form to sorrow. It creates a container for what would otherwise feel overwhelming, formless, and too much to carry alone.

And yet, we do not seem to know how to mourn anymore.

There was a time when mourning had a recognised place in life. There were rituals, garments, gatherings, prayers, periods of withdrawal, and a communal understanding that the bereaved had entered a different kind of time. They were not expected to be fine. They were not expected to resume ordinary life immediately. Their sorrow was visible, held, and given dignity.

Now, more often, mourning feels truncated. We may be given a few days, a few sympathetic words, and then quietly expected to carry on. To function. To answer messages. To return to work. To compose ourselves. To move forward.

But sorrow does not move according to the speed of the world around us.

The heart does not obey the timetable of modern life. Loss asks something slower, older, and more honest of us. It asks us to stop. To feel. To acknowledge that something irrevocable has happened.

This is why mourning matters.

Not because sorrow needs to be indulged, but because sorrow needs to move. If grief is not given expression, it does not simply vanish. It often goes underground. It can settle in the body, in the nervous system, in the psyche. It can remain as numbness, agitation, anxiety, exhaustion, sadness without language, or that strange feeling of being present in life while not quite fully here.

Mourning is not self-pity. It is not indulgence. It is not wallowing.

It is the soul’s way of catching up with reality.

When someone dies, we are not only grieving their absence. We are grieving the rupture in the world as we knew it. A voice is gone. A presence is gone. A role within the family is gone. The future we unconsciously assumed has been altered. Mourning is what allows us to stand inside that truth, rather than stepping over it too quickly.

For me, this experience has also deepened my contemplation of a profound yogic idea: abhiniveśa.

Abhiniveśa is often described as the deep clinging to life, or fear of death. Not merely the conscious thought, I am afraid to die, but a more subtle, subconscious force. A profound attachment to continuity. A resistance to ending. A primal fear that sits underneath so much of human life.

Swami Rama once said that there are really two fears: the fear of losing what we have, including life itself, and the fear of not getting what we want or realising our desires.

That feels profoundly true to me.

We fear losing what we have: our loved ones, our health, our youth, our identity, our certainties, our place in the world, our life.

And we fear not receiving what we want: the unrealised dream, the unlived future, the relationship we hoped would remain, the life we thought we still had time to build.

Beneath both fears runs that deep current of abhiniveśa. The clinging. The refusal of ending. The ancient, often subconscious fear of death. Fear and attachment are deeply intertwined, because the more tightly we cling to people, identities, desires, and the life we have built, the more profoundly we fear their loss.

Perhaps this is why death is so confronting. Because when someone dies, we are not only meeting their death. We are brought face to face with our own vulnerability, our own helplessness, our own impermanence. Death tears through the illusion that life can be controlled, secured, or guaranteed.

Mourning, then, is not only sorrow for the one who has gone. It is also our encounter with the fragility of being human.

This is why I feel mourning deserves to be restored.

Not hidden away.

Not rushed through.

Not bypassed by platitudes about being strong, staying positive, or finding meaning before the heart is ready.

Sometimes mourning simply asks us to be with what has been broken open.

To cry when the tears come.

To speak the name of the one who has died.

To remember.

To stop pretending that life has not changed us.

Losing my sister taught me something about grief’s long arc. It taught me that grief does not end so much as become woven into one’s being. It becomes part of how you love, how you see, how you understand others, and how tenderly you live with what can be lost. Now, with my brother’s passing, I feel that understanding deepening again. Not because I welcome loss, but because loss keeps teaching me what it means to be human.

It teaches humility.

It teaches impermanence.

It teaches love by revealing what love costs.

And perhaps that is why mourning matters so deeply.

Mourning is how we honour the truth that love leaves a mark.

Mourning is how we acknowledge that death changes the living.

Mourning is how we let the heart register what the mind cannot yet fully comprehend.

To give ourselves permission to mourn is not to collapse into sorrow forever. It is to allow grief to move honestly, so that it does not harden within us. It is to recognise that there are seasons in life when strength does not look like composure. Sometimes strength looks like tenderness. Sometimes it looks like stopping. Sometimes it looks like allowing the heart to break.

In these early days, one of the greatest comforts has been being with family. Sharing stories, remembering together, and simply holding one another through the first shock of loss has mattered deeply.

Now, mourning continues in quieter ways. I include my brother in my daily prayers and in my sādhana. I write about him. I light a candle. I look at photographs. I listen to songs he loved.

These are some of the ways I am mourning my brother now. Mourning is not only about sorrow. It is also about love finding new forms through which to remain.

And slowly, I will return to my work and to teaching yoga. Each experience in life deepens and enriches what we carry and what we offer. This loss, too, will be folded into the fullness, tenderness, and truth I bring to my teachings.

With heartfelt thanks, I want to acknowledge your many messages, thoughts, love, and support during this difficult time, and to thank you also for your patience.

I look forward to reconnecting, sharing, and teaching again soon.

Wishing you all a peaceful and beautiful Easter break.

From the heart,

Avril

What To Do in a Moment of Overwhelm

Over the weekend I had the privilege of presenting at the InspireHer International Women’s Day event in Melbourne about ‘Living in the age of anxiety’.

Much of my work at the moment centres around an eight week course I teach called My Name Is Not Anxious, where we explore how our relationship with anxiety can begin to shift when we better understand the nervous system and learn practices that support it.

During the talk, someone asked a question that many people quietly carry.

“What should I do when I feel completely overwhelmed or in the middle of a panic attack?”

I wanted to share this reflection with you because I suspect it is a question many people hold, even if they do not always speak about it openly

I found myself responding in two parts.

The first part relates to what we can do when we are already in that acute state of overwhelm.

When anxiety surges, the nervous system has already entered a heightened fight or flight response. Stress hormones are moving through the body and the system is physiologically activated. In this state the thinking mind is often not readily available, which is why it can be difficult to reason our way out of the experience.

Many people immediately try to regulate the breath. While breathwork can be helpful, when the nervous system is highly activated the breath can feel laboured or restricted. Trying to control the breath too quickly can sometimes intensify the sense of panic rather than settle it.

In these moments it can be more helpful to begin with the body.

If possible, create a little space by stepping away from whatever stimulus or environment may have triggered the overwhelm. Allow the body to begin discharging the surge of activation that has moved through the system.

One natural way to do this is through movement or shaking.

In the animal world, after a threat has passed, animals will often shake their bodies to release the stress response before returning to a resting state. Humans share the same biological capacity, but we often suppress it or try to ignore it.

Allowing the body to move, shake gently, or release tension can help the nervous system begin to settle.

As the body gradually calms, the breath will often begin to soften naturally. As the breath settles, the mind slowly begins to come back online.

Body first.

Then breath.

Then the mind begins to settle.

Sometimes the most supportive thing we can do is simply allow the nervous system the time it needs to return to balance rather than trying to push through the experience or pretend it is not happening.

Acknowledging the experience, allowing the body to discharge the charge, and then reconnecting with the breath can be a powerful arc back toward regulation.

You may notice that much of the advice around anxiety today focuses immediately on the breath. Breathwork has become widely recommended within modern psychology and wellbeing practices. While the breath is indeed a powerful tool, the yogic tradition approaches it in a broader and more integrated way.

In yoga the breath is explored through the practice of pranayama, which sits within a much larger framework for understanding the human being. Yogic philosophy describes our experience through the five koshas, or layers of the self, and the three shariras, the three bodies that make up our physical, energetic, and mental existence.

From this perspective the breath is not addressed in isolation. It is part of a larger process of restoring balance across the body, the energy system, and the mind.

This is one of the reasons yoga often begins by calming the body before working directly with the breath. When the body softens and the nervous system begins to settle, the breath becomes more accessible and the mind can gradually return to balance.

The second part of my response relates to what we do outside of those moments.

While we cannot completely prevent ourselves from being triggered by life’s stresses, the most effective way to reduce the frequency and intensity of anxiety is through consistent practices that support the nervous system over time.

This is where the practices of yoga become incredibly valuable.

Regular movement, breath practices, meditation, and other forms of self care help keep the nervous system in good order. Over time these practices strengthen our capacity to remain within what psychologists call the window of tolerance, the range within which we can meet life’s challenges without becoming overwhelmed.

When we care for our nervous system consistently, we become more resilient, more grounded, and better able to respond to stress when it arises.

We may not eliminate anxiety entirely, but we can profoundly transform our relationship with it.

Much of my work now sits in this space between modern psychology and yogic understanding. I am deeply interested in how evidence based approaches to nervous system regulation can sit alongside the wisdom of yoga to help people develop a healthier relationship with anxiety.

If this is a topic that interests you, please feel free to reach out. I regularly speak, teach workshops, and offer courses exploring anxiety through both the scientific understanding of the nervous system and the lens of yoga practice. You can also learn more about the eight week course My Name Is Not Anxious, where we explore these ideas in greater depth.

And to conclude with my favourite quote in celebration of women:

“We need women who are so strong they can be gentle, so educated they can be humble, so fierce they can be compassionate, so passionate they can be rational, and so disciplined they can be free.”

Kavita Ramdas

From the heart,

Avril

The Pause: Between Stimulus & Response

There is a small space in experience that most of us rarely notice. We move quickly from perception to response, from hearing to speaking, from feeling to acting. Meditation reveals that within this movement there is a pause — a space in which meaning begins to clarify, and we find the capacity to reflect before responding. In that space, a quiet knowing and understanding gently emerge.

Viktor Frankl expressed it beautifully:

“Between stimulus and response there is a space.

In that space is our power to choose our response.

In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”

Most people encounter this space accidentally, in a moment of hesitation where clarity briefly replaces reaction. For the meditator, however, the pause is not accidental. It is cultivated.

In ordinary listening we rarely receive what is said. While another speaks, the mind prepares its reply — agreeing, correcting, comparing, defending. We believe we are listening, yet the words have already been filtered through memory. The pause allows reality to arrive before the mind explains it.

Meditation trains this directly. When we sit, the first discipline is the body. Sensations arise and invite movement, yet we remain. Gradually the body learns that impulse does not require action. A gap appears between sensation and response.

Then the mind is seen to behave in the same way. Thoughts present commentary, memory and anticipation, each inviting involvement. Normally we follow instantly. In meditation we remain. Thought continues, but identification lessens. A second gap appears — between thought and the one who knows the thought.

From this, a recognition becomes clear: the body is known and the mind is known. That which is known cannot be the knower. The body and mind begin to function as instruments rather than authorities. Without the pause the mind leads and we follow; with it, the seer stands in place.

In daily life this changes listening entirely. We listen long enough for words to land rather than rushing to respond. Most misunderstanding is speed — the mind recognising a pattern and supplying meaning from the past. The pause suspends this habit so that what is present can be received.

This is not passivity but clarity before movement. To pause is to allow reality to speak before we speak about it.

Over time, meditators notice a quiet shift. A witnessing appears before reaction. Reflection replaces impulse. Nothing outward has changed, yet the relationship to experience has softened; there is space around life.

This does not come from philosophy but from practice. Meditation trains the mind and nervous system to rest long enough for the pause to become available in conversation, emotion and decision. The freedom Frankl described becomes lived rather than understood.

For those who have not yet experienced this, it is not reserved for a certain kind of person. It is something that can be learned. I teach Vedic meditation through personal, in-person instruction, and for those who wish to deepen further, retreat offers the rare gift of time — time to step away from the everyday and immerse in these teachings more fully. A Vedic immersion retreat will be held in May this year in the Yarra Valley.

The pause is cultivated daily — through practice and once recognised, it begins to accompany you everywhere.

Does the End Justify the Means?

Intention, Action, and the Subtle Intelligence of Karma - A Lifestyle of a Yogi reflection

Few ethical questions follow us as persistently as this one:

Does the end justify the means?

It arises whenever we consider bending a principle in service of a desired outcome. We encounter it in our relationships, our work, and in the quiet negotiations of our own inner life. If we are honest, we all wrestle with it.

We also live in a fast culture, fast food, fast communication, fast success, fast healing, fast transformation. We are encouraged to optimise, hack, and manifest, to find the most efficient path to a desired result. The underlying assumption is simple. If we arrive where we want to go, the path taken matters little. Yet many philosophical traditions, including yoga and the understanding of cause and effect, suggest something subtler. The effect is already present within the cause. What unfolds later is not independent of what was set in motion earlier. The quality of the beginning quietly shapes the nature of the result.

Lately I have found myself reflecting more deeply on this inversion of thinking. I was quietly surprised when I first heard it expressed that the effect is already in the cause. We usually imagine action first and result later, as though they are separate events in time. But the more I sit with it, the more it suggests something immediate. The result is not waiting somewhere in the future. It is already taking form in the quality of the action itself.

This insight finds a precise expression in the yogic idea of karma.

In yogic philosophy, karma is not reward and punishment, but the continuity between intention, action, and experience. Every action, physical, verbal, or mental, carries the imprint of the intention behind it. These actions leave impressions in consciousness that shape perception, tendency, and character. Karma therefore is not only about what happens after we act, but about how action quietly sculpts the inner world from which future actions arise.

From this perspective, the means cannot be separated from the end. The process itself is already generating consequences. Our intentions live inside our actions, and each action participates in a web of cause and effect far wider than our personal awareness. How we act is already becoming what we will experience.

Yet when we speak of consequences, yoga reminds us to be cautious about the limits of our perception. We tend to judge actions by immediate, visible results, but karmic consequences unfold in ways that are subtle, delayed, and often beyond the grasp of the individual mind. What appears beneficial in the short term may carry unseen effects in consciousness and relationship that only reveal themselves over time. Yogic philosophy recognises that our understanding is shaped by avidyā, the inherent limitation of human perception. For this reason, karma invites humility. It asks us to act with care not because we can predict every consequence, but precisely because we cannot.

Yoga also speaks of the relationship between karma and dharma. Karma is the momentum of past action, the patterns and conditions we inherit. Dharma is the possibility of right response, action aligned with truth and deeper order. Karma shapes the field of our life, but dharma shapes how we meet it. Through awareness, intention, and practice, we participate in transforming the momentum we inherit.

The yogic texts repeatedly return us to this insight. The process is not separate from the outcome. In the Bhagavad Gītā, we are reminded:

“You have a right to action alone, never to its fruits.

Let not the fruits of action be your motive, nor let your attachment be to inaction.”

The teaching is not a rejection of results, but a refinement of understanding. When attention rests only on the end, action becomes strained, manipulative, or fearful. When attention rests in the quality of the action itself, the result unfolds as a natural consequence. From this perspective, the means are not a bridge to the end, they are the end in its early form.

So when we ask whether the end justifies the means, yoga gently shifts the question. It asks us to look not only at the outcome we hope to achieve, but at the state of consciousness from which we act.

Traditional Vedantic teachings offer a simple way to reflect before acting. We might quietly ask:

Does this action cause harm?

Does this action benefit only me?

Does this action serve both myself and others?

Does this action contribute to the wellbeing of the whole?

These are not moral commandments but instruments of awareness. They help us recognise that karma is not only what we do, but the field of relationship we participate in. Right action is rarely found through certainty, but through sincerity and careful seeing.

Life will always place us in grey areas where values seem to conflict and certainty dissolves. Yoga does not remove this tension. It asks us to inhabit it with awareness. The practice is to remain in dialogue with our motives and to act with as much integrity as we can muster.

Perhaps the question is not whether the end justifies the means, but whether we can recognise that the end is already living inside the means.

Lost in the Spiritual Woods

There is a phrase we often hear: all roads lead to Rome.
It is usually offered as a comfort, a way of saying that all spiritual paths are equally valid and that there is no need to choose.

And in one sense, this is true. Many sincere traditions point toward the same truth. Many languages speak of the same mystery.

Yet there is another, quieter truth.

No one arrives anywhere by standing at the crossroads. We all know the benefit of using a map and having a guide for the journey.

There is a scene in the movie Life of Pi that has stayed with me for years. In it, Pi is gently questioned about his devotion to multiple religions. The tone is not dismissive, but discerning. The implication is simple and compassionate: while each path may be beautiful, depth does not come from collecting beliefs or trying out what is fashionable or new. It comes from choosing one path and walking it fully.

I think of this scene often when I reflect on the modern spiritual landscape.

You can view the scene here:
Life of Pi choosing religion scene

Never before have we had such immediate access to information, teachings, teachers, practices, philosophies, and lineages. We can sample a little yoga here and there, a little Buddhism, a little astrology, a little plant medicine, a little psychology, a little mysticism, all without ever committing to any of them.

It can feel open, free, even enlightened.

But it can also leave us lost in spiritual woods, walking in circles and mistaking movement for direction.

Vedanta offers a radically compassionate perspective. It reminds us that this human life is precious and rare, that the longing for truth is not random but a form of grace, and that when the desire for freedom arises, it should be met with clarity, sincerity, and commitment.

Not because other paths are wrong, but because depth requires devotion.

Yet the spiritual journey does not ask for more information. It asks for participation. It asks for commitment and practice.

Vedanta expresses this beautifully in the Śaṅkara tradition:

Three things are rare and attained only by divine grace:
human birth,
the desire for liberation,
and the refuge of a realised teacher.

This verse comes from the opening of Vivekacūḍāmaṇi, a foundational text by Shankara of the Vedic tradition, written as a guide for those who feel ready to commit to the path of Self-knowledge.

Standing in the woods, surrounded by countless paths, can feel safe. We do not have to risk being wrong. We do not have to surrender our options. We can remain endlessly curious, but never changed.

A teacher does not walk the path for us. They simply know the terrain. They have stumbled where we will stumble, turned where we may turn back, and learned how to keep walking when the forest grows dark.

To choose a path is not to become narrow. It is to become deep. to progress.

It is to say: I will stop wandering. I will stop sampling. I am no longer lost in the spiritual woods.

I will walk my path.

And perhaps this is the quiet invitation of life itself, not to find the perfect road, but to choose one with sincerity and dedication and allow it to reveal who we truly are.

For those who feel called to explore these teachings more deeply in a lived and embodied way, I am offering a Vedic Immersion Retreat in the Yarra Valley this May.

This is simply an extension of the work I share here each week, for those who wish to step into it more fully.

Australia Day, Identity, and Belonging

Before you read this, I want to say something gently.

This is not a light piece. It touches something tender in many of us - identity, belonging, history, pride, and grief. For some, it may feel uncomfortable. For others, it may feel relieving. For some, it may stir anger or sadness. That’s okay.

What I am offering here is not a position to defend, but a conversation to step into.

In my work as a yoga and meditation teacher and counsellor, I have learned something very simple and very true: what we cannot hold with awareness and compassion ends up holding us. What we cannot integrate divides us.

This reflection comes from the same place as my teachings on Being, Becoming, and Belonging. As long as we cannot hold the full story of this country and its people - both its beauty and its wounds, its strengths and its struggles — we cannot truly feel at home in it together. We cannot experience a genuine sense of belonging.

So I invite you to read this slowly, with curiosity rather than certainty. You don’t have to agree with everything. But I do hope you will let it open something. Because this conversation matters -not just for us, but for the generations who are already living beyond our old divisions, and for those yet to come.

“Avidyā - misperception of reality, is the root of suffering.”
(Yoga Sūtra 2.5, adapted)

Right now, we are caught in something like a national limbo - unable to fully celebrate, and unwilling to fully reckon. And that in-between state is not neutral. It quietly keeps us divided, reactive, and unresolved and quite possible causing harm to this nation.

We don’t suffer because the truth is complex.
We suffer because we refuse to face it.
This country did not give me my birth - but it has given me my life.

I came to Australia more than thirty-five years ago.

It is where I have worked, loved, struggled, and built a home and a family. It is where I married a sixth-generation Irish-English Australian man who carries a deep, quiet love for this land. It is where our children were born- children who carry both Sri Lankan and Australian blood, both ancient culture and modern possibility.

So when I speak about Australia Day, I am not speaking as an outsider looking in.
I am speaking from inside this story.

And from that place, I believe what we are really being asked to do now is not to erase our past, nor to remain trapped inside it - but to mature as a nation. To grow up. To find a way to honour, remember, and celebrate in a way that allows all of us to belong.

The conflict around Australia Day is often framed as a debate about history, politics, or dates on a calendar. But beneath the noise, it is something much more human and much more tender. It is a struggle about identity, belonging, and grief.

At its heart, Australia Day asks a nation to hold two truths at once.

The first truth is that modern Australia has brought extraordinary gifts: stability, safety, opportunity, education, health care, and a democratic society that has welcomed people from every corner of the world. Millions of Australians- including migrants, refugees, and working-class families - have built meaningful lives here. Their pride in this country is not misplaced. It is rooted in real effort, sacrifice, and love.

The second truth is that this modern nation was founded through invasion, dispossession, and immense suffering for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. Land was taken. Languages were suppressed. Families were broken. Cultures that had thrived for tens of thousands of years were violently disrupted. This history is not a footnote - it is foundational.

The tension around January 26 exists because it marks the beginning of a system that produced both of these realities. It is therefore not simply a celebration date, but a symbolic wound. For many Indigenous Australians, it represents loss and erasure. For many others, including migrants like me, it represents belonging and achievement. Asking one group to ignore their pain or the other to relinquish their pride creates an impossible emotional bind.

What we are witnessing in the Australia Day debate is not just disagreement. It is unprocessed grief colliding across generations and cultures.

For many non-Indigenous Australians, particularly migrants and their children, Australia Day has become a symbol of earned belonging - the story of arriving, working hard, and creating a life. When the date is challenged, what is often felt is not just political disagreement, but a deeper fear: “Are you saying I don’t belong here?” That fear activates defensiveness and resistance -not because people are cruel, but because shame threatens the core of identity.

For many Indigenous Australians, January 26 carries the weight of historical and ongoing trauma. It is not distant history, but a living inheritance that continues to shape health, opportunity, and cultural survival. When celebration is insisted upon without acknowledgement, it can feel like their pain is being dismissed. That too evokes grief and anger.

In this way, both sides are protecting something sacred: one side, the right to belong without shame; the other, the right to have suffering recognised and honoured. These are not opposing moral claims — they are parallel human needs.

Nations, like people, do not heal through denial or blame. They heal through truth, witnessing, and integration. We see this in countries that have faced painful histories honestly. They did not become weaker through truth-telling - they became more stable, more trustworthy, and more united.

By contrast, nations that deny or sanitise their past remain haunted by unresolved conflict, defensiveness, and fear. Unacknowledged trauma does not disappear. It returns in distorted and destructive ways - just as it does in individuals who never receive the chance to heal.

Australia now stands at this same crossroads.

The choice is not between pride and truth. The choice is between fragile identity built on denial, and mature identity built on honesty.

A psychologically healthy Australia Day would not force one group to swallow pain or the other to abandon belonging. It would separate remembrance from celebration. January 26 could become a national day of truth, reflection, and acknowledgement of First Nations history and resilience. A different date could become a day of shared celebration - of citizenship, diversity, creativity, and the evolving story of modern Australia. In this way, grief would be honoured, and pride would be freed from cruelty.

This is not rewriting history.
It is telling the whole story.

A grown-up nation, like a healed person, does not need to pretend it was innocent in order to be worthy. It can say, “We know what happened. We honour those who suffered. And we choose, together, to walk forward.”

The deepest question beneath the Australia Day debate is not “What date should we celebrate?”
It is: Can we belong together without erasing each other?

The answer, if we are brave enough to live it, is yes.

Because in the end, we all yearn to belong.

You can’t expect apples from a mango seed

You can’t expect apples from a mango seed.

A mango seed will never grow into an apple tree.

Everything the mango tree will ever become already exists within the seed — its nature, its form, its fruit. In the same way, everything required for you to become you already lives within you.

So much of our suffering comes from trying to become who we are not. From seeking apples where mangoes are meant to grow. From forcing ourselves into borrowed lives, borrowed rhythms, or borrowed ideas of who we should be.

Yoga, when understood as a lived path, is not about self-improvement in the modern sense. It is not about fixing what is broken or striving to be “better.” It is about remembering. About removing obstacles. About providing the right conditions for what is already true to unfold.

This teaching is articulated clearly in the Bhagavad Gītā, where Krishna reminds Arjuna that each of us has our own path — our own dharma — and that straying from it, even in pursuit of something admired or idealised, leads us away from ourselves.

Bhagavad Gītā 3.35

śreyān sva-dharmo viguṇaḥ
para-dharmāt sv-anuṣṭhitāt
sva-dharme nidhanaṁ śreyaḥ
para-dharmo bhayāvahaḥ

It is better to live one’s own dharma, even imperfectly,
than to live another’s dharma perfectly.
Better to meet one’s own destiny in following one’s true nature,
for the path of another is fraught with danger.

A mango seed does not need to be convinced to become a mango tree. It does not need to compare itself to the apple orchard. It needs the right soil. Water. Sun. Time. Care.

In the same way, the work of yoga is not to remake ourselves into something else, but to tend the inner and outer conditions that allow our truest nature — our highest expression — to emerge organically.

Through practice, reflection, rhythm, and conscious living, yoga supports this process of becoming. Not by adding something new, but by clearing what obscures. Not by force, but by alignment.

This is the heart of Become YOU.

To trust the seed you carry. And to commit — patiently and faithfully — to the conditions that allow you to grow into who you already are.

—
Avril Bastiansz
Being • Becoming • Belonging
Become YOU

Myth, Not Fiction – Coming Home to Self

As eight women journey through Sri Lanka, I reflect on the Ramayana – a story woven through my childhood that still whispers of devotion, myth, and the journey home to the Self.

Read My Latest Newsletter

Lifestyle of a Yogi - Endings and Beginnings

At a recent Women’s gathering, we were invited to reflect on the year that’s coming to a close — and to consider how we wish to begin the next. We were asked to choose three words to guide that transition.

Mine were: Acceptance. Intention. Impact.

Read the full Newsletter Here: Lifestyle of a Yogi

Why Do You Practice Yoga? A Special Blog & Podcast Feature

This month I am honoured to be featured by Kundalini House in both their blog and their podcast.

In the blog, Why Do You Practice Yoga?, I reflect on yoga as more than movement or breathwork. Yoga is both a state of Being and a system of practices — a path of self-awareness that unfolds toward transformation and Self-realisation.

[Read the blog on Kundalini House]

I was also invited to join the Kundalini House podcast, where I speak about the Yoga Sutras of Patañjali and what it means to live the Eight Limbs of Yoga in daily life. This was my first time recording a podcast, and I am grateful for the opportunity to share these teachings in a new way.

[Listen to the podcast here]

Adhikārī – Rethinking Readiness in Modern Yoga

I’m delighted to share that my latest article, Adhikārī - Rethinking Readiness in Modern Yoga, has just been published by Yoga Australia.

This piece explores what it truly means to be “ready” for yoga - not just in the sense of physical ability, but in the deeper sense of openness, receptivity, and commitment. In today’s yoga landscape, where practice is often approached as exercise or therapy, I believe it is vital to return to the roots of yoga and Vedānta, where readiness (adhikārī) was always considered essential for genuine transformation.

In writing this article, I wanted to spark a conversation about integrity, depth, and the responsibility we share as teachers and practitioners to honour the tradition while meeting students where they are. For me, readiness is not about exclusion, but about creating conditions where real learning and freedom can unfold.

You can read the full article on the Yoga Australia website here:
Read the article on Yoga Australia

I would love to hear your reflections after reading- what does readiness mean to you in your own practice or teaching?

My Name is Not Anxious: Psychology and Yoga in Dialogue

Anxiety has become one of the most common struggles of our time. For many, it is not just an occasional experience but a constant companion that seems to shape identity itself: “I am anxious.” When we adopt this identification, we can begin to lose sight of who we truly are beyond the fluctuations of body and mind.

The question then becomes: how do we shift from living as anxiety, to living with awareness of anxiety? How do we reclaim a steadier, more grounded sense of self?

Why This Work Matters

This is the central inquiry that led me to create My Name is Not Anxious. Over years of working in yoga, meditation, counselling, and psychotherapy, I noticed that while psychology provides invaluable insights into the nervous system, through frameworks like the window of tolerance and polyvagal theory, it often stops short of guiding us toward a deeper identity beyond symptoms and states.

Yoga, on the other hand, offers both philosophy and practice to reconnect us with that deeper Self. The teachings of the koshas remind us that we are more than body and mind; the gunas reveal how the qualities of the mind shift our experience; pranayama and meditation provide practical techniques to regulate and restore balance. In combining these worlds, we arrive at something powerful: practical wisdom.

This course is also deeply personal. It draws inspiration from my own experiences of anxiety, my journey raising my two daughters, and the many trainings, teachings, and studies that have shaped my path. I also want to acknowledge the work of Stephanie Dowrick, whose book Your Name Is Not Anxious was a source of inspiration. From that title, I shaped My Name Is Not Anxious, weaving together both my professional and lived experience into this offering.

From Management to Transformation

Psychology often speaks of managing anxiety. Yoga invites us to transform our relationship with it. This transformation happens not only through understanding but through lived experience. By practicing breathwork, movement, and meditation, we train the nervous system to return to steadiness. By reflecting and observing, we begin to recognize that the anxious thoughts and sensations are not who we are.

Yoga takes us further: it enables us to become the witness, to experience ourselves beyond our actions and thoughts. In this witnessing, we begin to rest in our true state of being. This is the clincher: when we can establish ourselves in that state of being, transformation unfolds. We are then able to see experiences for what they are, without mistaking them for who we are.

Another important element is practice itself. Just as the brain can be trained like a muscle, we can create new patterns, a kind of muscle memory, through repetition. Each time we return to breath, movement, or meditation, we are refining, integrating, and embodying these states. Over time, this builds the capacity to respond rather than react to the day-to-day triggers that so often overtake our sense of self. This strengthening helps us manage and navigate anxiety with greater steadiness, while also allowing us to see the bigger picture, to rest in the expansive awareness of who we truly are.

This journey is about reclaiming identity, remembering that while anxiety may move through us, it does not define us.

Practical Wisdom and the Self

The heart of this work lies in cultivating self-awareness. In Western psychology, self-awareness refers to observing patterns of thought and behaviour. In yoga, Self-awareness extends further: it is the remembrance of our unchanging essence. When we touch this space, anxiety loosens its grip because we no longer confuse the passing storm with the sky itself.

In this way, yoga does more than provide coping strategies. It helps us establish a stable ground of being, a place from which clarity, calm, and belonging naturally emerge.

An Invitation

My Name is Not Anxious is my offering to those who are ready to step into this journey. It is a course built not only on knowledge but on practices that integrate body, mind, and Self. Its purpose is to provide tools and insights that are both practical and transformative, to help you understand, regulate, and ultimately reshape your relationship with anxiety.

Through this process, we begin to remember: we are not our thoughts, our sensations, or our stories. We are awareness itself. And from that place of steadiness, a new way of living becomes possible.

My Name Is Not 'Anxious'

Has Creative License Dialuted the Teachings of Classical Yoga ?

In recent decades, yoga has undergone a vast transformation. From sacred, lineage-based teachings rooted in spiritual discipline to brightly lit studios offering everything from Goat Yoga to Beer Yoga, we’ve witnessed a shift from tradition to trend. And while adaptation can bring accessibility, it also brings an important question to the surface:

At what point does creative license become misrepresentation?

The Rise of “Modern Yoga Styles”

One of the clearest examples of this phenomenon is Yin Yoga—a practice that has gained enormous popularity for its gentle, meditative approach. While undeniably calming and beneficial in certain contexts, Yin Yoga is often mistakenly presented as a traditional yogic practice, despite having no roots in classical yoga.

Yin Yoga was created in the late 20th century, borrowing from Hatha asana forms and combining them with principles from Taoist philosophy and Traditional Chinese Medicine. It was never part of the original teachings found in texts like the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, Hatha Yoga Pradipika, or Bhagavad Gita.

And yet, many students (and teachers) are led to believe it is “ancient,” “Eastern,” or somehow spiritually equivalent to classical yoga. This is where the dilution begins.

Creative License or Cultural Erosion?

Adaptation isn’t inherently wrong. Yoga has always evolved—from oral traditions to written scriptures, from forest sages to modern teachers. But what we’re seeing now is something deeper: a watering down of foundational principles, often under the guise of innovation.

When we blend yoga with fitness, psychology, or other cultural frameworks without clearly acknowledging the distinction, we risk:

• Distorting the philosophical roots of yoga as a spiritual path

• Erasing the lineage and wisdom of ancient teachers

• Feeding the Western obsession with novelty, rather than discipline and depth

As a counsellor and yoga teacher, I see the need for trauma-informed, gentle, and accessible practices. But I also believe we have a responsibility to teach with clarity, honesty, and reverence—not by dressing up modern hybrids as ancient wisdom.

The Role of the Teacher: Integrity Over Innovation

When teachers take excessive creative license—especially without proper study of classical texts or philosophy—it confuses students and undermines yoga’s purpose: self-realization.

Yoga is not simply a tool for stretching or stress relief. It is a holistic spiritual discipline, integrating ethical living (yama/niyama), breath control (pranayama), sensory withdrawal (pratyahara), concentration (dharana), meditation (dhyana), and ultimately, liberation (samadhi).

The more we fragment these teachings or cherry-pick only what’s commercially viable, the further we stray from yoga’s true path.

Moving Forward with Respect

This isn’t a call to reject all modern forms—but to differentiate them. To say honestly:
“This is inspired by yoga, but it is not classical yoga.”
“This is therapeutic, not spiritual.”
“This is Yin Yoga, not a lineage-based yogic system.”

By doing this, we honour both the evolution of modern practice and the depth of ancient wisdom—without conflating the two.

Final Thought and Message for Teachers an Lovers of Classical Yoga

Yoga doesn't need to be reinvented. It needs to be remembered. Yoga is not meant to be changed to suit the individual’s preferences; rather, the individual must be willing to change through the discipline of yoga.

This is a critical distinction, especially in today’s wellness culture where convenience, comfort, and customization are often prioritized over depth, tapas (discipline), and authentic transformation.

When we turn yoga into a feel-good experience rather than a truth-seeking process, we risk reducing a sacred, path of liberation to a tool for temporary wellness.

We can still offer care, trauma-awareness, and accessibility—but we must be truthful about what we are teaching. Not every “yoga-inspired” class is yoga. And that’s okay—as long as we name it clearly and don’t mislead students or ourselves.

Let’s teach and practice with humility, discernment, and devotion—to preserve what is sacred, and to offer what is modern, transparently.

Yoga is a Gradual & progressive Path - by Avril Bastiansz

Yoga, in its true essence, is a gradual and progressive path to enlightenment. It requires a dedicated student to engage in consistent practice under the guidance of a teacher. However, in modern times, the way yoga is taught often deviates from this traditional approach. As a yoga teacher, I feel compelled to question whether the current model—hour-long drop-in classes—truly serves the purpose for which yoga was intended. This opinion may not sit well with yoga business owners, studios, or even teachers like me who rely on this structure for a living. Yet, after many years of teaching, I have come to believe that this method lacks purpose and direction, leaving both students and teachers unfulfilled. Yoga, as passed down by sages and masters of ancient times, is not merely a physical practice or a quick route to relaxation—it is a profound legacy designed to guide us toward enlightenment.

The Disconnect in Modern Yoga Culture

In places like Melbourne, Australia, yoga has become a smorgasbord of styles, schedules, and intentions. Students often approach their first class thinking of yoga as a gentle workout or a way to increase flexibility, with comments like, “I’m not very flexible” or “I’ve heard yoga is calming for the mind.” While these are valid entry points, the lack of context and philosophical grounding in many classes leaves students unsure of what they are doing or why. Irregular attendance, different teachers, and varied class styles further contribute to this confusion. Yoga becomes a patchwork experience—a mix of stretching, relaxation, and the occasional adrenaline or dopamine hit—with no overarching goal or direction. This culture not only robs students of the deeper benefits yoga offers but also leaves teachers feeling dissatisfied and disconnected from the true purpose of their teaching.

Yoga: A Science and Pathway for Transformation

Yoga is far more than a physical practice. It is a comprehensive science—a pathway for self-exploration, transformation, and ultimately, Self-realization. The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, one of the foundational texts of yoga, provides a clear and systematic curriculum for this journey. Compiled by the sage Patanjali, the Sutras outline a meta-analysis of yoga—196 aphorisms that guide both the student and teacher toward enlightenment. This text is particularly significant for ‘Householders’ that is people like you and me who live active lives in society. Patanjali’s eight-limbed path offers a roadmap for balancing the inner and outer aspects of life. The first four limbs, often referred to as Hatha Yoga, focus on the outer life, while the remaining four, are known as Raja Yoga and delve into the inner life. Together, they form a holistic system that integrates theory and practice, making yoga a journey of the self, through the self, to the Self.

Bringing Purpose Back to Yoga

If we want to honour the true essence of yoga, we must reevaluate how we teach and practice it. Here are some steps to bridge the gap between tradition and modernity:

1. Educate Through Context: Teachers can incorporate brief philosophical teachings or reflections into classes. A few minutes dedicated to principles like Ahimsa (non-violence) or Svadhyaya (self-study) can provide students with a deeper understanding of their practice and talking about the goal of the practice – Samadhi.

2. Offer Progression-Based Programs: Rather than focusing solely on drop-in classes, studios can create multi-week courses that guide students through a structured and progressive path, integrating physical, mental, and philosophical aspects of yoga.

3. Foster Consistency and Community: Encourage students to commit to regular practice with a single teacher or group, allowing them to build continuity and deepen their understanding over time.

4. Balance Tradition with Accessibility: While staying rooted in the wisdom of ancient teachings, ensure that the practice feels relevant and approachable for modern students.

5. Redefine Success in Teaching: Shift the focus from attendance numbers or revenue to the depth of transformation in students, even if it happens gradually, one step at a time.

A Call to Action

Yoga is not merely an exercise; it is a profound journey that touches every aspect of our being. By returning to its roots and embracing its purpose as a gradual and progressive path, we can create a richer, more fulfilling experience for both students and teachers. As the Bhagavad Gita beautifully states: “Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the Self.” Let us honour this journey by teaching yoga as it was intended—a path of transformation, enlightenment, and Self-realization.

Transformation in Yoga by Avril Bastiansz

“The whole is greater than the sum of its parts" ~ Seneca

Introduction:

To comprehend how transformation occurs in yoga, it's essential to grasp the mechanics of the human body-mind-soul complex. While the medical field offers a universally accepted scientific understanding of human anatomy and physiology, Yogis have a model that extends beyond it. The Yogic model encompasses subtler aspects that exceed our current scientific comprehension, delving into the energetic or pranic body and our relationship with existence, encompassing inner and outer worlds on a continuum with our environment and the cosmos. Simply put, yoga asserts that we are consciousness experiencing itself as awareness.

The scientific community is progressively understanding these ancient yogic practices and teachings, aided by increased scientific research supporting the effectiveness of yoga for our benefit and well-being. A notable example is Dr. Stephen Porges’s Polyvagal Theory, elucidating how certain yogic practices can regulate our nervous system. Yoga is widely acknowledged as a powerful tool for enhancing physical and mental health and is increasingly adopted as a spiritual & lifestyle practice.

 Yoga: Union of Individual Consciousness with Universal Consciousness:

According to Sage Patanjali, renowned for compiling ancient yogic knowledge into the Yoga Sutras, the goal of yoga is the union of individual consciousness with universal consciousness - Samadhi. Patanjali outlines the path leading to this union through the eight limbs of yoga:

 1. Yama – precepts

2. Niyama – disciplines

3. Asana – physical poses

4. Pranayama – breathwork

5. Pratyahara – mastery of the senses

6. Dharana – focused attention

7. Dhyana – meditation

8. Samadhi – union with consciousness

Holistic Integration of Body, Mind, and Soul:

Conventional philosophical thought divides humans into the small self, consisting of body, mind, and soul, and the big Self, representing the one indivisible whole from which all life forms emanate. The spiritual pursuit involves a lifelong yearning to unite with our separate parts and integrate them, becoming complete and re-uniting with the one whole. Carl Jung termed this the "process of individuation". This is not a linear path but akin to the Hero’s Journey described by Joseph Campbell. Yoga offers a holistic path for this transformative journey back to wholeness through its eight-limbed path described by Patanjali. The first four limbs address outer worldly life and the union of the small self, while the latter four limbs are more concerned with the inner quest and attainment of unity consciousness.

Yoga: An Alchemical Process of Transformation and Integration:

Yoga practices such as asana, pranayama, create the inner conditions and alchemy, to transform and meditation to integrate the seemingly separate parts of ourselves along with all of the other limbs of yoga. These practices generate inner tapas, or transformative energy, which acts as a catalyst for change. Similar to how heat melts ice into water and then vapor, tapas transforms our being, necessitating integration. The Pancha Maha Koshas, or five-energetic sheaths  may help to further illustrate this transformation from gross to subtle states of consciousness and show how yoga is holistic in its application.

These energetic sheaths are described below, in order from gross to subtlest and outermost to innermost layers and apply across the whole system from the smallest of molecules and cells to the whole organism:

1.      Annamaya  Kosha - the physical, gross, material body and sense organs

2.      Pranamaya Kosha -  the breath body, linked to the nervous system & physiology

3.      Manomaya Kosha – the mental sheath, the psychological

4.      Vigjyanamaya Kosha – the intellect, the ‘I’ self,

5.      Anandamaya  Kosha – the bliss body or the essence of being

Thus the benefits of yoga can be experienced on every level of our being from physical, physiological, psychological, intellectual and at the level of Being.

Although yoga is often perceived as a physical practice focused on flexibility and strength, its core essence transcends the realm of asanas (poses) or any single limb of this eightfold path. At its heart, yoga is a profound journey of self-discovery and transformation, guiding practitioners towards a state of wholeness and unity.

To undergo a true metamorphosis transitioning from one state or way of being to another, necessitates an alchemical process that involves transformation and integration on all levels of being. According to sutra 1:12, Pathanjali, stipulates two important requirements : "Abhyasa" – consistent, dedicated practice or disciplined training  and "Vairagya" – non-attachment to the outcome or results of the practice, a surrender that allows for this alchemical process to unfold.

In conclusion, while yoga may begin as a journey to improve physical well-being, its ultimate purpose lies in facilitating profound inner transformation. By engaging in the eight-limbed path with sincerity and commitment, practitioners embark on a sacred journey towards self-realization and union with the higher Self.

‘Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the Self’ ~ Bhagavad Gita

Jai Guru Dev, Jai Devi Ma

with respect to the holy tradition, the masters & all my teachers

Bibliography:

·       Campbell, J. (2008)  The Hero with a Thousand Faces

·       Iyengar, B. K. S. (2014). Light on Yoga.

·       Jung, C. G. (Year). The Collected Works of Carl G. Jung

·      Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (1967) On the Bhagavad-Gita

·     Porges, S. W. (2011). The Polyvagal Theory: Neurophysiological Foundations of Emotions, Attachment, Communication, and Self-regulation.

. Shearer, A. (1982) The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali

·      Stern, E. (2019). One Simple Thing

·   Swatmarama (1972) The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali from the Hatha Yoga Pradipika·     

Running Retreats - Interview with Yoga Australia

Below is my interview with Yoga Australia done in February 2022. Its a bit of insight into the how’s and why’s of yoga retreats ! Hope you enjoy it.

Yoga Australia Article - Feb 2022