I’ve been looking back at the words we’ve been carrying in the Christ-in-Kundalini Classroom. Ahimsa. Satya. Asteya. Brahmacharya. Aparigraha. Vairagya. Smṛti. Pratipaksha Bhavanam. Srotas. They’re Sanskrit words, yes. They’re teachings from the Yoga Sutras and the wider yogic tradition. But we’re not learning them to collect definitions. We’re letting them ask something of the body. Take a look at how the word turns. So far, this is the movement: Ahimsa (non-harming) becomes: I am worthy of my own love. Satya (truthfulness) becomes: I am willing to see what is true. Asteya (non-stealing) becomes: I have enough. I am enough. Brahmacharya (right use of energy) becomes: My energy is sacred. Aparigraha (non-grasping) becomes: I am in need of nothing. No thing. Vairagya (non-attachment) becomes: I notice what pulls me. Smṛti (remembrance) becomes: I remember what’s sacred in me. Pratipaksha Bhavanam (cultivating the opposite) becomes: I turn toward what restores me. Srotas (channels) becomes: I clear the channels within me. Here in Skool, your activity helps unlock some of the free material inside the Classroom. But these words can also unlock something in you. Let them. Free-write. Respond to a post. Answer a poll. Start below. Choose the line that’s meeting you today. Then tell us why in the comments, or write your own affirmation from the word that chose you.

“Awareness is like the sun. When it shines on things, they are transformed.” — Thich Nhat Hanh But sometimes the sun is blinding, isn’t it? We can’t look at it directly, though we may want to. And when we try, we look quickly away. Awareness can hurt. It can be too much to observe ourselves and the world around us. There are truths the body needs to approach slowly or through something that helps us see. Like special glasses to observe an eclipse. When I re-read Hanh’s quote, I replace the word sun with Son and something else is illuminated for me. The light is different. I'm not outside of myself. I'm inside the sun. Write three lines.

when everything around you is stirred? There’s a story in the Gospel about Jesus and the apostles in a boat in the middle of a raging sea. His followers are panicking. Jesus is sleeping. He’s still, inspite of what is thundering around him. The mind is that sea. It roils and rises, stirring up all the gook on its bottom. Rife with sharks and scary things. One thought catches another and before long our whole world is churning. How does one stay still within its midst? Yoga Sutra 1.2 has an idea. Yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ This sutra is often translated as: Yoga is the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind. But “yoga” is not forcing the mind to be empty. It’s noticing what is moving and returning to the deeper presence beneath it. Be still and know that I am. Jesus wakes and says to the storm, Peace, be still. And it stills. But for us, the practice begins before we can say anything to the storm. It begins in noticing whether we have become it. It begins with awareness, with self-study, and with daily practice. Jesus modeled how to meet the storm. He fasted. He prayed. He held space for others. Through his service—what in yogic philosophy we might call Bhakti—he brought people back to a deeper understanding of what life could be. He brought them to that still point. Peace. A place in us. Not something we force. The Sutra and the Gospel meet in lived experience: when we stop feeding every thought wave, we can remember the deeper water beneath it. Just for today, when the mind begins to churn, I can pause. I can say quietly: Peace, be still. Where are you right now?

A map of the mind in motion. Where are you in this right now?

Yoga Sutra 1.1. Atha yogānuśāsanam Over the decades I’ve spent studying the Yoga Sutras, I keep returning to Sutra 1.1 with a new translation—or a new way of hearing the Sanskrit words. Like any spiritual or philosophical text, there is always more to unpack, reorganize, and repack. Traditionally, the Sutra is translated: "Now, the study of yoga begins." But Sanskrit, like any language, carries layers of meaning. Words hold more than one door. Morning is not mentioned in this sutra. But it is for me. In its blaring Now. In the poet's dawn. In the dawning of each day's moment. "In every moment, I begin again." There's always that opportunity. "Right now, I can open to union." Yoga has at its root "yuj"—to yoke. To bond. To come to union. And so, breaking it down further, the translation can become: "Now, union." But what always brought me back here was Atha. Ah-ta. Now. How spacious it is. How eager it is to gather our disparate parts together, like a gallant host. Now welcomes us in rather than judges us for arriving late. Now gathers what is scattered and receives all our parts. Now is gracious—it doesn’t shame the past or demand perfection first. Now has dignity and poise. It stands at the threshold ready to usher us inward. Now. What does "now" mean to you, right in this moment?