The first two limbs of yoga’s eight – the restrictions (yamas, in Sanskrit) and the observances, (niyamas), appear on first glance to have little to do with asana practice. The restrictions in particular seem to be a straight up moral code, familiar enough to anyone whose childhood included Sunday school.

Still, consider the source. The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, the authoritative text of classical yoga, which includes the eight-limbs system, are roughly 2,000 years old. Patanjali himself is a quasi-historical being, fabulous yet pragmatic, with a human body and a cobra head, who sang his teachings from behind a screen because his students paid more attention to the words if they couldn’t see him. We would be wise to expect some surprises.

Like fingers on a hand, there are five restrictions and five observances. The yamas are non-harming, truth, not stealing, celibacy and not being greedy. The niyamas are cleanliness, contentment, discipline, self-study and surrender.

Naturally there are difficulties in translation, both from Sanskrit to English and from Patanjali’s time to ours. Many translators throw up their hands at Brahmacarya (celibacy) and tapas (discipline), since neither one has a direct English equivalent.

But the difference between the yamas and niyamas and, for example, the Ten Commandments of the Old Testament, run much deeper than the meaning of specific words.

Patanjali does not suggest that we live according to the yamas and niyamas in order to be good people or to obey God. His moral code describes the qualities we need in order to reach the goal of yoga: to still the fluctuations of the mind and rest in our true nature. A mind filled with love, truth and generosity is a mind that can become quiet: no fights, no guilt and no neediness.

To live the yamas and niyamas also demands a radical deepening of commitment. The focus moves from our actions to our thoughts, which, after all, generate actions.

Non-harming (ahimsa) means more than just “thou shalt not kill.” Thou shalt not injure, either, not with deeds, not with words, not with thoughts, any being, including yourself. Stated in a positive way, it’s the practice of intelligent love.

If we came to our asana practice in a spirit of ahimsa, yoga injuries would plummet, but that would be the least of it. True ahimsa is not just the end to treating the body roughly, but also the end to nagging voices, self-criticism, and nasty attacks from the subconscious. In the ensuing silence, we could not help but wake up. “Violence and awareness cannot coexist,” senior Iyengar teacher Aadil Palkhivala, wrote in a Yoga Journal article on teaching the yamas in asana class. “When we are forcing, we are not feeling. Conversely, when we are feeling, we cannot be forcing.”

Truth (satya), is not just telling the truth of the details - yes, I cut down the cherry tree. “Sat,” in Sanskrit means truth in the sense of the ultimate reality, eternal and changeless. To put satya into practice means living in harmony with the unchanging truth.

Non-stealing (asteya) includes theft, of course, but also taking more than we need, or keeping something borrowed too long, or using for a different purpose than the owner agreed to. Neglecting a talent, or failing to set aside time for practice, might be seen as a way of stealing from ourselves.

Some commentators even suggest that living on credit cards is a form of theft – although perhaps not one that Patanjali could have imagined - and certainly living in fear of not being able to make the minimum payment is no way to still the fluctuations of the mind.

Brahmacarya is sometimes rendered as celibacy, at other times as chastity. Yoga scholar Georg Feuerstein translates it as “brahmic conduct,” which would include the ideal of chastity, especially outside of marriage.

There are other, more liberal readings. Writer and teacher Judith Lasater and Indian meditation teacher Vimala Thakar both propose a reading based on the roots of the word: “Brahma is the name of a deity, char means ‘to walk’ and ya means ‘actively,’ so Brahmacarya means ‘walking with God’,” Lasater wrote in a Yoga Journal article on incorporating the Yamas into daily life.

Among the restrictions, non-greediness (aparigraha) is probably the least familiar, especially for those raised in the Judeo-Christian tradition. Presuming that we haven’t ill-treated others to do it, Christianity lets us amass all we want, and some branches wholeheartedly encourage it.

Aparigraha does not ask us to live in poverty, or to refuse what we need to take care of ourselves. It does ask that we look at the mental and emotional habit of grasping, and not just at material things. Grasping for a pose that’s too advanced for your body, grasping for blissful enlightenment, grasping for love, grasping for a Harley – it’s always the same little hand reaching out and pulling toward us what we think we need to be whole.

Niyamas take us into a different territory, to the disciplines that most reliably aid us on the path to yoga.

Cleanliness (saucha) is only common sense. You will not be drawn to practice in a cluttered space, nor is it easy to focus if you have to keep looking at a pile of unopened mail. Coming to practice with a clean body and clean clothes is a gesture of respect that helps us focus on the reason we do asana.

Contentment (santosa) is rather less expected in a list of disciplines, because we are used to thinking of contentment as an emotion we feel in reaction to a set of circumstances.

Note that we are not instructed to take on happiness as a moral discipline, and for good reason. “Nobody’s happy all the time,” as Mr. Rogers told Lady Elaine when she tried to launch The Always Happy Dance Studio. Contentment, on the other hand, is hard work, but possible, once we recognize that our thoughts, and not external conditions, largely determine how we feel.

The remaining three observances, discipline (tapas), self-study (svadhyaya), and surrender (Ishvara pranidhana) make up a special subset within the niyamas, according to Patanjali. Together, they constitute kriya yoga, or “work towards yoga.”

Tapas, literally fire, or heat, has no English equivalent. As Christopher Isherwood writes in How to Know God, “The English word ‘austerity’ has a forbidding sound. But so have its two possible alternatives, ‘mortification’ and ‘discipline.’ Discipline, to most of us, suggests a drill sergeant; mortification a horrible gangrene; austerity a cabinet minister telling the public that it must eat less butter.

“The puritanism which has so deeply colored our language interferes here, as so often, with our understanding of Hindu thought.”

Tapas can mean all kinds of austerities, including, for some Indian holy men, standing on one leg in tree pose for years at a time. Asana practice as a whole can be considered tapas. We can also adopt a particular pose as tapas and work with it every day for a set period of time, a month, perhaps, or a year.

Self-study has traditionally been considered to mean studying religious texts, chanting, using a mantra, or receiving religious teachings. But as any yoga student knows, asana practice constantly offers opportunities for self-study. Must we always hold the pose the longest of anyone in class? Do we always feel like fleeing the room when it’s time to stand on our hands?

“If we do intensive asana (postures) without being adequately self-reflective, we may end up destabilizing our hips, creating vulnerability in our lower back, and ruining our knees,” Gary Kraftsow writes in an article on balancing asana practice with self-study. “If, however, we consider the asana practice itself as a mirror, we are certainly more apt to avoid injury and may even come away with a better understanding of ourselves as well.”

Devotion, the last of the niyamas, also has multiple translations. To Christopher Isherwood it’s “dedication of the fruits of one’s work to God.” To yoga scholar Georg Feuerstein, “devotion to the Lord.” To Gary Kraftsow, it’s “recognition of and dedication to our Source,” and for B.K.S. Iyengar, “surrender to God.”

The choice to practice Ishvara pranidhana is intellectual and emotional, but it is also can be acted out on the mat.

In an article on Ishvara pranidhana, American yoga teacher Shiva Rea writes: “I often begin my practice stretched out on my belly in full prostration, visualizing the lotus feet of the Goddess, my Ishta-Devata [chosen deity] in front of me. I breathe and empty the residue of the day and find that I am soon filled with an intuitive sense of direction, inspiration, and clarity that I experience as an inner compass, a teacher whose presence deepens throughout the practice.”

Combining tapas, self-study and devotion in “work towards yoga” can be as simple as choosing a posture, or a group of postures as our tapas. Self-study allows us to pick the postures or variations that are suitable for our own level of development: challenging, but not overwhelming. Practicing devotion reminds us to let go of the results.

If we are lucky, not long after we first reach a level of proficiency in asana, we learn that yoga poses are infinite in their depths and demands. You blossom into lotus, only to encounter lotus in headstand. We can feel this with despair – “I will never do all the poses” – or joy – “I will never run out of asanas to explore.”

Yama and niyama are the same. We are supposed to practice ahimsa, for example, even in our dreams. We may never stand perfectly on yoga’s first two limbs, but in compensation, they offer an ever-expanding moral gym.

 November 1, 2006

For more yogic reading, visit Eve's blog, Five-Minute Yoga