“The Bird of Paradise alights only upon the hand that does not grasp” - John Berry

I gave a presentation to my colleagues earlier this week about Lifestyle Medicine - a topic I care deeply about.  

As I prepared, I could feel the familiar urge rising in me: do it well, do it properly, make it land.  The future of lifestyle medicine in our practice rides on you.  (Ridiculous thoughts - I know.)

In the past, I would have spent days polishing every slide, reordering every sentence, replacing one better picture for another.   Do more, and it’ll be better.  Try harder, and the message is bound to land.  

This time, I did something different.  I spent a few hours on the presentation, rehearsed it once and let it be.  It went fine. 

Afterward, I realised I might be getting better at something: not caring less, but gripping less tightly.  And it brought me back to the yoga Sutra I seem destined to be practicing for a lifetime. 

Big Yoga Conundrum

Patanjali writes in 

Sutra 1.12  -  Abhyāsa-vairāgyābhyāṁ tan-nirodhaḥ

“The fluctuations of the mind are stilled through practice and non-attachment.”

Abhyāsa [practice] and Vairāgya [non-attachment].

A modern interpretation of Abhyāsa might say it is the willingness to keep showing up.  To work hard, sincerely and consistently, even when it’s challenging, or we don’t feel like it.  That which prepares, persists and perseveres.  

Vairāgya, is often translated as non-attachment, letting go, or dispassion. 

I find this sutra contains profound wisdom, but to me, it also contains one of yoga’s biggest conundrums and a total mindfuck. 

Can someone please tell me how - how can we not care about the things we care about the most?!  How can we put so much effort and time into our endeavours with no agenda, no desire, or expectation?  Is it even possible to care deeply and also let go entirely?  

Perhaps you’ve felt this conundrum too - that strange ache of working hard for something - a relationship, an achievement, a recognition, a healing, a certainty - and not knowing how to care without gripping.

And we could say that the crux of this Sutra says that yes, it is possible, if not necessary, to hold both.

Flying in Circles

Lately, I have been thinking about these two aspects of practice as the two wings of a bird.

One wing is effort: showing up, working hard. 

The other is letting go: trusting, softening, allowing. 

We need both in order to fly.

The difficulty, of course, is that most of us are much better at one wing than the other and end up flying in circles. 

I personally know the first wing very well. Practice, overdone, becomes striving.  We double down, become harder, more unforgiving and relentless.  Practice like this can drive perfectionism, anxiety, and the belief that if we just do more, or try harder, we can control every outcome. 

But the other wing can become distorted too.  For years, I mistook non-attachment for detachment.  By telling myself I didn’t mind, I could practice cold indifference and protect myself from many disappointments. But this wasn’t freedom - more a kind of false surrender, dressed up as serenity.  

Neither is the freedom that yoga speaks to.  

Two Wings of Practice

This tension shows up everywhere.

I see it when I teach.

I plan carefully.  Then I have to let go of whether the class lands.

I see it when I write.

I want every sentence and idea to resonate, but the tighter I grip to that hope, the harder it becomes to say anything at all.

I feel it when I meditate.

The more I chase peace, the further away it seems. 

I find it with patients. 

I can offer only my knowledge and presence.  I cannot control what someone chooses, or even what becomes of them.

I notice it in love.

How can I love with all my heart without fear, worry, possession, and expectation taking over? 

Perhaps this is why I return to this Sutra again and again as a defining philosophy of yoga practice on and off the mat.  

Because this balance - between effort and ease, devotion and surrender, caring deeply but holding lightly - is not something easily achieved or even mastered once and for all.  But rather a life’s work. A practice and a path. 

The Bird of Paradise

The same conundrum appears on the mat. 

We work hard with dedication to body and mind, yet at the same time, we would do well to reduce our identification with said body and mind - they will change in ways that we like and dislike regardless. 

But in small manageable ways, we can explore these two wings in practice.

In every pose, we make the effort - then soften our grip. 

In every breath, we must let go the exhale and trust the inhale will arrive. 

In every moment, we commit to working to the best of our ability, then let it go completely. 

The yoga mat is a mirror.

And as John Berry says, “The Bird of Paradise alights only upon the hand that does not grasp.”  

We cannot force the things we long for the most, even as we continue to hard work for them.  A posture, perhaps.  But more than that: health, peace, love, meaning, success. 

We can only keep showing up.  And keep letting go.  

Abhyāsa and Vairāgya.

And if we are lucky, maybe a Bird of Paradise will land. 

Let’s practice.