The Eight Limbs as Living Dharma
There is a practice happening right now, in this very moment, in shalas and homes and early-morning rooms all over the world. People sitting down, breathing, moving, chanting. What most of them don’t think about is that none of it originated with them. Everything we do was handed to us.
I recently discovered a Sanskrit word I was unaware of vidhi — a procedure, the injunction of a spiritual rite. To follow it is to honor what came before. And what came before us — the teachings, the texts, the lineages of people who kept the flame lit when it would have been easier perhaps to let it go.
The new Moon earlier this month carries a particular weight in India. It is considered a sacred period dedicated to the act of remembrance — the living honor those who came before them with offerings of food, water, charity, and service.
There is a story from the Mahābhārata, Karṇa — known in his lifetime for his generosity — would give gold to all without hesitation. When he left the body, he found himself without food. This happened because he had never offered food in honor of his ancestors. His generosity had been magnificent, but it had not flowed backward into gratitude.
This October new moon exists as a way to remind us to always acknowledge those who came before us. It binds generations together through action. And above all, the tradition teaches that our ancestors are most deeply pleased when their descendants become students of what they held forth.
Our Dharma therefore has direct relationship to our ancestors. The word Dharma comes from the Sanskrit root dhṛ — to hold, to uphold. It is often translated as duty or righteousness, I like to think of it as that which sustains. The thing we are here to uphold.
The Vedic tradition understood life as moving through stages — āśramas — each with its own texture and its own particular duties:
The student phase — receiving, learning, opening
The householder phase — building, giving, caring for others
The retirement phase — stepping back, deepening, passing on
The renunciant phase — releasing, returning to what is essential
But these stages don’t only describe a whole lifetime. They live in small cycles within the large ones. We move through all of them in a single day, in a single relationship, in a single practice.
And within each stage, there are duties we are asked to show up for. Sometimes they pull us away from what we want to be doing. That friction is not an obstacle to the practice. That friction is the practice.
This is where the eight limbs of yoga become not just a philosophy but a practical tool — a way of doing our dharma well, in any given moment and without loosing site of honoring those who came before who made it possible for us to be here now, doing what we are doing.
Patañjali didn’t give us the eight limbs so we could transcend our lives. He gave them to us so we could live them better. They are a compass for navigating how to act (karma), how to relate, how to show up.
I always like to begin with Svadhyāya — self-study, honest self-observation — because it reveals where we are and what is actually needed.
Who am I right now? What am I actually doing here? What is my true nature?
From that clear seeing, we can look at where we might be falling short:
Ahiṃsā — non-harming or perhaps extending kindness. Am I causing harm to myself or others by dwelling on thoughts/speech/action rooted in ignorance or self-judgment?
Santoṣa — contentment. Can I rest in the truth that I have all I need, that I am enough?
Satya — honesty. Am I seeing myself and my situation clearly?
Aparigraha — non-grasping. Where am I holding on too tightly?
And from that observation, we ask: how can the practice help me change this?
Then comes Tapas — the discipline to remain on the task in front of me. Not force, not rigidity. Just the willingness to stay.
The mat is a laboratory for all of this. Think about a pose you can’t do.
What happens? Do you give up and never try it again? Or do you keep coming back — approaching it differently each time? Maybe you find a new teacher. Maybe you try a variation. Maybe you take just one breath and see what’s there.
Slowly, over time, something shifts. Not just in the body, but in the relationship to the whole thing:
How you see it changes
How you react to it changes
Your expectations change
The way you talk to yourself about it changes
That is the practice working. And what happens on the mat can happen in life too.
The eight limbs don’t ask us to become someone else. They ask us to become more honestly, more clearly, more kindly ourselves — and to do our dharma from that place.
If you feel moved to mark this season of remembrance in a tangible way, here is a simple practice you can do at home:
Set up a small altar with a photograph of a parent, grandparent, a teacher, or ancestor — anyone whose love or example has shaped you.
Light a lamp. Offer some flowers.
Place a food offering nearby — fresh fruit, cooked rice, or something sweet
Sit quietly. Remember them with gratitude. Offer your prayers.
You don’t need to do it perfectly. You just need to do it with sincerity.
There Is Nothing I Can Control Other Than My Faith
I keep coming back to this.
At a certain point in the practice — in life — we realize how little we are actually in charge of. The outcomes, the timing, the way things unfold. None of it is fully ours to decide.
What we can decide is how we show up. The quality of our attention. The sincerity of our effort. The willingness to keep returning — to the mat, to the teachings, to each other, to the lineage that was handed to us with such care.
That is our vidhi. That is our dharma. That is the practice.
Om śāntiḥ śāntiḥ śāntiḥ
— Bibi Lorenzetti. Join us for Practice - New? New student special 2 weeks for $49