Riding the Swan: the Prāṇa–Apāna Induction
Read slowly, aloud, matching your voice to your own breathing; about fifteen to twenty minutes. Learn it with a guide, then practise it alone.
Before you begin. This is Bhuśuṇḍa's breath meditation from the Yoga Vāsiṣṭha, given as a gentle self-hypnosis practice. It never asks you to hold or control the breath; you only notice it. It is safe for most healthy adults. If you have panic disorder, asthma or another breathing condition, or if anything about the breath is linked for you to fear, practise with your eyes open, rest one hand on a solid surface as an anchor, keep the session short, and stop if you feel uneasy; better still, learn it first with a clinician. If you feel dizzy or light-headed at any point, let the breath return to its ordinary rhythm and open your eyes. Never practise while driving, operating anything, or in or near water.
How to return at any moment. Open your eyes, look at three things in the room, feel your feet on the floor, and take one ordinary breath. That is enough.
Sit comfortably, upright and at ease.
Let the hands rest. Let the eyes close, or let them rest half-open, looking softly down.
Turn the face inward, as the crow does, towards what you hold most dear.
And let the breath breathe itself. You are not going to change it. You are only going to watch it, as an old bird on a high branch watches the weather.
Notice the next out-breath.
Feel where it begins, somewhere in the centre of the chest, near the heart. Feel it rise and leave through the nose. It is warm, like sunlight. Follow it out, past the tip of the nose, out into the air in front of you, to a point about a hand's span away, where it fades and sets, the way the sun sets.
The crow calls this outgoing breath prāṇa.
And now, from that same point in front of you, the in-breath begins. Receive it. It is cool, like moonlight. Feel it come in at the tip of the nose, cool, and flow down, down into the chest, and settle in the heart, the way the moon sets.
The crow calls this incoming breath apāna.
Out from the heart, warm, to the point in front of you. In from that point, cool, down to the heart.
Out… warm… setting in the air.
In… cool… setting in the heart.
Let it go on by itself. You are only watching.
Now notice the turning points.
At the end of the out-breath there is a moment when the breath has set and the next one has not yet risen. A small stillness. Just notice it. Do not hold it, do not make it longer. It is there in every breath of every creature; the crow says only that the yogi notices it.
And at the end of the in-breath, when the cool breath has settled in the heart, there is another small stillness before the warm breath rises. Notice that one too.
Out… and the pause outside.
In… and the pause inside.
As you go on watching, the pauses may lengthen of their own accord. Let them, if they do. If they do not, that is fine too. Nothing needs to happen. The highest pause, the crow says, is the one that comes without any effort at all.
And as the breath slows, thoughts of time and place can fade with it. There is no yesterday in this breath. There is no tomorrow. Only this breath setting, and the next one not yet born.
Now rest your attention at the tip of the nose, at the threshold the breath crosses both ways. Rest there, at the point where the out-breath has set and the in-breath has not yet risen.
Something is present in that gap. It is quiet. It is awake. It is not the breath. It is what notices the breath.
Rest as that.
(Silence: two to four minutes.)
Now let a few sentences sink in, the way the crow spoke them, quietly, on the out-breath.
I am not lifted up by success, and I am not cast down by loss.
I do not carry yesterday. I do not borrow tomorrow.
I hold no one as enemy.
I am glad at the gladness of others, and I feel for their sorrow.
This keeps me fresh.
Let them settle where they settle.
And now, like the crow waking at the dawn of a new creation, it is time to come back and recognise the world.
Let the breath deepen a little, by itself. Let the in-breath grow fuller, and feel it reach the shoulders and the face.
The crow, waking, saw all the objects of creation and knew them again, and found his mountain by the stars. Find yours.
Feel the weight of the body on the seat. Feel the feet on the floor and press them down a little. Hear the sounds of the room and know them. Notice the light behind the eyelids.
I will count from one to five, and on five your eyes will open, clear and awake.
One. The breath is easy and full.
Two. Hands and feet are warm; move them.
Three. The room is around you, familiar.
Four. A deep breath in, and let the shoulders roll.
Five. Eyes open. Here. Now. Fully awake.
Look around and name three things you see. Say your name, the day and where you are. If you feel at all hazy, count to five again, stand up and walk a little. Do not drive or operate anything for ten minutes.
And as you go back to your work, your meals, your walking, keep a little of the watching with you. Out, warm. In, cool. The small stillness between. The crow never lost it, even in dream.
