If you explore this sutra, it can lead you to a profound reflection on the illusory nature of perception. Even a casual look at history reveals how each advance in science and culture has called into question beliefs our ancestors took for granted—everything from the idea that the earth is the center of the solar system to the notion that matter is solid. The primary purpose of the sutra is to call into question our notions of identity. But, at the same time, it offers a useful window into some of our garden variety forms of cluelessness.
Notice how this definition applies to so many levels of ignorance. Mistaking the perishable for the imperishable? That's the garden variety denial that keeps some people believing they can go on depending on fossil fuels, or jogging on asphalt without doing damage to their cartilage. On a deeper level, it's what keeps you from seeing that your conception of 'me'—my 'personality,' my 'self'—is not stable and certainly not permanent, that just as your body is an ever-shifting configuration of atoms, your internal sense of self consists of thoughts about who you are (as in 'I'm pretty' or 'I'm confused'), feelings like happiness or restlessness, and moods such as depression or hopefulness—all of which are subject to change.
Mistaking the impure for the pure? That could apply to our misperception about the purity of bottled water, or to an unconscious spiritual attitude, like believing that being a vegetarian or a Buddhist or a yogi will protect you from the inevitable suffering of life. But when you apply it on a deep level you see that the sutra is describing the ignorance that makes you mistake a passing state—a complex of thoughts and emotions and body sensations—for the pure consciousness that is your true self.
Believing that pain is joy? Real joy is the natural delight that arises spontaneously from within us, the delight of life itself. A sunny afternoon or a good hug or delicious meal can trigger joy. But the kind of happiness that depends on something else, even something as subtle as a session of meditation, always ends, and when it does, it leaves a kind emptiness—pain—in its wake.
Mistaking the false self for the true self? This is the essence, the lynch pin of the whole structure of avidya. It's not just that you identify with the body. You identify with every passing mood or thought about yourself, without recognizing that within you which is unchanging, joyful, and aware. That's how someone like Lauren, whose true self is vast, brilliant, and made of love, comes to feel like her life is in ruins when a torn ligament keeps her from practicing Warrior II.
Wake Up Call
Taken together, these flavors of avidya, cause us to live in a kind of trance state—aware of what's obvious on the surface, but unable to recognize the underlying reality. Since our personal trance is fully supported by the beliefs and perceptions of the culture around us, it's difficult for most of us even to recognize the existence of the veil. To fully dismantle avidya is the deep goal of yoga, and it demands a radical shift of consciousness. But the good news is that just recognizing that you're en-tranced is to begin to wake up from the dream. And because avidya works through your brain and nervous system, you can begin to free yourself from its more egregious manifestations by simply being willing to question the validity of your ideas and feelings about who you are.
Avidya makes you believe that the way you think or feel things are is the way things actually are. You can step past this by looking at what your mind habitually tells you, and questioning its conclusions about reality. Then, go a step further, and see if you can notice how feelings create thoughts and thoughts create feelings—and how the reality they construct for you is exactly that—a construct!
One of the great moments for catching your own avidya is to tune in to the first conscious feeling that surfaces as you wake up in the morning. Then, notice where it takes you.
While I was contemplating this article, I woke up for several days feeling lonely and slightly sad. This is not usual for me, so it caught my attention. I would surface out of the pre-waking state, open my eyes to see a grey sky (we were having a lot of morning fog on the California coast that week). I'd feel a dull, sinking energy in my body. Within seconds, something would grab hold of that feeling, identify with it ("I'm sad"), and expand into a dulled, grey inner landscape. This automatic process is the action of what in yoga is called the 'I-maker' or ahamkara—the mechanical tendency to construct a 'me' out of the separate components of inner experience. The inner dialogue ran something like this: "Oh no, another grey day. Grey skies make me feel depressed. I need to get out of this climate. No, I shouldn't blame the weather. It's me. I have these depressed family genes. Its hopeless!" Before I even got out of bed, I had written off my entire day.
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