Seeing with New Eyes: A Reflection on Avidyā (अविद्या)
Seeing with New Eyes: A Reflection on Avidyā (अविद्या)
Lately, I’ve been theming my classes around essays from Meditations from the Mat: Daily Reflections on the Path of Yoga by Rolf Gates and Katrina Kenison. On the day I’m writing this, I guided my class with inspiration from an entry that begins with a quote from French novelist and literary critic, Marcel Proust:
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”
This line—and the essay as a whole—struck a particular chord with me. It feels especially resonant in this season of my life.
Every now and then… (who am I kidding?) Often, I catch myself running on autopilot: working, teaching, tending to my home, studying, practicing yoga, trying to make time for my loved ones—doing everything I believe I should be doing. Recently, I totaled my beloved first car. What followed was a whirlwind of insurance calls, dealership visits, test drives, financing paperwork, and making peace with an unexpected new monthly expense. All of this layered on top of an already full life left me feeling completely depleted, extremely stressed and foggy.
When the new car was finally in my parking spot, I expected to feel relief—but it didn’t come right away. The external problem had been “solved,” but my internal tension lingered.
I was preparing for this class last night after work, reading the essay and thinking about sequencing, and that’s when it dawned on me: This is avidyā.
In the Yoga Sūtra, avidyā is named as the first of the five kleśa—the mental afflictions, or obstacles, that obscure clarity and cause suffering. Often translated as “ignorance,” avidyā is more deeply understood as a case of mistaken identity: it’s a fog that blurs our vision, the confusion between what is temporary and what is eternal, between what we feel in the moment and what is actually true.
In my case, I had mistaken the stress and chaos of a car accident and life’s logistics as something permanent, unchanging, even defining. I became consumed by it. My nervous system was in overdrive, my body physically affected and fatigued by the stress. I couldn’t see clearly. I had forgotten, if only temporarily, that everything would be fine—this too would pass.
How often do we let life’s inevitable hardships—grief, transition, uncertainty—eclipse our ability to see what’s real? We hear phrases like “time heals all wounds,” and maybe that’s true. But how often do we pause long enough to recognize the wound in the first place? How often do we catch ourselves in the swirl of overwhelm before we hit our breaking point?
In our culture, we’re often encouraged to just keep going. Keep pushing. Keep producing. We equate forward movement with progress—but yoga invites us to consider something else: that true insight often arises in stillness, not motion.
Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is stop. Breathe. Feel our feet on the ground. Let the mental fog settle. And then, from that place of presence, maybe we begin to see not with frantic eyes, but with new ones.
A Simple Practice: Seeing Clearly
If you’re feeling foggy, overwhelmed, or unsure, try this short meditation to reconnect and remember what is true:
1. Find a quiet place to sit.
Let your body be supported—on a cushion, a chair, or the floor. Rest your hands comfortably, maybe in your lap.
2. Close your eyes and take a few deep breaths.
Inhale slowly through the nose… and exhale gently through the mouth. Let your shoulders soften, jaw relax, allowing yourself to settle into your space and body. Then breath in and out through your nose.
3. Begin to notice what is present.
Without judgment, observe your thoughts, sensations, and emotions—like clouds drifting across the sky. Try not to hold on to them. No need to fix or solve anything. Just see. Let go.
4. Silently repeat the phrase:
“I am not my stress. This too shall pass.”
Or simply:
“I am breathing in (as you inhale). I’m breathing out (as you exhale).”
Let your mantra and breath guide you back to the deeper awareness within you—the one who watches, who waits, who knows this too shall pass.
5. Stay here for 3–5 minutes.
And when you’re ready, open your eyes gently, as if seeing the world anew.
Take care,
Taylor