Life Tests Our Practice

by Jessica Girija Jewell

Sometimes life tests our practice.

Not to evaluate the length of our hamstrings.

Not to measure how long we can balance on our hands.

Not to give us

a grade based on the erectness of our spine as we sit on a mat, amidst peaceful people, and mood-moderating music.

Nope.

Instead, sometimes life tests the length of our patience, the strength of our kindness, and the depth of our surrender.

These tests might show up as confusing conversations, difficult demands, or exceptional events. When the test is over, we discover how our practice on the mat is changing how we think, speak, and behave off the mat.

We’re currently nearing the end of an eclipse season, a time often associated with amplified emotions, sudden shifts, and dramatic beginnings and endings. We may feel in the dark about what’s happening, unsure where the next step should land, or confused by the changes in ourselves and others.

The story of Svarbhanu helps us understand eclipses and what we may experience during them.

Svarbhanu was an Asura who wanted to be immortal. And why not? He helped churn the ocean of milk that offered up the nectar of immortality.

But the Asuras were denied this nectar by the Devas.

The determined Svarbhanu slipped into the gathering where the nectar was being served and, with a single sip, became immortal. Just after his sip though, his head was severed from his body. Because he had already imbibed the nectar, he lives on for eternity among the stars.

The difference between the Devas and the Asuras is not a difference between good and evil. Both follow dharma and can act nobly—or not. What distinguishes the Asuras from the Devas is orientation.

The Devas aspire to moksha, liberation. They are concerned with spiritual development.

The Asuras are not concerned with liberation. Their attention is directed toward power, enjoyment, and the experiences of worldly life.

When the head or body of Svarbhanu, now called Rahu and Ketu, encounters the Sun or full Moon, an eclipse occurs and the light that illuminates the path of moksha is obscured. When these eclipses fall near sensitive places in our birth charts, we may temporarily forget who we are and why we are here as the dramas of life grab our attention.

In this way, eclipse periods can feel like test time—moments when life asks us to work harder to remember our spiritual aspirations and what our practice is really for.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve had my own opportunities to be tested. There’s no need to go into the details. The specifics are not the point.

What mattered was observing how the mind reacted, the caution with which words came—or didn’t come—out of my mouth, and the actions I chose.

When strong emotions surface and drama dominates, I have a few tools in my toolbox.

The primary one is to turn toward inner experience. The book The Awakening Body by Reginald A. Ray has been a helpful guide in navigating this terrain.

For a long time I practiced meditation assuming that concentration would eventually take me beyond the body, to a subtler realm where discomfort and emotional turbulence might fade.

But Ray’s work, rooted in the Vajrayana Buddhist tradition, teaches something different.

A one-pointed mind does not take us away from the body.

It brings us more fully into it.

The body is where life is experienced, where presence is present. Here, sensations arise and dissolve. The body tightens and loosens; feels heat and cold; pulses and becomes still. And it's all happening in the present moment, the only time when something is happening, when we have real agency.

The other day I noticed a flash of sensation arise in the lower torso, in the region associated with the first and second chakras. I recognized it as the sensation of shame.

Nothing dramatic followed. It appeared, lingered briefly, and faded.

Yet it was thrilling to be fully present with the experience and to name it. To watch it come and go.

Moments like this remind me that practice is not about avoiding difficult emotions, but learning to recognize them as sensations in the body.

In yoga postures we often move slightly beyond the body’s current comfort zone and remain there—breathing, observing, and staying present.

Over time the body learns something important.

Discomfort does not require immediate reaction.

In other words, we can stay present even when something feels awkward or unfamiliar. It will pass.

So when life hands us one of these tests—during eclipse season or any other time—we meet the moment with our practice.

Not by forcing ourselves to feel calm. Not by pretending we are beyond emotion.

But by noticing what arises, staying present in the body, and remembering what truly matters.

The mat prepares us.

Life administers the test.

And the real measure of our practice is revealed in the length of our patience, the strength of our kindness, and the depth of our surrender.