Rowing with both oars

Once upon a yogi time, a man came to the edge of a great and mighty river. He hired a young woman to row him across. As the boat pushed away from shore, he noticed that each oar had a single word carved into it. One read 'practice', the other 'detachment'. Curious, he asked about the words.

The young woman said, “My mother carved them here. She taught me that if I row only with practice, the boat spins in circles. If I row only with detachment, it does the same. But when I row with both together, the boat carries us across the river to the other shore.”

In yogic philosophy, detachment has two faces.

• Patañjali defines it as freedom from craving for sense objects — things like food, drink, sex, or power. These aren’t “bad” in themselves, but they have always been the places where human beings get entangled.

• The Bhagavad Gītā speaks of detachment from the fruits of action. We are called to act, Krishna tells Arjuna, but not to cling to the outcome. We do the right thing, at the right time, in the right way, and then surrender the results.

  In my life, challenges show up in many ways: in struggles with food, in the heartache of parenting, in the tensions of marriage, and even in whether people come to my classes. Each one exposes how much I am attached to outcomes, how easily I get hooked by craving. And this is normal — it’s the human condition. The question isn’t whether there are challenges, but whether we can learn to see them as the training ground for spiritual practice, for detachment.

    

The Poison Phase

 

 When we begin to work with detachment, what rises first is not peace — it's poison. This poison shows up as cravings, disappointments, and painful emotions that can feel almost unbearable. The ancient story of the churning of the ocean tells us that when the gods and demons stirred the waters in search of the nectar of immortality, the first thing to rise was poison.

The same is true for us: when our minds churn, poison rises first. Our cravings, our mental patterns (samskaras), our fear of being “not enough" rise like waves in the mind and body. And we can’t avoid them — we have to deal with them.

Yoga gives us three tools for this work: svādhyāya (self-study to see the patterns clearly), tapas (discipline to stay steady in the struggle), and īśvara praṇidhāna (surrender to the Divine, placing the fruits beyond our own grasp).

The truth is, most of us spend a long time here — with the poison. We spend years, decades, and lifetimes circling the same cravings, the same fears, the same heartaches. Edwin Bryant, author of a well-regarded commentary on the Yoga Sūtras of Patañjali, tells us: “samskaras never disappear; they always remain latent (except in the exceptional cases when they are burnt by yogic practice).” In other words, we are working with the same set of patterns our whole lives — something we can even see reflected in our astrology charts.

Food is the clearest example for me. Even when I know that eating beyond hunger will leave me feeling very uncomfortable in my own body, the craving still rises — relentless and insistent. Svādhyāya shows me the pattern, but knowledge doesn’t dissolve it. Tapas requires sitting with the pull without giving in, which often feels wildly messy. And īśvara praṇidhāna reminds me that the spiritual benefit of these efforts is not mine to choose. The work is to keep practicing.

The same is true in relationships. When I want my children’s struggles to ease, or my husband’s approval to steady me, or when I measure myself by whether people come to my classes, I see how fiercely I cling to results. The poison rises to the surface every time: fear, confusion, grief, loneliness, doubt. Here too, the practice is the same: study, discipline, surrender.

 

Toward the Nectar

 

 Over time, the poison becomes less potent — no longer so deadly, though still present. My relationship with food shows this clearly. Years ago, I thought I couldn’t eat a salad without bread. When that craving eased, I thought I couldn’t eat one without croutons. When that shifted, I thought I couldn’t eat one without cheese. One by one, these samskaras lifted. Today, I eat a vegetable salad with olive oil to dress it, and it’s enough — even delicious.

These may seem like small changes, but they are sips of holy nectar. Not the full draught, not complete freedom, but a taste of what practice and detachment can bring. This doesn’t mean I’m free from craving. The poison still rises, only in a weaker form. Through svādhyāya and tapas, as Patañjali teaches, I see more clearly and manage a little more self-discipline. And through īśvara praṇidhāna, as the Gītā teaches, I release the outcome — offering the fruits of my action to the greater good.

Returning to the River

 

 The rowing continues: practice and detachment. Some days poison is at the surface, and other days, there's a bit of sweet nectar. The boat only moves in the desired direction when both oars are used. Practice without detachment spins us in circles. Detachment without practice drifts into indifference. Together, they carry us slowly, steadily, across the river — toward the shore of clarity, steadiness, and peace.

I know you're rowing your own boat. Every time you row with both oars — practicing sincerely and surrendering the fruits of your actions — you move a little closer to the shore of freedom.