When Light Meets Shadow: A Yogic View of Eclipses

Eclipses come to us in regular cycles, woven into the rhythm of the sky. Their predictability is part of what makes them compelling: they are not random disruptions, but natural turns in the pattern of life. Social media is full of the hype—“big change is coming”—but what draws me is a longing to truly understand what is going on beyond the hype. And for this, I turn to the old stories, the myths and symbols that can reveal the deeper meaning of eclipses. Eclipses are invitations: rhythms of Mother Nature that can shape our relationship with life and practice.

The story of Svarbhānu

One way the ancients spoke of eclipses was through the language of devas and asuras. The devas are those who preserve cosmic order, though they are not flawless; their stories reveal jealousy, pride, and ambition. The asuras are also powerful beings—not simply evil, but challengers of order. Their disruptions expose what is hidden, call out hypocrisy, and sometimes bring needed correction.

Once upon a yogi time there was an asura named Svarbhānu, whose name means “the one whose light is his own.” While the devas gathered to feast and share amṛta, the nectar of immortality, Svarbhānu slipped in and took a sip. And who can blame someone for wanting the nectar of immortality? But Viṣṇu recognized him and, in his fury, cut off his head. Yet because Svarbhānu had tasted the nectar, he could not die. He was immortal and became part of the eternal story of the universe, cast into the sky as Rāhu and Ketu, woven permanently into the cosmic order. In them we see both disruption and dignity: Rāhu’s craving and courage, Ketu’s cutting and clarity—shadow and light interwoven.

When Krishna Hid the Sun

In the great epic, the Mahābhārata, the eternal contest between devas and asuras takes human form: the righteous Pāṇḍavas facing their kin, the Kauravas, whose hunger for power has tipped into disorder. There comes a moment when Arjuna’s life hangs in the balance.

Jayadratha had played a key role in the brutal killing of Arjuna’s son Abhimanyu, and Arjuna vowed to take his life in return. The vow was clear: if Jayadratha was not slain before sunset, Arjuna would end his own life. As the Sun sank lower and Jayadratha remained hidden, the vow seemed impossible to fulfill. And if Arjuna were to die, the Pāṇḍavas would lose their greatest warrior, and disorder would prevail.

As the last rays of the Sun seemed ready to vanish into shadow, Krishna—an avatar of Viṣṇu, charged with maintaining order—secretly raised his sudarśana chakra and eclipsed the Sun. Darkness spread across the battlefield. Believing the Sun had set, Jayadratha stepped proudly into the open, swollen with arrogance, certain of his triumph and ready to celebrate Arjuna’s death.

As Krishna withdrew the chakra, the Sun shone forth again. For a breath, the battlefield froze. In the stunned silence, everyone realized the day was not over and Arjuna’s death need not come. In that pause, Arjuna seized his chance. He drew his bow and, in a single strike, severed Jayadratha’s head. Pride was cut down, and the karmic price of arrogance was paid.

This story shows the potential of eclipses. They create the conditions for what is hidden to come forward—our pride, our attachments, our shadows. And once revealed, those tendencies can be seen, acknowledged, and transformed.

What do eclipses do?

Technically Eclipses occur when the Sun or Moon aligns with the lunar nodes—Rāhu and Ketu. When this happens, the light of the Sun and/or Moon is darkened.

Jyotiṣa teaching 

Classical Vedic texts treat eclipses as powerful omens. A lunar eclipse is said to stir unrest among the people, the harvest, or the waters (the Moon), while a solar eclipse unsettles rulers and institutions (the Sun). Observers also note that the regions where an eclipse is visible are most strongly impacted by its energy—an observation still carried forward today.

Classical texts such as Bṛhat Saṃhitā and many modern teachers emphasize that eclipses are times when spiritual practices are especially fruitful. Meditation, mantra, fasting, or silence are considered especially powerful, and the practice is often sealed with dāna (charity), grounding inner effort in generosity.

Symbolically

Eclipses are often described as times when “the veil is thin.” This phrase makes sense in other contexts, such as vata-dominant times of day when the elements of air and ether heighten sensitivity between the physical and subtle realms. But during an eclipse, something else is happening: the grahas themselves are veiled.

The Moon, which reflects the movements of the mind, is darkened. The Sun, which fuels our sense of ego and identity, is blocked. Together, their usual dominance is subdued. Thought grows less insistent, ego less certain. From a yogic perspective, this mirrors the very aim of practice: to quiet the mind (citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ) and to loosen the grip of ego so that something more primary, something truer, can be revealed.

During the eclipses, when the mind and ego are dimmed, our samskaras—the mental patterns that drive our habits and reactions—are revealed. Fear might flare, or pride, or grasping. But this is not a punishment—it is an opportunity. What is seen can be studied (svādhyāya), named, and offered back to the light. This is the liminal gift of eclipses: shadow made visible, correction made possible. When eclipses come, they are another meeting of the devas and asuras—light and shadow clashing and rebalancing, outside in the heavens and within our own being.

Upcoming eclipses

This month brings two eclipses: a total lunar eclipse on September 7 at 2:12 p.m. and a partial solar eclipse on September 21 at 3:43 p.m. These dates offer us a window of attention. Jyotish is, at its heart, about learning to notice the right time to practice—and eclipses give us just such a moment.

Relating to practice

We can relate to eclipses by turning them into yoga practice—watching how the mind itself behaves and responding with discipline, study, and offering.

This means observing the mind—its movements, its contents, its constant pulling. Sometimes it pulls toward fear, sometimes toward pride, sometimes toward distraction or craving. Most days, we hardly notice the direction until we're already swept along. But when the Sun or Moon is shadowed, practice itself can become a mirror, showing us where the mind is pulled. If the pull is toward tamas—heaviness, fear, or inertia—then we have a choice: we can shift the pattern, redirecting the energy toward sattva, toward clarity and calm.

In the Bhagavad Gītā, Krishna speaks of practice in three interwoven strands: discipline, self-study, and offering. Later traditions would call this triad Kriyā Yoga, but the voice is Krishna’s—practical, steady, and oriented toward dharma. During an eclipse, each can be approached in simple, meaningful ways:

• Discipline (tapas): Many traditions advise refraining from eating, drinking, or taking things in during the time of an eclipse. The energy is shadowed; discipline means allowing the body and mind to stay clear.

  
  

• Self-study (svādhyāya): Use the time for inward study through the body, breath, and mind. In asana, pay close attention to alignment through the bones and engagement through the muscles—the physical patterns that mirror mental ones. In prāṇāyāma, observe the qualities of the breath: short or long, shallow or deep, rough or smooth. These observations reveal the grooves of our samskaras, showing how the mind expresses itself through the body. In meditation, turn the inner gaze toward the space between the eyebrows—the Sun center—as if to remember the light.

  
  

• Offering (īśvara-praṇidhāna): Whatever arises in practice—fear, pride, craving, tenderness—can be brought to the Sun center for healing. This offering is not about pushing anything away but placing it in the light, trusting that correction happens when shadow is seen and surrendered.

  
  

A friend of mine once showed me how simple this can be. She was anxious about her daughter starting a new school. Instead of following her mind into all the things that might go wrong, she paused and asked: “What’s the best thing that could happen?” In that moment, she shifted the current—from tamas to sattva, from heaviness to clarity. This is exactly what eclipse time can support: through practice, seeing the pull of the mind clearly and choosing the path of clarity.

Closing

As we come to the end of this reflection, it is worth remembering the old stories we began with. The devas are not always noble, the asuras not always wicked. Just as the grahas—planets and shadow planets alike—are not divided neatly into “good” and “bad.” Each plays its role in the unfolding of cosmic order and in our own unfolding as human beings.

Eclipses remind us of this order. Their shadows reveal what is usually obscured by the brightness of the Moon and the Sun—by the pull of mind and the certainty of ego. What is revealed gives us a chance to understand ourselves more clearly, to see our own human nature, and to refine it.

So when the light is dimmed, turn inward. Let practice be your response. See what arises, study it, and offer it to the Sun center for healing. Remember that it all belongs—the Moon, the Sun, the shadow, the correction. To relate with it wisely is to live in rhythm with Mother Nature herself.