Ten Commandments of Yoga: The Inner Architecture of Freedom

The Ten Commandments of Yoga are the five Yamas — the restraints that govern our relation to the world — and the five Niyamas — the observances that refine the inner life. 

I begin with Ahimsa, non-violence. To practice ahimsa is not merely to avoid physical harm; it is to remove the subtle habit of aggression from thought, speech, and intention. The Upanishads teach the oneness of all; when that oneness is felt, harming another becomes impossible. Practically, I watch the quick impulses that want to retaliate or condemn, and I convert that energy into understanding. In meditation I hold the felt presence of others as not separate from my own being; compassion becomes the natural response, not a moral effort.

Closely entwined with ahimsa is Satya, truthfulness. Satya is integrity of perception, word and action — an alignment with what is. I have learned that truth spoken without kindness wounds; therefore, satya must be practiced with the tempering of ahimsa. The Gita’s teaching on right action without attachment helps here: speak and act from a place of clarity, not from vanity or fear. In daily life I examine whether my words serve the deeper reality or merely shore up an image. The inner test is simple: does this word deepen awareness or sustain illusion?

Asteya, non-stealing, extends beyond material theft to the theft of time, attention, and credit. A mind that covets another’s recognition or devours another’s silence is practicing a subtle theft. Vedanta reminds us that the true owner is the Self; when I rest in that ownership, I stop appropriating what is not mine. Practically, I meet envy with inquiry: what scarcity do I imagine? The practice of gratitude dissolves that scarcity and returns me to abundance.

Brahmacharya I understand as the art of right use of life-energy. In Tantra and Kriya practice this is taught as the skill of conserving and channeling prana toward higher awareness. It is not simple repression but conscious transmutation. When desire arises, I do not deny it with shame; I study its source and redirect its force into meditation, loving action, and devotion. Over time the senses become disciplined allies rather than aimless rulers.

Aparigraha, non-possessiveness, completes the social Yamas: it asks us to move through life without grasping. The Gita’s counsel to offer the fruit of action and Brahma Sūtra’s emphasis on renunciation point to the same truth: freedom lies in letting go. I practice aparigraha by simplifying, by giving when attachment tightens, and by reminding myself that identity is not built from possessions but from presence.

Turning inward, the Niyamas begin with Śauca, purity. Śauca includes cleanliness of body and clarity of mind. In Kriya Yoga the outer practices of purity prepare the inner field for subtler work; a mind cluttered with unresolved emotion resists the light. I make small rituals — a mindful wash before practice, truthful acknowledgment of an ugly thought — to keep the inner house clear. Purity, properly understood, is not moralism but preparation for seeing.

Santosha, contentment, is not passivity. It is the practice of being full in the present whilst acting skillfully when needed. The Gita points to an inner steadiness that is the hallmark of wisdom; that steadiness is the fruit of contentment. I study my cravings and ask whether pursuing them will reduce restlessness or simply perpetuate it. In quiet acceptance I find energy previously spent on wanting.

Tapas, austerity or disciplined heat, is the steadfast effort that refines conscious life. It is the inner furnace that burns away dullness and selfish habit. The Patanjali tradition places tapas as a necessary purifying force. In my life tapas appears in small, persistent commitments: the daily sitting, the refusal to react in anger, the courageous facing of fear. It must be balanced by compassion, otherwise austerity hardens into pride. I keep it soft by dedicating effort to love rather than punishment.

Svādhyāya, self-study, is the disciplined inquiry into the mechanics of one’s mind and the study of sacred texts that illuminate the Self. The Upanishads and the Gita are not mere doctrines to be collected; they are mirrors. In svādhyāya I read, reflect, and then watch how the teaching plays out in my impulses. I keep a practice journal, I ask honest questions in meditation, and I let silence answer. This is the slow alchemy by which unconscious patterns become conscious, and by which the ego releases its claims.

Finally, Īśvara Praṇidhāna — surrender to the Divine — is not resignation but the steady return of the heart to its source. The Brahma Sūtras and the Gita speak repeatedly of offering the fruits of action to a higher principle. In surrender I stop framing myself as sole doer; I begin each effort with a sense of offering and close it with trust. This dissolves small-self anxiety and opens channels for grace. Practically, I dedicate my actions, breath, and will to what is larger than my preferences; in that dedication the sting of failure is softened and the mind opens.

These ten practices do not function as separate rules to be checked off; they are a single thread woven into the fabric of interior discipline. Each supports the other: truthfulness loses its sharpness without compassion; austerity becomes dangerous without self-study; surrender is empty without integrity. Together they remove the habits that obscure the ever-present Self. As we practice, we notice subtle changes: less reactivity, more clarity, a steady energy that does not depend on circumstance. The goal is not moral perfection but the dissolution of the sense of a separate doer so that the living presence within can be revealed.

I have seen seekers who try to push straight to ecstatic states while neglecting these foundations; their experiences are fragile. The scriptures insist that inner freedom is built on ethical and contemplative ground. The practice of Yamas and Niyamas is the practical map for that ground. When we live them steadily, the mind settles, prana flows, and the heart relaxes into its natural silence. In that silence the Self makes its home and the old questions — who am I, what is lasting — drop away like leaves in autumn.

If you take one practical step now: begin by choosing one commandment to embody for a month. Let it be lived with modesty, watched with curiosity, and offered with devotion. Observe how the inner terrain changes. Over time, as the ten fold disciplines become habitual, you will find the mind purified and the inner light undimmed. The teachings of Vedanta, the clarity of the Gita, the precision of the Sutras, and the methods of Tantra and Kriya are then no longer texts but living guidance; they point you back to the simple fact you have always been: the Self, calm, present, and free.