The WIND OF THE Mind: Finding Stillness through Abhyāsa and Vairāgya

Over the past week or so of studying and teaching, I have been sharing and deepening my reflections on the “two wings of Yoga,” Abhyāsa and Vairāgya. Interestingly, since I turned my focus to them, these themes have surfaced in many places—as things often do when you are moving in the right direction. I wanted to share my reflections here as well.

For me, the biggest motivation for my practice is cultivating some semblance of understanding and control over my mind. As someone who spent many years living with very intrusive symptoms of mental “illness,” I believed the medical rhetoric and completely internalized and identified with my mental states and experiences. When I discovered the Yoga Sūtra philosophy in my mid-twenties—after two decades of missing out on life due to this illness—I began to have hope that there might be another way of dealing with my mind and symptoms. Yoga opened my mind to a completely new narrative of what I was experiencing mentally and empowered me with tools to influence and shift it. I share this now with others in hopes that they may take up the practice and be set free from the story we are told by society, so that they may tune into the true nature of their being.

In the Bhagavad Gītā, even Arjuna, the disciplined warrior and devotee, confesses to Krishna how difficult it is to control his mind. He says:

“Cañcalaṁ hi manaḥ kṛṣṇa pramāthi balavad dṛḍham.
Tasyāhaṁ nigrahaṁ manye vāyor iva su-duṣkaram.”

“The mind is restless, turbulent, strong, and unyielding. To control it, I think, is as difficult as controlling the wind.” (Bhagavad Gītā 6.34)

This verse is profoundly human. Even in the midst of devotion, Arjuna admits that taming the mind feels impossible.

Krishna’s response offers the essential key to yoga:

“Asaṁśayaṁ mahābāho mano durnigrahaṁ calam,
abhyāsena tu kaunteya vairāgyeṇa ca gṛhyate.”

“Yes, the mind is restless and hard to control, but by practice (abhyāsa) and detachment (vairāgya), it can be mastered.” (Bhagavad Gītā 6.35)

Krishna’s instruction mirrors what Patañjali teaches in the Yoga Sūtra (I.12):

“Abhyāsa-vairāgyābhyāṁ tan-nirodhaḥ.” 

The fluctuations of the mind (vṛttis) are stilled through practice and non-attachment. Across traditions, these two forces form the foundation of the spiritual path. They are like two wings of a bird: both are necessary for flight. Abhyāsa is the sustained effort, the steady application of practice of focusing the mind and consciousness. Vairāgya is letting go, the dispassion toward outcomes and sensory distraction. Together, they lead to yogah citta vṛtti nirodhah—the stilling of the mental movements that we identify with as our selves, and that obscure our True Self (pure unfluctuating consciousness). 

Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra echoes the same teaching succinctly:

“Abhyāsa-vairāgyābhyāṁ tan-nirodhaḥ.” (I.12)

“The fluctuations of the mind (citta-vṛtti) are stilled through abhyāsa (consistent practice of steadiness) and vairāgya (non-attachment).”

Across traditions, these two forces form the foundation of the spiritual path. They are like two wings of a bird: both are necessary for flight. Abhyāsa is the sustained effort, the steady application of practice and focus. Vairāgya is letting go, the dispassion toward outcomes and sensory distraction. Together, they lead to yogah citta vṛtti nirodhah—the stilling of the mental movements that we identify with as our selves, and that obscure our True Self (pure unfluctuating consciousness).

Abhyāsa: The Discipline of Steadiness

Hariharānanda Āraṇya describes abhyāsa as “the effort to remain established in the steadiness of mind.” It begins with concentration (dhāraṇā) but gradually develops into a deeper inner stability, where the mind rests in awareness of puruṣa, the witnessing Self.

Āraṇya emphasizes that abhyāsa is not mechanical repetition—it is the cultivation of a sattvic state, a quiet clarity where distraction has no hold. Edwin Bryant echoes this: “Abhyāsa is the intentional cultivation of the right habits of attention.” In other words, abhyāsa is the ongoing, patient work of returning again and again to what is steady, true, and conscious within us.

In the living lineage of Krishnamacharya, this principle extends beyond the meditation seat. As T.K.V. Desikachar writes in The Heart of Yoga: “Abhyāsa is the effort to remain there, in that calm place. It means choosing and cultivating actions, speech, and thoughts that lead toward stability.” Through consistent, appropriate practice—āsana, prāṇāyāma, meditation, study, and mindful living—the mind gradually learns to settle into clarity.

Vairāgya: The Art of Letting Go

If abhyāsa is the effort, vairāgya is the release. Hariharānanda Āraṇya defines vairāgya as dispassion toward sense objects, arising first from discernment and later from direct insight into the independence of puruṣa—pure consciousness, untouched by experience.

Bryant describes it as “freedom from desire, a state of mastery over thirst.” Desikachar reframes it for modern life: “Vairāgya means learning to let go of what does not serve clarity and peace. It is not indifference; it is freedom.”

In Krishnamacharya’s teaching, vairāgya matures naturally through abhyāsa—as steadiness deepens, craving and reactivity fall away. “Abhyāsa moves us toward steadiness; vairāgya keeps us from falling back.”

Integrating Practice and Letting Go

Both the Bhagavad Gītā and the Yoga Sūtra point to the same truth: we all experience turbulence in the mind and we all wish to still that. And yet, we cannot force the mind into stillness— but we can train it gently over time, through steady practice and loving non-attachment. Each time we return the wandering mind to the breath or the heart, that is abhyāsa. Each time we let go of frustration, craving, or expectation, that is vairāgya.

At first, as Arjuna says, it may feel like trying to control the wind (or even a hurricane). But Yoga is not about stopping the wind—it is about witnessing the wind and learning to identify as the atmosphere through which it moves. 

The mind’s turbulence is not a failure of practice—it is the practice. Each moment of noticing, returning, and releasing refines awareness and leads us closer to peace. Steady effort and gentle letting go is the timeless path of yoga, where even the wind learns to rest.

Thank you for taking the time to read this and please feel welcome to share your thoughts and experience with this.

Much gratitude,

Dani