Svadhyaya on Skis
- Raj Palsingh
- Jan 23
- 4 min read
Updated: Jan 25
As part of my role in making the philosophy and lived experience of yoga more accessible, I often return to the Eight-Limbed Path of Yoga as shared in Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras. One of these limbs is Niyama, often translated as “effortful habituations,” practiced in alignment with the Yamas. Patanjali outlines five such habituations: cleanliness, contentment, discipline, self-study, and devotion to something beyond the ego.
In this reflection, I’m focusing on self-study, known in Sanskrit as Svādhyāya.
Svādhyāya is commonly translated as both self-study and the study of scriptures. What’s often missed is that many of these scriptures are texts concerned with the nature of the self. Even studies of mathematics, science, or the material world were historically ways of understanding existence and consciousness. The Vedas themselves explore how the material arises from the immaterial. Seen this way, scripture is not separate from self-study; it is a method of approaching it.
If we stay with the core meaning of self-study, a deeper truth emerges: learning what comes naturally to you is itself Svādhyāya. Whatever draws you into genuine curiosity—whether it’s philosophy, science, cooking videos on YouTube, or, in my case for this reflection, skiing—can become a path toward understanding your nature. Patanjali refers to this orientation as Ishta Devata, which in non-dual traditions ultimately points to the Atman, the most refined sense of self.
The first step in learning anything is learning how to be a student. Svādhyāya begins by setting aside the conditioned mind long enough to listen. This shift—from assumption to discernment—already moves us closer to the Self. Svādhyāya is not just reading or studying in the conventional sense; it’s noticing patterns, instincts, reactions, and moment-to-moment experience. It’s the niyama that anchors awareness throughout the unfolding of life.
This is where skiing enters the picture. I had only skied once before, nearly twenty-seven years ago. To ski again meant learning something new, while carrying a fear of heights and a memory of injury from falling. Svādhyāya begins even before the lesson starts: noticing the state of mind I bring into it. Can I set aside conclusions and fears and trust the instructions being offered?
I could read every ski manual and watch endless tutorials, but until my skis touched snow and I began sliding on that icy surface, nothing had really been learned. This is another layer of Svādhyāya: what you learn through direct experience is self-study. Riding the chairlift, skiing down, repeating the process—this becomes the practice. Am I ready to go faster, higher, or into unfamiliar terrain?
There’s a quiet joy when learning happens from the inside, when a skill begins to feel natural rather than forced. This kind of learning leaves an imprint on the self and cultivates discernment. It’s learning not because you’re told to, but because curiosity pulls you forward.
In skiing, figuring it out often means falling. Falling teaches you when you’re out of balance and how to recover. Learning how to fall well is a skill in itself, and with it comes lessons in failure, humility, and resilience that extend far beyond the slopes.
Patience is another teacher. Wanting to move up a level before the instructor agrees reveals the restless, grasping mind. I had to remind myself that I was returning after decades, that I was new again, and that even my younger daughter progressed faster than I did. Staying where I was, practicing within my limits, and trusting someone further along the path became part of the learning.
Skiing reveals a simple truth: the ride down is carried by gravity just like the ride of life where its carried through space and time. Whether you resist or allow it, you can't ski upwards or move into the past, so how present are you? With what level of awareness do you arrive at the moment?
As the snow moved beneath my feet, I noticed tension, breath-holding, fear, and moments of ease. I watched how quickly my inner voice wanted to give up, and how focus returned when I softened. Even after the run ended, reflection continued—how impatience turned into fear, and fear into trust when the instructor finally said, “You’ve got this.”
Turning experience inward to cultivate awareness is also Svadyaya, not just of what you’re doing, but how you’re moving through. It is not limited to books, talks, or videos. It’s seeing life through curiosity, even when that curiosity leads to discomfort, which is why Svādhyāya is supported by Tapas, the discipline to stay with the process. On the skis, as on the mat, learning lived in the body as much as the mind.
The snow melts, seasons change, and I’m back in warm Thailand, reflecting and writing. Nothing stays still, and the practice of noticing remains. Svādhyāya isn’t confined to philosophy or yoga mats; it’s present whenever you pause and recognize yourself in the act of learning. In the end, your life itself is the greatest self-study.
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