Yogic Lullaby Music

śuddho'si buddho'si nirañjano'si
saṃsāra-māyā-parivarjito'si |
saṃsāra-svapnaṃ tyaja moha-nidrāṃ
madālasollāpam uvāca putram || 1 ||

śuddho'si re tāta na te'sti nāma
kṛtaṃ hi te kalpanayādhunaiva |
pañcātmakaṃ deham idaṃ tavaitan
naivāsya tvaṃ rodiṣi kasya hetoḥ || 2 ||

na vā bhavān roditi vai svajanmā
śabdo'yam āsādya mahīśa-sūnum |
vikalpyamānā vividhā guṇās te
'guṇāś ca bhautāḥ sakalendriyeṣu || 3 ||

bhūtāni bhūtaiḥ paridurbalāni
vṛddhiṃ samāyānti yatheha puṃsaḥ |
annāmbu-pānādibhir eva kasya
na te'sti vṛddhir na ca te'sti hāniḥ || 4 ||

tvaṃ kañcuke śīryamāṇe nije'smiṃs
tasmiṃś ca dehe mūḍhatāṃ mā vrajethāḥ |
śubhāśubhaiḥ karmabhir deham etan
madādi-mūḍhaiḥ kañcukas te pinaddhaḥ || 5 ||

tāteti kiñcit tanayeti kiñcid
ambeti kiñcid dayiteti kiñcit |
mameti kiñcin na mameti kiñcit
tvaṃ bhūta-saṅghaṃ bahu mānayethāḥ || 6 ||

duḥkhāni duḥkhopagamāya bhogān
sukhāya jānāti vimūḍha-cetāḥ |
tāny eva duḥkhāni punaḥ sukhāni
jānāty avidvān suvimūḍha-cetāḥ || 7 ||

yānaṃ kṣitau yāna-gataṃ ca dehaṃ
dehe'pi cānyaḥ puruṣo niviṣṭaḥ |
mamatva-buddhir na tathā yathā sve
dehe'timātraṃ bata mūḍhataiṣā || 8 ||

Dear friend, let me ask you something gently.

When did someone last sing you to sleep?

For most of us it was very long ago. We grew up, and the lullabies stopped. But the crying did not stop. It only moved inside. Now the body lies down at night, tired and ready, and the mind sits up and begins. What if this happens. Why did I say that. How will I manage tomorrow. It is the same small child, awake in the dark, and nobody is coming to the cradle.

If this is you, please hear me. Nothing is wrong with you. A crying child is not a bad child. It is a child who needs a calm voice.

A mother does not argue with a crying baby. She does not explain. She picks the child up and sings. The eight verses above are such a song, and I have named this recording "Yogic Lullaby Music". I want to share it with you, and tell you in the simplest way how each verse can help in an ordinary day. It plays softly beside me in my six hours of Trataka Yoga, while my eyes rest on a single point.

This is a lullaby from a very old Sanskrit book, the Mārkaṇḍeya Purāṇa. A mother named Madālasā sings it to her baby son, who is crying in the cradle.

What I love is that it is not an ordinary lullaby. An ordinary lullaby says, "Sleep, my child, sleep." This mother says something kinder. She says, "You are all right. Look, there is nothing here to cry about." The body is rocked to rest, and the mind is gently woken up clear. That is why I call it a yogic lullaby. It settles the body and clears the head in the same breath.

These verses go very deep, and for centuries people have read them in very deep ways. Here I stay with their simplest use: an easier body, a quieter head, a little less worry, a little more freedom in the day.

You do not need any belief to listen to this. You do not need to know Sanskrit, and you do not need to belong to any path. A baby does not understand one word of its mother's song, and still it stops crying.

This is how I hear it each day, while I gaze softly at a point twelve finger-widths in front of my nose, in my Trataka Yoga.

Download Yogic Lullaby Music here

You can listen to the above recording in three ways.

The first is the way I listen myself. Let it play softly, and let your gaze settle gently on a single point, with no strain at all. A baby stops crying when its eyes find the mother's face and stay there. In the same way the eyes rest on one point, the ears rest on the song, and the worry slowly lets go.

The second way is the way of every lullaby. Lie down at night, keep the volume very low, close your eyes, and let it play. You do not have to follow the words or do anything at all. If you fall asleep in the middle, the song has done its work.

The third way is to sing or hum it. Sing it to your child, to someone unwell in the house, or to yourself. Follow the verses at the top of this page, slowly, one line at a time. A lullaby is never judged by the voice.

Keep the volume low, softer than you think you need. The player repeats by itself, so you can stay as long as you like. Even five minutes is a good beginning.

For myself, I let it play quietly while I gaze at a single point, and that is my Trataka Yoga.

Let me walk through them the way I use them. Each verse is one thing a calm mother says, and one small thing you can do today.

1. You are already all right. The first verse is the mother's opening line to her crying child: you are clean (śuddha), you are clear (buddha), nothing has stained you (nirañjana). Then she says, leave this dream, come out of the sleep of confusion (moha-nidrā). Worry is very much like a dream. At three in the morning a small problem looks like a tiger. In daylight it is a cat. When my mind begins its "what if, what if", I say her line to myself: you are all right, this is a dream, wake up. Then I do one waking thing. I feel both feet on the floor, or I name three things I can see in the room. Muddy water was clean before the mud, and it is clean again when the mud settles. When I rest my eyes on one point, the dream thins out, and what is actually in front of me comes back.

2. The names came later. In the second verse she says: child, you have no name. It was given to you just now, out of imagination (kalpanā). This body made of five elements is yours, so what are you crying for? A baby arrives with no label at all. Lazy, anxious, failure, too much, not enough: these were stuck on later, like price tags, and a tag can be peeled off. When the mind says "I am an anxious person", try saying "worry is visiting just now". Then come to the body through its five elements. Feel its weight on the chair, the moisture in the mouth, the warmth in the hands, the breath moving, and the space around you. And ask her question kindly: what exactly am I crying about? Often the reason is much smaller than the crying. At my point, for a while, I have no name to live up to, only two eyes resting.

3. A feeling is weather passing through. The third verse says the crying is a sound that rises by itself, and that the qualities we imagine in ourselves, pleasant and unpleasant, live in the senses. I use this every day. A feeling is first a happening in the body: a tight chest, a hot face, a knot in the stomach. Only afterwards do we build a story on it. Thunder is loud, but it is only weather. So when worry comes, find where it sits in the body, and watch it the way you watch rain from a window. A sound that is only heard fades away. A sound that is argued with grows louder. Notice also that she calls the crying baby a prince. Keep that much dignity for yourself on the days you cry. As I gaze, thoughts rise and pass like sounds from the street, and my eyes stay where they are.

4. Feed the body, and leave your worth alone. The fourth verse says the body is built and kept up by food and water, and that for you there is neither growth nor loss. I take two things from it. First, a great deal of mental noise is only the body asking for something simple. Before believing a dark thought, I check: have I eaten, have I had water, have I slept, have I moved today? A drooping plant is not sad. It is thirsty. Second, the weighing scale goes up and down, strength comes and goes, and good days and bad days take turns. Your worth does not go up and down with them. The moon looks thin one week and full the next, and it is the same moon. I notice that a body which has been fed and watered kindly sits still and gazes without any fight.

5. Wear the body like a well-loved coat. The fifth verse says: do not fall into confusion over this body, which wears out like a coat (kañcuka). This coat has been stitched on you by your actions, good and bad. Every body ages. A grey hair comes, a knee begins to complain, the face in the mirror changes. We can lose years to panic in front of that mirror, and this is the confusion the mother warns against. A favourite old coat is softer and warmer than a new one. Mend it, wash it, keep it out of the rain, and do not weep over every loose thread. The stitching is the good news. Today's body was stitched by yesterday's sleep, food, walking and words, so every small good act is a fresh stitch: one glass of water, one early night, ten minutes of walking. Sitting quietly and gazing at one point is the stitch I add every day.

6. Many names, one regard. The sixth verse says: some you call father, some child, some mother, some beloved. Some you call mine, and some not mine. Hold this whole gathering in high regard. Through one day we wear many hats, and all day long the mind keeps sorting: mine and not mine, my side and their side. Much of our noise is this sorting. My child's exam keeps me awake, and the neighbour's child's exam does not. A scratch on my car spoils the evening, and a scratch on another car is nothing. For one hour today, give whoever is in front of you the same regard, the delivery boy as much as your own cousin. A mind with fewer fences to guard becomes quiet. At my point there is no mine and no not mine, only looking, and I get up a little gentler with everyone.

7. The comfort that bites back. The seventh verse says a confused mind reaches for comfort in the very things that bring pain, and then takes that pain for pleasure all over again. We all know this one. The phone at midnight, to calm down. The third cup of coffee, for tiredness. Something sweet, for sadness. Working late, to escape the worry about work. It is like scratching an itch: sweet for a moment and sore for an hour. This verse is not asking for guilt. It asks for one mindful question before the hand reaches out: will this still feel like comfort tomorrow morning? If yes, enjoy it fully. If not, try a slower comfort: warm water, a short walk, a song, a friend. Resting my eyes on one point is the slowest comfort I know, and it leaves no soreness behind.

8. Be the calm driver. The last verse gives a picture. A cart stands on the ground. The body sits in the cart, and inside the body sits the one who steers. Yet nobody clings to a cart the way we cling to the body, she says, and she calls that clinging a little foolish. A good driver looks after the car. He services it, fills the fuel, washes it, and does not faint over a scratch. This is care without panic. Let a pimple, a grey hair or a bad photograph be a scratch on the paint. And the driver has to be awake. When the mind is noisy the car drives itself: it reacts, it snaps, it speeds. Mindfulness is only the driver taking the wheel again, with one slow breath before answering and one pause before reacting. In my sitting, with my eyes on one point, the driver wakes up, and I drive the rest of the day more gently.

This is what the eight verses do for me, day after day, as they play beside me while I gaze at one point in my Trataka Yoga.

You may feel the limbs grow heavy and warm. The jaw may loosen, and a long breath may come out by itself. You may yawn. You may fall asleep, and that is perfectly fine. That is what lullabies are for.

Some days tears may come. Let them come. A child often cries a little more just before it settles.

And some days you may feel nothing at all, and the mind will go on talking right through the song. That is fine too. No mother stops singing because the baby took a long time. Come back tomorrow.

One loving word of care. I say "heal" and "ease", and I do not say "cure". What I share comes from my own practice and from my students, and it is not medically verified. If worry or sleeplessness stays with you and does not lift, please see a doctor or someone trained to help. This song will happily sit beside that help. It does not replace it.

I go gently with myself too. When I sit with this song, gazing softly at one point in my Trataka Yoga, I let whatever comes take its own time.

Dear one, the child in you was never asking for answers. It only wanted to hear a calm voice say, "You are all right."

Come back to this song whenever the mind will not settle, at night before sleep or in the middle of a hard day, for five minutes or for an hour. It is my small gift to you.

And if you feel like it, write here in the reply and tell me how it was for you. I would love to hear.

I will be here, listening to the same eight verses, my eyes on one point, in my six hours of Trataka Yoga.

With love, Trataki.