There is a principle in yoga philosophy that does not get talked about as much as the more dramatic ones, but that has a way of quietly rearranging how you live.
It is called aparigraha. It is usually translated as non-grasping, or non-possessiveness – the fifth of the yamas, Patanjali’s ethical guidelines for how we move through the world. At its simplest it means: take what you need. Don’t accumulate beyond that. Hold things lightly.
This sounds manageable until you begin to notice how often you don’t do it.
What Grasping Actually Looks Like
Aparigraha in its most obvious form is about material accumulation – the things we acquire and keep beyond any real usefulness, the purchases made from restlessness rather than need. But Patanjali’s understanding of it goes further than the physical.
We grasp at experiences: wanting every good moment to last, resisting the ordinary ones. We grasp at outcomes: the pose we feel we should be achieving by now, the version of ourselves we were certain we would be at this age. We grasp at identity: the story we tell about what kind of person we are, what we are capable of, what we are not.
None of this is unusual. It is, in many ways, the default condition of the busy human mind. But yoga invites a question: what would it feel like to hold all of this a little more lightly?
Santosha: The Companion Practice
Running alongside aparigraha is another of the niyamas: santoṣha, contentment. Not happiness as a mood, not optimism as a stance – but a settled quality of being at ease with what is actually present, rather than in constant negotiation with what is not.
These two practices are related. The grasping mind is rarely content; it is always oriented toward what is missing, what needs to change, what would make things better. The practice of non-grasping creates the conditions in which contentment becomes possible. Not by lowering expectations or suppressing ambition, but by loosening the grip of constant wanting.
In a culture that runs on more – more productivity, more improvement, more optimisation – this is genuinely counter-cultural. It is also, for many people who come to yoga in midlife, one of the most quietly radical things the practice offers.
Simplicity As a Practice
Simplicity in the yogic sense is not austerity for its own sake. The relevant concept in the Yoga Sutras is tapas – often translated as discipline or effort – which is about the willingness to do the necessary and let go of the unnecessary. Simplicity emerges naturally from this: when you are clear about what matters, the things that do not tend to fall away.
This can apply to very practical things. The yoga practice that has become overcomplicated – too many poses, too many variations, the constant search for something new – often benefits from a return to the basics. The simple pose, well attended to. The breath, followed carefully. The quality of attention brought to an ordinary Tuesday morning.
It can also apply to how we talk to ourselves. The mental complexity of self-criticism, endless self-monitoring, the perpetual gap between where we are and where we think we should be – this is its own kind of accumulation. Aparigraha applies here too. Take what is useful. Release the rest.
The Body Knows Something About This
One of the things a regular physical practice reveals is how much unnecessary effort we carry.
In a pose, the instruction to find the minimum necessary engagement – to hold the shape with exactly what is needed and no more – often produces a noticeable release. The braced jaw. The gripped hands. The held breath. None of these are helping. They are the body’s version of grasping: holding on as though letting go might mean falling apart.
When students begin to notice this – to feel the difference between useful effort and habitual bracing – something useful happens. The practice becomes more sustainable, more spacious, more enjoyable. And there is a direct parallel with how the same pattern shows up in daily life.
Living It: Small Things
Yoga philosophy does not ask for grand gestures. It asks for attention in ordinary moments.
Aparigraha might mean noticing the impulse to purchase something and asking whether you actually need it, or whether you are simply restless. Santoṣha might mean finding one moment in a busy day to appreciate what is already good, without reaching immediately for what could be better.
Neither of these is complicated. What makes them a practice rather than an idea is the repetition – the daily returning to the same questions, the same invitations, in the ordinary circumstances of a regular life.
Simplicity, in this sense, is not about having less. It is about wanting less, grasping less, being less tyrannised by the gap between what is and what we wish were different. It is a quieter way of moving through the world.
Most people who have practised for a while find that this quality accumulates gradually, in ways that are hard to attribute to any single moment. They notice that they are less easily rattled. That decisions feel less fraught. That there is slightly more space between a feeling and a reaction to it.
Patanjali would not have been surprised. This is exactly what he said the practice would do.
For the tradition and philosophy behind these ideas, the Philosophy section goes deeper.
If you’d like to explore these ideas further, Still & Steady provides an introduction to yoga philosophy for everyday life.