Vulnerable and invincible

The Cycle of New Beginnings:

Ashtanga Yoga and the Tradition of Rest

Tuesday, February 17 — New Moon

Approximate time: 13:01 (mainland Spain time)

Annular solar eclipse in some regions of the Southern Hemisphere.

The new moon represents the moment when nothing is visible, yet something begins to take shape. It is the silent beginning, the point where an intention is planted without guarantees. That is also where courage is born: when you choose to expose yourself without knowing what will happen.

Luz y oscuridad

In the tradition of Ashtanga Yoga, practitioners rest from the practice on new moon and full moon days. These moments of the month, along with other dates marked in the lunar calendar, were already considered in Vedic times as auspicious for specific rituals, introspection, and spiritual observance, as well as days of pause from certain everyday activities. More than a rigid rule, this rest is understood as a way of harmonizing practice with natural rhythms, recognizing that the body and mind also move through cycles of expansion and withdrawal. In this sense, stopping on these dates is not an interruption of the path, but part of the practice itself: a reminder that rest, observation, and stillness are also part of the process of transformation.

Although we often associate the Moon with emotions, intuition, or inner changes, its clearest and most measurable influence is physical: its gravity moves the waters of the oceans and gives rise to the tides that shape the rhythm of coastlines around the planet. In human beings, however, science has not found solid evidence that lunar phases directly affect our behavior or emotional state, beyond some slight indications related to sleep or biological rhythms. It is also true that science, by its very nature, tends to measure only what can be quantified, and sometimes leaves aside more subtle dimensions of human experience, such as symbolic perception, inner rhythms, or the psychological impact of natural cycles. The absence of evidence is not always evidence of absence, and between scientific certainty and personal experience lies a wide territory where many people continue to find meaning. Perhaps that is why the Moon remains, beyond an astronomical phenomenon, a powerful symbol of cycles, transformation, and renewal—a poetic mirror of our own inner processes.

The courage to begin in the dark

The inner new moon

The new moon cannot be seen. It does not shine, it does not stand out, it does not call attention. It is a silence in the sky, an apparent emptiness.

And yet, that is where everything begins.

We have been taught to celebrate what is visible: achievements, light, results, happy endings. But almost no one talks about the moment before that. That uncomfortable and fragile instant in which you decide to begin something without feeling ready.

The moment when you:

• say what you feel,

• share an idea,

• change direction,

• or show yourself as you truly are.

That instant brings no applause. It offers no guarantees. It carries no light.

It is an inner new moon.

That is where vulnerability appears: when you take a step without knowing if there will be ground beneath you. When you expose yourself without armor. When you choose honesty instead of perfection.

And though it may feel like weakness, it is in fact the exact point where courage is born.

Nothing invincible begins as strong.

Everything that endures, grows, or blossoms… was first small, uncertain, and almost invisible.

Like the new moon.

Perhaps today you don’t need big decisions or radical changes. Perhaps you only need to plant a simple, honest intention. Something small, but true.

Because everything invincible begins in a moment of darkness where someone decides to try.

The perfection of the imperfect

We may not know with certainty to what extent the Moon influences our bodies or emotions, but we do feel that rhythms exist, both within and around us. Tradition, observation, and personal experience have recognized for centuries these cycles of expansion and withdrawal, of action and rest. Perhaps it is not about blindly obeying the Moon, but about using it as an invitation: a visible reminder that we can be both vulnerable and invincible, learning to listen to our own rhythms, honoring our pauses, and allowing ourselves to grow from stillness.

According to Sāṃkhya and the teachings of Patañjali, all of nature and our own minds are composed of three guṇas: sattva (clarity, harmony, and balance), rajas (activity, passion, and movement), and tamas (inertia, darkness, and resistance).

These qualities coexist at all times, interacting in ways that may create friction or conflict, but that always point toward a natural equilibrium (sāmya).

It is precisely this tension between opposites that drives our growth: rajas moves us to act and create, tamas invites us to rest and reflect, and sattva helps us integrate both energies, allowing the cycle of expansion and withdrawal to become harmonious and conscious.

Recognizing our emotions, our vulnerabilities, and our strengths is a way of tuning into these inner rhythms and into the natural tendency toward balance that the guṇas describe.

To be vulnerable does not weaken us; to be invincible does not mean the absence of friction.

By honoring the interaction of these forces within us, we learn to cultivate our own rhythm, to respect cycles of action and pause, and to blossom even amid the tension that characterizes life itself., y a florecer incluso en medio de la tensión que caracteriza la vida misma.