The Gating Mechanism (Pratyahara)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
Patanjali, in that mud-brick room, Himalayan foothills, 200 BCE.
You sat on rough straw, knees pressing into the weave.
The air at 15 degrees Celsius, cooling as the sun dipped.
Damp earth scent rising after rain, sandalwood smoke curling from the lamp.
You drew the senses in, like a tortoise pulling limbs into its shell.
Clay bowl beside you, untouched water still as glass.

[Chorus]
Gating mechanism, neural filter in the thalamus.
Pratyahara, withdrawal from the roar outside.
I hold this wooden mala, beads worn smooth by thumbs.
Each one a gate, closing on the world's pull.
Sensory flood held back, mind's quiet command.

[Verse 2]
Evening transition, late afternoon light fading.
Woolen shawl over shoulders, coarse fibers against skin.
You recited Sutra 2.54, senses following the mind's nature.
No contact with objects, supreme mastery.
In the brain's channels, ion gates snap shut.
Irrelevant noise filtered, focus sharpens.
Tortoise shell, ancient armor against distraction.

[Bridge]
What if we addressed the shell itself?
Hard curve under fingers, Patanjali's metaphor alive.
Withdraw, little one, into your carapace.
Let the foothills' wind pass unheard.
Neural pathways mimic you, gating the storm.

[Verse 3]
Ashram quiet, straw mat your only throne.
Oil lamp flickering, shadows on mud walls.
Students unnamed, their breaths syncing with yours.
Lost voices, women in the margins, practicing unseen.
Yet the tortoise teaches all, limbs folding in.
Thalamic relay, sensory guard at the door.

[Chorus]
Gating mechanism, neural filter in the thalamus.
Pratyahara, withdrawal from the roar outside.
I hold this wooden mala, beads worn smooth by thumbs.
Each one a gate, closing on the world's pull.
Sensory flood held back, mind's quiet command.

[Outro]
Patanjali, your tortoise lingers in the wiring.
200 BCE to now, the gates still hold.