Four Sanskrit words from yoga and Ayurveda, and what they’ve taught me about the way I care for myself.
There is a particular kind of quiet before the people I love wake up.
The coffee finishes brewing. The house is still dark. I wrap both hands around my mug and realize how far ahead of myself I’ve already traveled. I’m thinking about what I’m teaching, what the girls need, what I forgot to do yesterday. Then I take a sip. For a breath, I’m here.
I love this hour. I also love the moment the quiet breaks and one of my girls comes looking for me, still warm from sleep. Sometimes she climbs into my lap and I drink my coffee around her. Sometimes the coffee goes cold. Both are part of the morning I get to live.
When I think about what yoga and Ayurveda have given me, I think about moments like this. Years of practice have changed what I notice. I feel how my hand softens when it settles on my daughter’s back or clasps with my husbands. Later, I might be standing in my kitchen noticing when the last of the afternoon light moves across the kitchen, and how much earlier it happens this time of year.
One of the things I love about studying Sanskrit is how a word can send me back into an ordinary moment with more curiosity. I can be rubbing oil into my hands after washing the dishes and find myself thinking about love, about how readily I offer tenderness to my girls and husband and how good it feels to give a little of it to myself.
Four of my favorite Sanskrit words live in these moments. Svastha. Sneha. Dinacharya. Ritucharya. Each asks me to listen a little closer to the life I’m already in. And each brings me back to a question that runs through so much of my practice and teaching.
What does it feel like to be at home in yourself?
Svastha (स्वस्थ) | To be Deeply Rooted in the Self
Svastha brings together sva, meaning one’s own or oneself, and stha, meaning standing, situated, or abiding. The second part comes from the Sanskrit root sthā, “to stand” or “to remain.” The word can describe being in one’s natural state, being at ease, or being well. The way I hold it in my own practice is to be deeply rooted in the self, deeply established in the soul.
I love that a word for being well can also carry this sense of where you’re standing.
When I think about the beginning of my recovery and what drew me to yoga, I think about how much I needed somewhere to stand. The mat gave me a place to feel my feet and take a breath. I could be there for one inhale without knowing what to do with the rest of my life. I could come back the next day and see what was there then.
Years into a daily sadhana, I still recognize that feeling. Some days I sit down to practice and realize I’m angry about something I told myself was fine. Some days I hear how tired I am in the first sigh that comes out of me. I might have to change a plan or have a conversation I’ve been putting off. There’s a steadiness in giving what I hear enough weight to act on it.
That’s the part of svastha I keep coming back to. When I’m rooted in myself, I can be moved by life and still feel where my feet are. And when I’ve been pulled in a dozen directions, I can begin with the body I have, the breath I’m taking, and the truth I’m ready to hear today.
Sneha (स्नेह) | The Sanskrit Word for Oil and Love
Sneha comes from the Sanskrit root snih, whose meanings include being oily or moist and feeling affection. The noun sneha holds that range, too. It can mean oil, fat, or oiliness, and it can mean tenderness, affection, or love. In Ayurveda, snehana refers to oleation, the use of oily substances in external or internal care.
The first time I learned that oil and love could live inside the same word, I wanted to stay there for a while.
Think about what happens when you warm a little oil between your palms. Your hands move differently. They can linger over your knuckles, where the skin feels rough from washing dishes, or over the arch of a foot that’s carried you to this exact moment. There’s enough time to notice the places that are tender. If I’m doing this at the end of a full day, sometimes the surprise is how much I’ve missed the simple feeling of being touched with care.
I think of oil as one way love can become tangible. Oil gives the hands something to work with. Affection shapes the way they move. When I say oiling the body is a way of loving the body, that’s what I mean. I’m spending a little time with the parts of myself I spend all day asking to do things.
Abhyanga | Love Through the Hands
Abhyanga is Ayurvedic oil massage. I love a full-body oil massage when I have the time. On an ordinary night, it might be my hands after the dishes or my shoulders before a shower. I can feel where I’ve been holding myself up all day. I can choose to give those places a few slow passes with my hands. Classical Ayurvedic texts include abhyanga in daily care, which is part of what I find so beautiful about it. Touch belongs in the ordinary day.
Nasya | Attending to the Breath’s Doorway
Nasya is a traditional Ayurvedic practice of administering preparations through the nose. Some forms use oil. I think there’s something intimate about the attention Ayurveda gives to the places where we meet the world through our senses. The nose is where I first catch the smell of coffee, bread baking, or cold air coming in through the door. For oil-based nasya, I’d seek individualized guidance from a qualified clinician, since inhaling oil into the lungs can cause harm.
Sneha in the Kitchen | Love You Can Taste
There’s a place for this word at the stove, too. The Sanskrit compound sneha-pakva refers to something cooked or prepared with oil. Ayurveda also uses sneha for oily substances such as oil, butter and ghee. I love how readily this meaning fits into an ordinary meal. Think of spices blooming in a spoonful of ghee, butter soaking into warm sourdough, or roasted vegetables glossy enough that you reach for one straight from the pan. The fat carries flavor and changes the way the food feels in your body.
It’s easy for me to recognize love in a meal I make for my family. I’m still learning to feel the same pleasure in making something beautiful for myself. There’s a particular sweetness in taking out a bowl I love, spooning something warm into it, and sitting down long enough to taste it while it’s hot.
How Many Ways Can We Say Love?
You may have heard that Sanskrit has 96 words for love. I haven’t found a reliable count for that exact number. So much depends on what you count. Is the ache of longing a kind of love? Does the tenderness you feel for a child belong in the same family as the devotion you feel when you sing to the divine? I could sit with those questions for a long time.
Here are a few of the words I love spending time with. Their meanings overlap, and context gives each one its particular color.
Prema (प्रेम) can mean love or affection. It’s a word I think of when I want to speak simply about the love I feel for someone.
Prīti (प्रीति) can mean affection, pleasure, or delight. It makes me think of the smile that comes before I’ve even realized who’s at the door.
Anurāga (अनुराग) can mean affection, attachment, or passion. It’s related to rāga, a word with meanings that include color and passion. I love the image of being colored by what you love. Spend enough time with a person, a place, or a practice and you start to see traces of it in the way you live.
Vātsalya (वात्सल्य) names a parental kind of affection. It comes from vatsa, meaning “calf” and also used as a term of endearment for a child. I think of the way my hand finds the back of one of my girls when she climbs into my lap, almost before I’ve thought about moving it.
Bhakti (भक्ति) can mean devotion, including devotion to the divine. I feel its meaning most clearly when I’m singing with the harmonium and my attention settles into the sound. There’s a quality of offering in it that I love to sing only begins to express.
Sneha (स्नेह) brings us back to affection and oil. Even the compound sneha-bandha can speak of a bond of affection. I think of the gestures we repeat so often that they become part of how someone knows they’re loved. The hand holding someone you love. The coffee made the way you like it. The bowl set aside because someone knows you’ll be hungry when you get home.
I use the word love for my daughters, my husband, the harmonium, and a thick slice of sourdough. English lets me get more specific when I reach for fondness, devotion, desire, or tenderness. Where it feels spare to me is when I try to say sneha. If I translate it as oil, I lose the affection. If I translate it as love, I lose the oil. To keep both, I have to tell you a story about someone’s hands.
Dinacharya (दिनचर्या) | The Care We Return to Each Day
Dinacharya, written dinacaryā in Sanskrit transliteration, brings together dina, meaning “day,” and caryā, meaning “conduct” or “practice.” Caryā is related to the root car, “to move” or “to go about.” I like to hear that movement in the word. It makes me think about how I go about a day, from the moment my feet touch the floor to the moment I finally put down what I’m carrying.
In Ayurveda, dinacharya is a daily regimen intended to support well-being. Classical descriptions give time to oral care, movement, bathing, and oil massage. They also take into account the person’s age, strength, constitution, and the season. I find a lot of room for real life in that attention to the person actually doing the practice.
My daily sadhana has shown me one of the benefits of returning to the same practice over time. I get to know what ordinary feels like. Then I can recognize when something changes. I notice when I’m waking already braced for the day, when lunch keeps disappearing into the space between appointments, or when I’ve gone several evenings without a single moment of quiet. That familiarity gives me a chance to offer myself some care while I still have the energy to receive it.
A few places to explore dinacharya in your own life:
When you wake. Open the curtains and look at the sky while the coffee brews. Feel your feet on the floor. If you have a few more minutes, let your spine move or sit for a few breaths. Notice what pace feels natural before you pick up your phone.
Around midday. Give lunch a place in the day. Sit down if you can. A meal you can look forward to gives you a reason to pause, and the pause gives you a chance to notice how the morning has felt.
As the day winds down. Choose a gesture that helps you feel the evening begin. Wash your face, oil your hands, turn down the lamps, or lie back on a bolster for a few quiet breaths. After a day of teaching and tending to other people, I love having something that asks very little of me.
On the days that get away from you. Come back at the next moment you have. Sometimes the most meaningful part of a daily practice is discovering you can begin again at four in the afternoon.
Ritucharya (ऋतुचर्या) | Letting the Season Change the Way You Care for Yourself
Ritucharya, or ṛtucaryā, joins ṛtu, meaning “season,” with that same caryā, meaning “conduct” or “practice.” Dinacharya looks at how we live through a day. Ritucharya takes in the longer arc and asks how our food, movement, and rest might change as the world around us changes.
Classical Ayurveda describes six seasons and offers ways of adapting to the qualities each brings. One principle is that similar qualities can reinforce each other, and contrasting qualities can help restore balance. I find this easiest to understand by paying attention to what the weather feels like against my skin and what I’m already reaching for when I come back inside.
Here in Omaha, late fall can feel hot, cold, dry, wet and windy all in the same walk. My hands come home feeling tight. The light is fading while I’m thinking about dinner. I find myself wanting soup, oil on my skin, and an evening that ends a little earlier. By spring, after so many months indoors, I want to open a window and take my coffee out into the sun. There’s pleasure in following those shifts and noticing what they make possible.
When the air turns cold and dry, try warmth and moisture where they feel good. Make a pot of soup, add olive oil or butter to a warm meal, or take a few minutes for abhyanga before a shower. On the mat, see how it feels to move slowly enough to build warmth before settling into stillness.
When spring feels damp or heavy, see what changes when you step out for a brisk walk or start your morning with a flowing practice. I love the first weeks when I can leave a window cracked while I move and hear the neighborhood waking up.
When summer heat builds, move earlier if that feels better, give yourself shade in the middle of the day, or let your practice end with a longer rest. The long evening light might be an invitation to walk with someone you love.
One of the gifts of ritucharya is that it gives me permission to revisit what has always worked. The early class, the longer practice, the dinner we make every week. I can love a rhythm and feel it changing under my feet. Sometimes I can hear what the next season is asking of me in the simple fact that I’m ready to make something different for dinner.
A little Moon Dance Ritual for Coming Home
Tonight, after you wash your hands, leave yourself a minute at the sink. Warm a little oil between your palms. Rub it into your knuckles and the spaces between your fingers. Let one hand rest in the other.
Think of one thing your hands did today that nobody saw. Maybe they sliced an apple, steadied a child, or stayed on the steering wheel for an extra minute while you gathered yourself before going inside.
If you have a journal nearby, choose a question to sit with.
Svastha. When did I feel most at home in myself today? What helped me get there?
Sneha. What does tenderness feel like in my body? When was the last time I offered it to myself?
Love. What kind of love am I feeling right now? If I gave it a more precise name, what might I understand about it?
Dinacharya. Which moment in my day could I give a little more time or attention?
Ritucharya. What has changed outside my window? What am I ready to change with it?
Tomorrow morning, I’ll wrap my hands around my coffee again. Maybe one of my girls will come find me before I’ve taken a sip. If she does, I hope I feel the warmth of the mug, the weight of her against me, and the way my hand knows exactly where to go when she leans in.
