I still remember one evening in Rishikesh, though at first there was nothing special about it. The day had been long and messy—too many half-finished conversations, too much rushing from one thing to another. By the time dusk came, I felt worn out in that way where both body and mind are tired but neither will rest.
So, without much thought, I walked down toward the river. The air had cooled just enough to make me pull my shawl tighter. Somewhere far away, a temple bell rang, the sound carrying into the steady rush of the Ganga. I stopped, listened, breathed. And then, when I looked up, I saw it—the moon, rising slowly above the trees. Not full, but glowing enough to turn the water silver.
Something in me softened. And instead of the usual fire of Surya Namaskara, I felt drawn toward its gentler sister, Chandra Namaskara—the moon salutation.
The feeling of moon practice
The sun salutations always feel like a spark, like a way to kickstart the day. But the moon salutation? It’s different. It doesn’t push. It invites. It doesn’t heat you up. It cools you down.
That evening, I moved slowly, letting each breath guide me. My mat was laid on cool stone, and I could feel the texture beneath my feet. The faint smell of jasmine drifted over from a nearby garden. A dog barked in the distance, then silence again.
And the flow itself—side stretches, grounding lunges, gentle forward folds—felt like my body was exhaling. Not a workout, not a performance. Just a soft conversation with myself.
Why practice in the evening?
We carry so much through the day—stress, tension, the little stories our mind keeps replaying. By evening, the body doesn’t want more fire; it wants release. That’s where Chandra Namaskara fits in.
It soothes the nervous system. It stretches tired muscles without forcing them. It balances out all that fiery, go-go-go energy we spend during daylight.
For me, the biggest gift is how it slows the mind. After a round or two, I can actually hear my breath again. Sometimes I just sit there after the sequence, not meditating in any formal way, just… sitting. Watching the sky. And there’s this feeling, almost as if the moon has quietly slipped inside me, glowing in my chest.
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How to do Chandra Namaskara (a simple way)
If you’ve never tried it before, here’s one version you can practice. Keep it slow. Don’t worry about perfect alignment. Think of it more like moving prayer than exercise.
- Start standing tall (Tadasana). Feet firm on the ground, palms together at your chest. Take three deep breaths. Feel your feet, feel the earth.
- Inhale, raise your arms overhead. Stretch gently, as if you’re reaching for the moon.
- Exhale, fold forward. Let your arms hang. Neck soft. Release the day down to the floor.
- Step your right leg back into a lunge. Hands on the mat, chest open. Breathe into your hips.
- Shift sideways into a wide stance. Bend one knee, stretch the other. Flow side to side, like you’re moving with water.
- Come into Goddess Pose. Knees bent, feet wide, palms at the heart. Stay here. Feel grounded, like a mountain at night.
- Shift into a lunge on the other side. Left leg back this time, chest open, steady breath.
- Step forward into a fold. Let go of everything that’s heavy.
- Inhale, rise slowly, arms overhead. Imagine pulling moonlight into your body.
- Exhale, return to standing, palms at the chest. Quiet. Still.
That’s one round. Do as many as feels right—three, five, maybe more if you enjoy the rhythm.
When you finish, sit or lie down for a few minutes. No rush. Just close your eyes and imagine the moonlight above you flowing down, washing through your body. Cool, soft, steady. Let it settle in your heart.
To me, this is what Chandra Namaskara teaches most clearly—that balance matters. The sun has its fire, yes, but the moon has its peace. Life needs both. Strength and softness. Heat and coolness. Doing and resting.
So, the next time your day feels too sharp or your mind too restless, try this practice. Roll out your mat in the quiet of evening. Move gently. Breathe slowly. Look up once in a while and let the moon remind you—peace is already here, waiting.
That night in Rishikesh taught me something I carry to this day: sometimes, it isn’t the fire that saves us, but the cool glow of the moon.
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