Om, What the sound points to

Om is often described as the primordial sound from which the entire universe emerged. Yet this understanding largely rests on a simplification. By returning to the meaning of the term pranava, it becomes clear that it does not merely refer to a syllable to be repeated, but to a deeper reality — a resonance already present.

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Summary: Om is often described as the primordial sound from which the entire universe emerged. Yet this understanding largely rests on a simplification. By returning to the meaning of the term pranava, it becomes clear that it does not merely refer to a syllable to be repeated, but to a deeper reality — a resonance already present. Some traditions speak of an inner, unproduced sound — anāhata — that can be perceived through attentive listening. In this light, Om is less a formula to repeat than an indication pointing toward a direct experience.

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We often hear that Om is the primordial sound, the original vibration from which the entire universe was created. This idea is widespread in spiritual circles as well as in various religious and yogic traditions. It has become almost self-evident, to the point that it is rarely questioned.

And yet, a simple question can be asked: what are we really referring to when we pronounce this sound?

A symbol… or an indication?

Om is often used as a mantra, a syllable repeated in the hope of drawing closer to the divine. This practice rests on a sincere belief: that there is something in this sound — a power, a capacity to connect with what is essential.

Everyone holds the faith they can. But faith does not prevent us from looking more closely at what this symbol actually points to.

It may be that Om, in itself, is not what we believe we are touching when we repeat it, but simply a way of naming it.

The term pranava

In ancient texts, particularly the Yoga Sūtras, we find the word pranava. This term is very often understood as directly referring to Om.

Yet if we pause for a moment and look at the word itself, we find a richness of meaning that goes beyond this simple equivalence.

Derived from the root pra-nu, it evokes the idea of praise, resonance, a rising vibration. It does not primarily designate a syllable, but a movement — something that sounds, that manifests, that expresses.

Within tradition, this term has been associated with Om. This association exists, and it is ancient. But it does not exhaust the meaning of the word.

In other words, while Om may be understood as the name of pranava, what it points to cannot be reduced to that name alone.

What is already taking place

If we set aside representations for a moment, another approach becomes possible. Pranava can be understood as a fundamental resonance, something that does not need to be produced, but is already there.

It would no longer be a sound we create, but a sound we recognize. Not a produced sound, arising from an action or repetition, but a sound already present — what some traditions have called the “unstruck sound”, anāhata.

From this perspective, the breath may appear as a first approach, in that it reveals a continuity that does not depend on effort. But this is not the essential point.

What certain traditions point to more precisely, especially in nāda yoga, is not the sound of breathing, nor the beating of the heart, nor any ordinary biological phenomenon.

It is an inner sound, perceived when attention turns inward — a sound that does not seem to be produced, and that we do not create.

Some classical haṭha yoga texts describe this listening: in silence, with the ears gently closed, various sounds may arise — like birdsong, a flute, a bell, or a gong — not generated intentionally, but emerging on their own. One such description can be found in the Gheraṇḍa Saṃhitā (17th century), in the chapter on prāṇāyāma (verses 77–81).

These sounds are called anāhata, meaning unstruck, unproduced.

Thus, what is sometimes referred to as pranava may be understood not as a sound to be emitted, but as a reality already present, perceptible through this inner listening.

The risk of simplification

Over time, what was once a living indication can become an object.

Om, understood as a syllable to be repeated, may then be mistaken for the very reality it points to. The symbol replaces what it was meant to indicate.

In the same way, certain interpretations have given Om a precise symbolic meaning — such as associating the letters A, U, and M with creation, preservation, and dissolution, in relation to the Trimūrti. These interpretations exist, and they have their coherence. But they belong to a symbolic level.

They should not make us forget that what is at stake may be simpler, and more direct.

Returning to experience

This is not about rejecting Om, nor about dismissing the traditions that use it. It is about not stopping at the form. For what pranava points to — whatever name we give it — does not depend on repetition.

It is something that can be recognized, rather than produced. Like a background sound we do not hear until we pay attention — yet one that has never ceased to be present.

A simple indication

In this light, the question changes. It is no longer about which sound to repeat, or how many times to repeat it.

It is about seeing whether there is not already a form of continuous presence, a subtle resonance accompanying life — and attention itself.

Om may then be understood for what it perhaps is: not a formula to produce, but an indication. And like any indication, it only has meaning if it leads to what it points to.

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