by Dan Millman
“No, sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry at all. As I walked away, I thought, “Get a job.” Then vague guilts came into my mind; I’d said no to a penniless beggar. Angry thoughts arose. “He shouldn’t walk up to people like that!”
I was halfway down the block before I realized all the mental noise I had tuned in to, and the tension it was causing — just because some guy had asked me for money and I’d said no. In that instant I let it go. Feeling lighter, I took a deep breath, shook off the tension, and turned my attention to the beautiful day.
That night at the station I told Socrates my news.
“Soc, I’m flying down to L.A. in a few days to visit my folks, maybe buy a motorcycle. Hey, and I just learned this afternoon that the U.S. Gymnastics Federation is flying Sid and me to Yugoslavia to train with the gymnasts competing in the World Gymnastics Championships. They think we’re both potential Olympians and want us to get some exposure. How about that?”
To my surprise, Socrates frowned. “What will be, will be.”
Feeling high, I chose to ignore this and started out the door. “Well, bye for now. See you in a few weeks.”
“In a few hours,” he responded. “Meet me at Ludwig’s fountain. Noon.”
Wondering what was up, I said good night.
I got six hours’ sleep and ran to the fountain named after a dog who used to frequent the spot. Several canines were romping and splashing there, cooling off from the August heat; a few little kids were wading in the shallow water.
Just as the Campanile, Berkeley’s famous bell tower, began to chime the noon hour, Soc’s shadow appeared at my feet. “Let’s walk,” he said. We strolled up through campus, past Sproul Hall, beyond the optometry school and Cowell Hospital, up beyond the football stadium, into the hills of Strawberry Canyon.
Finally, he spoke. “For you, Dan, a conscious process of transformation has begun. There’s no going back. To try and do so would end in... well, no sense talking about that. I need to know that you’re committed.”
“You mean like in an institution?” I tried to joke.
He grinned. “Something like that.”
We walked silently after that, in the shade of the overgrown bushes along the running trail.
High above the city, Socrates spoke again. “No one can help you beyond a certain point, Dan. I’ll be guiding you for a while, but then even I must step back, and you will be alone. You will be tested severely before it’s done. You’ll need great inner strength. I only hope it comes in time.”
The mild bay breeze had stopped and the air was hot; still, I felt a chill. Shivering in the heat, I watched a lizard scurrying through the underbrush. Soc’s last few words had just registered. I turned —
He was gone.
Frightened, without knowing why, I hurried back down the trail. I didn’t know it then, but my preparations had ended. And my training was about to begin with an ordeal I almost didn’t survive.
BOOK TWO
THE WARRIOR’S TRAINING
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SWORD IS SHARPENED
After storing my Valiant in a rented garage, I boarded the “F” bus to San Francisco, connecting with Airport Transit, which got caught in a traffic jam. It looked as if I’d be late for my flight. Anxious thoughts began to arise; I felt my belly tense — then, as soon as I noticed it, I let it all go as I’d been trained. I relaxed and enjoyed the scenery along Bayshore Freeway, reflecting on my growing mastery over stressful thoughts, which had habitually plagued me in the past. And as it turned out, I caught my plane with seconds to spare.
Dad, an older version of me with thinning hair, wearing a bright blue sport shirt over his muscular chest, met me at the airport with a strong handshake and a warm smile. Mom’s face crinkled sweetly as she greeted me at the door of their apartment with hugs and kisses and news about my sister and nieces and nephews.
That evening I was treated to one of Mom’s latest piano pieces — Bach, I think it was. The next morning at dawn, Dad and I were out on the golf course. All the while, I’d been tempted to tell them about my adventures with Socrates, but thought better of silence. Perhaps I’d explain it all in writing someday. It was good to visit home, but home now seemed so long ago and far away.
When Dad and I were sitting in the sauna at the gym after our golf game, he said, “Danny, college life must agree with you. You seem different — more relaxed, nicer to be around — not that you weren’t nice to be around before... ” He was searching for the right words, but I understood.
I smiled. If he only knew.
A few days later, I found my motorcycle — a 500 cc Triumph. It took me a while to get comfortable with it. I almost fell twice, each time thinking I’d seen Joy coming out of a store or disappearing around a corner. I reminded myself to pay attention.
My final night in L.A. arrived; I took crash helmet in hand and left the house to shop for a new suitcase. I heard Dad call out, “Be careful, Dan, motorcycles are hard to see at night.” His usual caution.
“Sure, Dad, I’ll be careful,” I yelled back. Then I gunned the bike and pulled out into the warm night air, wearing my gymnastics T-shirt, faded Levi’s, and work boots. I felt on top of the world; there was so much to look forward to. My future was about to change, because at that moment, three blocks ahead, a man named George Wilson was preparing to make a left turn on Western Avenue.
I roared through the dusk; the streetlights flashed by as I approached Seventh and Western. I was about to enter the intersection when I noticed a white Cadillac facing me, signaling for a left turn. I slowed down — a small precaution that probably saved my life.
Just as my bike entered the intersection the Cadillac suddenly accelerated, turning directly in front of me. For a few more precious seconds, the body I was born with was still in one piece.
There was time enough to think, but not to act. “Cut left!” my mind screamed. But there was oncoming traffic. “Swerve right!” I’d never clear the fender. “Lay it down!” I’d slide under the wheels. My options were gone. I slammed on the brakes and waited. It was unreal, like a dream, until I saw a flashing image of the driver’s horrified face. With a terrible thud and the musical sound of tinkling glass, my bike smashed into the car’s front fender — and my right leg shattered. Then everything sped up horribly as the world turned black.
I must have lost consciousness just after my body somersaulted over the car and crashed onto the concrete. I awoke to a moment of blessed numbness, then the pain began, like a searing, red-hot vise, squeezing and crushing my leg tighter and tighter until it became more than I could bear and I started to scream. I wanted it to stop; I prayed for unconsciousness. Faraway voices: “... just didn’t see him... ” “... parents’ phone number... ” “... take it easy, they’ll be here soon.”
Then I heard a faraway siren, and hands were removing my helmet, lifting me onto a stretcher. I looked down and saw the white bone sticking out through the torn leather of my boot. With the slam of the ambulance door, I suddenly recalled Soc’s words, “... you will be tested severely before it’s done.”
Seconds later, it seemed, I was lying on the X-ray table in the emergency room of L.A. Orthopedic Hospital. The doctor complained of fatigue. My parents rushed into the room, looking very old and very pale. That’s when reality caught up with me. Numb and in shock, I began to cry.
The doctor worked efficiently, snapping my dislocated toes back into place and sewing up my right foot. Later, in the operating room, his scalpel sliced a long red line deep into my flesh, cutting through the muscles that had worked for me so well. He removed bone from my pelvis and grafted it to the forty-odd fragments of my right thighbone. Finally, he hammered a narrow metal rod down the center of my bone from the hip, a kind of internal cast.
I was semiconscious for three days, in a drugged sleep that barely separated me from the agonizing, unrelenting pain. Sometime in the evening of the third day I awoke in darkness when I sensed someone quiet as a shadow,
sitting nearby.
Joy got up and knelt by my bedside, stroking my forehead as I turned away in shame. She whispered to me, “I came as soon as I heard.” I wished her to share my victories; she always saw me in defeat. I bit my lip and tasted tears. Joy gently turned my face to hers and looked into my eyes. “Socrates has a message for you, Danny; he asked me to tell you this story:”
I closed my eyes and listened intently.
An old man and his son worked a small farm, with only one horse to pull the plow. One day, the horse ran away.
“How terrible,” sympathized the neighbors. “What bad luck.”
“Who knows whether it is bad luck or good luck,” the farmer replied.
A week later, the horse returned from the mountains, leading five wild mares into the barn.
“What wonderful luck!” said the neighbors.
“Good luck? Bad luck? Who knows?” answered the old man.
The next day, the son, trying to tame one of the horses, fell and broke his leg.
“How terrible. What bad luck!”
“Bad luck? Good luck?”
The army came to all the farms to take the young men for war, but the farmer’s son was of no use to them, so he was spared.
“Good? Bad?”
I smiled sadly, then bit my lip as I was assaulted by another wave of pain.
Joy soothed me with her voice. “Everything has a purpose, Danny; it’s for you to make the best use of it.”
“How will I ever make use of this accident?”
“There are no accidents, Danny. Everything is a lesson. Trust your life. Everything has a purpose, a purpose, a purpose,” she repeated, whispering in my ear.
“But my gymnastics, my training... ”
“This is your training. Let the pain purify your mind and body. It will burn through many obstructions.” She saw the questioning look in my eyes, and added, “A warrior doesn’t seek pain, but if pain comes, he uses it. Now rest, Danny, rest.” She slipped out behind the entering nurse.
“Don’t go, Joy,” I muttered and fell into a deep sleep, remembering nothing more.
Friends visited and my parents came every day; but for most of twenty-one endless days I lay alone, flat on my back. I watched the white ceiling and meditated for hours, battered by thoughts of melancholy, self-pity, and futile hope.
On a Tuesday morning, leaning on new crutches, I stepped out into the bright September sunlight and hobbled to my parents’ car. I’d lost almost thirty pounds — my pants hung loosely on protruding hipbones and my right leg looked like a stick with a long purple scar down the side.
A fresh breeze caressed my face on this rare, smogless day. The wind carried flowered scents I’d forgotten; the chirping of birds in a nearby tree mixed with the sound of traffic created a symphony for my newly awakened senses. I stayed with my parents for a few days, resting in the hot sun and swimming slowly through the shallow end of the pool, painfully forcing my sutured leg muscles to work. I ate sparingly — yogurt, nuts, cheese, and fresh vegetables. I was beginning to regain my vitality.
Friends invited me to stay with them for a few weeks at their home in Santa Monica, five blocks from the beach. I accepted, welcoming the chance to spend more time in the open air.
Each morning I walked slowly to the warm sand, and, laying my crutches down, sat by the waves. I listened to the gulls and the surf, then closed my eyes and meditated for hours, oblivious to the world around me. Berkeley, Socrates, and my past seemed far away, in another dimension, another life.
Soon I began a program of exercise, slowly at first, then more intensely, until I was spending hours each day sweating in the hot sun, doing push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups. I carefully pressed up to handstands, then pumped up and down, again and again, puffing with exertion until every muscle had worked to its limit and my body glistened. Then I would hop on one leg into the shallow surf and sit dreaming of lofty somersaults until the salt water washed my sweat and soaring dreams into the sea.
I trained fiercely until my muscles were as hard and defined as a marble statue. I became one of the beach regulars who made the sea and sand their way of life. Malcolm the masseur would sit down on my blanket and tell jokes; Doc, the Rand Corporation think-tank whiz, would drop by my blanket every day and talk with me about politics and women, mostly women.
I had time to consider all that had happened to me since I’d met Socrates. I thought about life and its purpose, death and its mystery. And I thought about my mysterious teacher — his words, his animated expressions. Mostly though, I remembered his laughter.
The warmth of the October sun faded into November clouds. Fewer people came to the beach, and during this time of solitude, I enjoyed a peace I’d not felt for many years. I imagined staying on that beach the rest of my life, but knew I’d be going back to school after Christmas.
My doctor gave me the results of my X-rays. “Your leg is healing well, Mr. Millman — unusually well, I should say. But I caution you; don’t get your hopes up. The nature of your accident doesn’t make it likely that you’ll be able to do gymnastics again.” I said nothing.
Soon I said my farewells to my parents and boarded a flight back to Berkeley.
Rick picked me up at the airport; I stayed with him and Sid for a few days until I found a studio apartment near campus.
I created a daily routine until classes started: Each morning, gripping my crutches, I’d make my way to the gym, train on the weight machines, and fall exhausted into the swimming pool, where, assisted by the water’s buoyancy, I’d force my leg to the point of pain, trying to walk — always, always to the point of pain.
Afterward, I would lie on the pool deck, stretching my muscles to retain the suppleness I’d need for future training. Finally, I rested, reading in the library until I fell into a light sleep.
I had called Socrates to tell him I was back. He wasn’t much for talking on the phone and told me to visit him when I could walk without crutches. That was OK with me; I wasn’t ready to see him yet.
It was a lonely Christmas that year until Pat and Dennis, two of my teammates, knocked on my apartment door, grabbed me, and practically carried me down to the car. We drove toward Reno, up into the snow, and stopped at Donner Summit. While Pat and Dennis ran through the snow, wrestling, throwing snowballs, and sledding down the hill, I hobbled carefully through the frozen field and sat on a log.
My thoughts floated back to the coming semester, and to the gymnastics room. I wondered if my leg would ever heal straight and strong. Snow dropped from a branch, thudding with a slushy sound to the frozen ground, waking me from my reverie.
On the way home, Pat and Dennis were singing bawdy songs; I watched white crystals float down around us, glittering in our car’s lights as the sun began to set. I thought about my derailed future and wished that I could leave my whirling mind behind me, buried in a white grave beside the road in the snowy mountains.
Just after the holidays I made a brief visit to L.A. to see my doctor, who let me trade in my crutches for a shiny black cane. Then I headed back to school — and to Socrates.
It was Wednesday night at 11:40 P.M. when I limped through the doorway of the office and saw his radiant face. And I knew I was home again. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to sit and sip tea with my old mentor in the quiet of the night. It was a more subtle, and in many ways greater, pleasure than all my athletic victories. I looked at this man who had become my teacher and saw things I’d never seen before.
In the past I had noticed a light that seemed to encircle him, but I’d assumed it was only my tired eyes. I wasn’t tired now, and there was no doubt about it — it was a barely perceptible aura. “Socrates,” I said, “there’s a light shining around your body. Where does it come from?”
“Clean living,” he grinned. Then the bell clanged and he went out to make someone else laugh, under the pretext of servicing a car. Socrates dispensed more than gasoline. Maybe it was that aura, that energy or emotion. Anyway, people n
early always left happier than when they had arrived.
It wasn’t the glowing, however, that impressed me most about him; it was his simplicity, his economy of motion and of action. I hadn’t truly appreciated any of this before. It was as if I saw more deeply into Socrates with every new lesson I learned. As I came to see the complexities of my mind, I realized how he had already transcended his.
When he returned to the office I asked, “Socrates, where is Joy now? Will I see her again soon?”
He smiled as if glad to hear my questions again. “Dan, I don’t know where she is; that girl is a mystery to me — always was.”
I then told him about the accident and its aftermath. He listened quietly and intently, nodding his head.
“Dan, you’re no longer the young fool who walked into this office over a year ago.”
“Has it been a year? It seems like ten,” I joked. “Are you saying I’m no longer a fool?”
“No, only that you’re no longer young.”
“Hey, that’s real heartwarming, Soc.”
“Now you’re a fool with spirit, Dan. And that’s a very big difference. You still have a chance of finding the gate.”
“Gate?”
“The realm of the warrior is guarded by something like a gate. It is well hidden, like a monastery in the mountains. Many knock, but few enter.”
“Well, show me where it is. I’ll find a way in.”
“It’s not so simple, bumpkin. The gate exists inside you, and you alone must find it. But you’re not ready yet, not nearly ready. If you attempted to pass through the gate now, it would mean almost certain death. There’s much to be done before you’re prepared to pass through.”
When Socrates talked, it sounded like a pronouncement. “Dan, we’ve talked much; you’ve seen visions and learned lessons. Now it’s time you became fully responsible for your own behavior. To find the gate, you’ll have to follow — “
