WAY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR: A Book That Changes Lives

by Dan Millman

  “Someone must have used the bathroom after I finished,” I said.

  “No excuses,” he said, and added, “Throw out the garbage.”

  I was so mad that I gripped my broom handle like a sword. “But I just threw the garbage out five minutes ago, Socrates. Do you remember, or are you getting senile?”

  He grinned. “I’m talking about this garbage, baboon!” He tapped his head and winked at me. The broom clattered to the floor.

  Another evening when I was sweeping the garage, Socrates called me into the office. I sat down, sullen, awaiting orders. “Dan, you still haven’t learned to breathe properly. Stop being so indolent and start concentrating.”

  That was the last straw — the one that broke the camel’s back. I screamed, “You’re the indolent one — I’ve been doing all your work for you!”

  He paused, and I actually thought I saw pain in his eyes. Softly he said, “It isn’t proper, Dan, to yell at your teacher.”

  Too late I remembered that the purpose of his insults had always been to show me my own pride and resistance, and had taught me to persevere. But before I could apologize, Soc said, “Dan it’s time we separated — at least for a time. You may come back once you have learned courtesy — and how to breathe properly. The one will help the other.”

  Sadly, I shuffled out, my head down, my world in darkness. Not until now had I realized how fond of him I had grown — and how grateful I felt. As I walked, I considered how patient he had been with my tantrums, complaints, and questions. I vowed never to yell at him in anger again.

  Alone now, I tried harder than ever to correct my tense patterns of breathing, but it only seemed to get worse. If I breathed deeply, I’d forget to relax my shoulders; if I remembered to relax, I’d slouch over.

  One week later, I went back to the station to see Soc and ask for his advice. I found him tinkering in the garage. He took one look at me and pointed to the door. Angry and hurt, I turned to limp off into the night. I heard his voice behind me. “After you learn how to breathe, do something about your sense of humor.” His laughter taunted me halfway home.

  When I reached the front steps of my apartment, I sat and gazed at the church across the street without really seeing anything in front of my eyes. I said to myself, “I’m going to quit this impossible training.” But I didn’t believe a word of it. I continued eating my salads, avoiding every temptation; I struggled doggedly with my breathing.

  Nearly a month later, in midsummer, I remembered the café. I’d been so busy with studies and gymnastics by day and with Soc at night that I hadn’t made time to visit Joseph. Now, I thought sadly, my nights were completely free. I walked to his café just at closing time. The place was empty; I found Joseph in the kitchen, carefully cleaning the fine porcelain dishes.

  We were so different, Joseph and I. I was short, muscular, athletic, with short hair and a clean-shaven face; Joseph was tall, lean, even fragile looking, with a soft, curly blond beard. I moved and talked quickly; he did everything with slow-motion care. In spite of our differences, or maybe because of them, I was drawn to him.

  We talked into the night as I helped him stack chairs and sweep the floors. Even as I talked, I concentrated as well as I could on my breathing, which made me drop a dish and trip over the carpet.

  “Joseph,” I asked, “did Socrates really make you go on 100-mile runs?”

  He laughed. “No, Dan. My temperament isn’t really suited for athletic feats. Didn’t Soc tell you? I was his cook and personal attendant for years.”

  “Soc rarely speaks about his past. How could you have been his attendant for years? You couldn’t be older than thirty-five.”

  Joseph beamed. “A bit older than that — I’m fifty-two.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He nodded. There certainly was something to all those disciplines.

  “But if you didn’t do much physical conditioning, what was your training?”

  “I was an angry, self-centered young man. And Soc kept asking me to do this, then that. I almost left many times, but I finally learned how to give, to help, to serve. He showed me the way to happiness and peace.”

  “What better place to learn how to serve,” I said, “than at a service station.”

  Smiling, Joseph said, “He wasn’t always a service station attendant, you know. His life has been extremely unusual and varied.”

  “Tell me about it!” I urged.

  Joseph paused. “Socrates will tell you in his own way, his own time.”

  “I don’t even know where he lives.”

  Scratching his head, Joseph said, “Come to think of it, I don’t either.”

  Hiding my disappointment, I asked, “Did you call him Socrates, too? It seems an unlikely coincidence.”

  “No, but his new name, like his new student, has spirit.” He smiled.

  “You said he made rigorous demands on you.”

  “Yes, very rigorous. Nothing I did was good enough — and if he caught me moping or grumbling, he would send me off for weeks.”

  “I guess I’m an expert at both,” I said. “He sent me away indefinitely.”

  “Why so?”

  “He said I had to stay away until I could breathe properly — whatever that means.”

  “Ah, that,” he said, putting down his broom. He came over to me and put one hand on my belly, one on my chest. “Now breathe,” he said.

  I started breathing slowly and deeply, the way Socrates had shown me. “No, don’t try so hard.” After a few minutes I started to feel funny in my belly and chest. They were warm inside, relaxed, and open. Suddenly I was crying like a baby, wildly happy and not knowing why. In that moment, I was breathing completely without effort; it felt like I was being breathed. It felt so pleasurable, I thought, Who needs to go to the movies to be entertained? I was so excited I could hardly contain myself! Then I felt the breathing start to tighten again.

  “Joseph, I lost it!”

  “Don’t worry, Dan. You just need to relax into life a little more. Now that you know what natural breathing feels like, you’ll let yourself breathe naturally, more and more, until it starts to feel normal. The breath is a bridge between mind and body, feeling and doing. Balanced, natural breathing brings you back to the present moment.”

  “Will that make me happy?”

  “That will make you sane,” he said.

  “Joseph,” I said, hugging him,”I don’t know how you did what you did, but thank you — thank you so much.”

  He flashed that smile that made me feel warm all over and putting away his broom said, “Give my regards to... Socrates.”

  My breathing didn’t improve right away. I still struggled. But one afternoon, on the way home from the weight room, I noticed that without my trying, my breathing was full and free

  — close to the way it felt at the café.

  That night I burst into the office, ready to regale Socrates with my success and apologize for my behavior. He looked like he’d been expecting me. As I skidded to a halt in front of him, he said calmly, “OK, let’s continue” — as if I’d just returned from the bathroom, rather than from six weeks of intensive training.

  “Have you nothing else to say, Soc? No, ‘Well done, lad,’ no ‘looking good’?”

  “There’s no praise and no blame on the path you’ve chosen. It’s time you blew into your own sails.”

  I shook my head in exasperation, then smiled. At least I was back.

  After that, when I wasn’t cleaning toilets, I was learning new and more frustrating exercises, like meditating on internal sounds until I could hear several at once. One night, as I practiced that exercise, I found myself drawn into a state of profound peace unlike any I’d known before. For a period of time

  — I don’t know how long — I felt as if I was out of my body. This marked the first time that my own efforts and energy resulted in a paranormal experience; I hadn’t needed Soc’s fingers pressing into my head, or hypnosis, or whatever he’d done.


  Excited, I told him about it. Instead of congratulating me, he said, “Don’t get distracted by your experiences. Experiences come and go; if you want experiences, go to the movies; it’s easier than all these yogas — and you get popcorn. Meditate all day, if you like; hear sounds and see lights, or see sounds and hear lights. But don’t get seduced by experience. Let it all go!”

  Frustrated, I said, “I’m only ‘experiencing,’ as you call it, because you told me to!”

  Socrates looked at me as if surprised. “Do I have to tell you everything?”

  After a moment of exquisite anger, I found myself laughing. He laughed, too, pointing at me. “Dan, you just experienced an alchemical transformation — you just transmuted anger to laughter. This means your energy level is much higher than before. Barriers are breaking down. Maybe you’re making a little progress after all.” We were still chuckling when he handed me the mop.

  The following night, for the first time, Socrates was completely silent about my behavior. I got the message: I was going to have to be responsible for watching myself from now on. That’s when I realized the kindness in all of his criticisms. I almost missed them.

  I wouldn’t realize it until months later, but that evening, Socrates had stopped being my “parent” and became my friend.

  I decided to pay Joseph a visit and tell him what had happened. As I walked down Shattuck a couple of fire engines wailed by me. I didn’t think anything about it until I neared the café and saw the orange sky. I began to run.

  The crowd was already dispersing when I arrived. Joseph had just arrived himself and was standing in front of his charred and gutted café. I heard his cry of anguish and saw him drop slowly to his knees and cry. By the time I reached him, his face was serene.

  The fire chief came over to him and told him that the fire had probably started at the dry cleaners next door. “Thank you,” Joseph said.

  “Joseph, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes, me too,” he replied with a smile.

  “But a few moments ago you were so upset.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I was.” I remembered Soc’s words, “Let feelings flow, then let them go.” Until now, this had seemed like a nice concept, but here, before the blackened, waterlogged remains of his beautiful café, this gentle warrior had demonstrated how to make peace with emotions.

  “It was such a beautiful place, Joseph,” I sighed, shaking my head.

  “Yes,” he said wistfully, “wasn’t it?”

  For some reason, his calm now bothered me. “Aren’t you upset at all?”

  He looked at me dispassionately, then said, “I have a story you might enjoy, Dan. Want to hear it?”

  “Well — OK.”

  In a small fishing village in Japan, there lived a young, unmarried woman who gave birth to a child. Her parents felt disgraced and demanded to know the identity of the father. Afraid, she refused to tell them. The fisherman she loved had told her, secretly, that he was going off to seek his fortune and would return to marry her. Her parents persisted. In desperation, she named Hakuin, a monk who lived in the hills, as the father.

  Outraged, the parents took the infant girl up to his door, pounded until he opened it, and handed him the baby, saying, “This child is yours; you must care for it!”

  “Is that so?” Hakuin said, taking the child in his arms, waving good-bye to the parents.

  A year passed and the real father returned to marry the woman. At once they went to Hakuin to beg for the return of the child. “We must have our daughter,” they said.

  “Is that so?” said Hakuin, handing the child to them.

  Joseph smiled and waited for my response.

  “An interesting story, Joseph, but I don’t understand why you’re telling it to me now. I mean, your café just burned down!”

  “Is that so?” he said. Then we laughed as I shook my head in resignation.

  “Joseph, you’re as crazy as Socrates.”

  “Why, thank you, Dan — and you’re upset enough for both of us. Don’t worry about me, though; I’ve been ready for a change. I’ll probably move south soon — or north. It makes no difference.”

  “Well, don’t go without saying good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, then,” he said, giving me one of his bear hugs. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Are you going to say good-bye to Socrates?”

  He laughed, replying, “Socrates and I rarely say hello or good-bye. You’ll understand later.” With that, we parted.

  About 3:00 A.M. Friday morning I passed the clock at Shattuck and Center on my way to the gas station. I was more aware than ever of how much I still had to learn. I stepped into the office already talking a mile a minute.”Socrates, Joseph’s café burned down. He’s going away.”

  “Strange,” he said, “cafés usually burn up.” He was making jokes. “Anyone hurt?” he asked, without apparent concern.

  “Not that I know of. Did you hear me, aren’t you even a little upset?”

  “Was Joseph upset?”

  “Well... yes and no.”

  “Well, there you are.” And that topic was simply closed.

  Then, to my amazement, Socrates took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Speaking of smoke,” he said, “did I ever mention to you that there’s no such thing as a bad habit?”

  I couldn’t believe my eyes or my ears. This isn’t happening, I told myself.

  “No, you didn’t, and I’ve gone to great lengths on your recommendation to change my bad habits.”

  “That was to develop your will, you see, and to give your instincts a refresher course. You see, any unconscious, compulsive ritual is a problem. But specific activities — smoking, drinking, taking drugs, eating sweets, or asking silly questions — are both bad and good; every action has its price, and its pleasures. Recognizing both sides, you become realistic and responsible for your actions. And only then can you make the warrior’s free and conscious choice — to do or not to do.

  “There is a saying: ‘When you sit, sit; when you stand, stand; whatever you do, don’t wobble.’ Once you make your choice, do it with all your spirit. Don’t be like the preacher who thought about praying while making love to his wife, and thought about making love to his wife while praying.”

  I laughed at this image, while Socrates blew perfect smoke rings.

  “It’s better to make a mistake with the full force of your being than to timidly avoid mistakes with a trembling spirit. Responsibility means recognizing both pleasure and price, action and consequence, then making a choice.”

  “It sounds so ‘either-or.’ What about moderation?”

  “Moderation?” He leaped up on the desk, like an evangelist. “Moderation? It’s mediocrity, fear, and confusion in disguise. It’s the devil’s dilemma. It’s neither doing nor not doing. It’s the wobbling compromise that makes no one happy. Moderation is for the bland, the apologetic, for the fencesitters of the world afraid to take a stand. It’s for those afraid to laugh or cry, for those afraid to live or die. Moderation” — he took a deep breath, getting ready for his final condemnation — “is lukewarm tea, the devil’s own brew!”

  “But you’ve told me the value of balance, the middle way, the golden mean.”

  Socrates scratched his head. “Well, you have a good point there. Maybe it’s time to trust your own inner knower, the counsel of your own heart.”

  Laughing, I said, “Your sermons come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, Soc. You’ll have to keep practicing.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, climbing down from the desk. “They always told me that in the seminary.” I didn’t know whether he was kidding or not.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I still think smoking is disgusting.”

  “Haven’t I got the message across to you yet? Smoking is not disgusting; only the habit is. I may enjoy a cigarette, then not smoke again for six months. And when I do smoke, I don’t pretend that my lungs won’t pay a price; I follow appropriate action afterward
to help counterbalance the negative effects.”

  “I just never expected a warrior like you would ever smoke.”

  He blew smoke rings at me. “I don’t live according to anyone’s expectations, Dan — not even my own. Nor do all warriors act exactly as I do. But we must all follow the House Rules, you see.

  “So whether or not my behavior meets your new standards, it should be clear to you that I have no compulsions or habits. My actions are conscious, spontaneous, intentional, and complete.”

  Socrates put out his cigarette, smiling at me. “You’ve become too stuffy, with all your pride and superior discipline. It’s time we did a little celebrating.”

  Then Socrates pulled out a bottle of gin from his desk. I just sat in disbelief, shaking my head. He mixed me a drink with gin and soda pop.

  “Soda pop?” I asked.

  “Only have fruit juice here. And don’t call me ‘Pop,’” he said, reminding me of the words he’d spoken to me so long before. Now here he was, offering me a gin-and-ginger ale, drinking his straight.

  “So,” he said, tossing down the gin, “time to party, no holds barred.”

  “I like your enthusiasm, Soc, but I have a hard workout tomorrow.”

  “Get your coat, sonny, and follow me.” I did.

  The only thing I remember clearly that Saturday night in San Francisco is that we started early and never stopped. The evening was a blur of lights, tinkling glasses, and laughter.

  I do remember Sunday morning. It was about five o’clock. My head was throbbing. We were walking down Mission, crossing Fourth Street. I could barely see the street signs through the thick early morning fog that had rolled in. Suddenly, Soc stopped and stared into the fog. I stumbled into him, giggled, then woke up quickly; something was wrong. A large dark shape emerged from the mist. My half-forgotten dream flashed into my mind but vanished as I saw another shape, then a third: three men. Two of them — tall, lean, tense — blocked our way. The third approached us and drew a stiletto from his worn leather jacket. I felt my pulse pounding through my temples.

  “Give me your money,” he commanded.