by Dan Millman
Not thinking clearly, I stepped toward him, reaching for my wallet, and stumbled forward.
He was startled and rushed toward me, slashing with his knife. Socrates, moving faster than I’d ever seen before, caught the man’s wrist, whirled around, and threw him into the street, just as another thug lunged for me. He never touched me; Socrates had kicked his legs out from under him with a lightning sweep. Before the third attacker could even move, Soc was upon him, taking him down with a wristlock and a sweeping motion of his arm. He sat down on the man and said, “Don’t you think you ought to consider nonviolence?”
One of the men started to get up when Socrates let out a powerful shout and the man fell backward. By then the leader had picked himself out of the street, found his knife, and was limping furiously toward Socrates. Socrates stood up, lifted the man he’d been sitting on, and threw him toward the knifeman, yelling, “Catch!” They tumbled to the concrete; then, in a wild rage, all three came screaming at us in a last desperate assault.
The next few minutes were blurred. I remember being pushed by Socrates and falling. Then it was quiet, except for a moan. Socrates stood still, then shook his arms loose and took a deep breath. He threw the knives into the sewer. Then he turned to me. “You OK?”
“Except for my head.”
“You get hit?”
“Only by alcohol. What happened?”
He turned to the three men stretched out on the pavement, knelt, and felt their pulses. Turning them over, almost tenderly, he gave gentle prodding motions, checking them for injuries. Only then did I realize he was doing his best to heal them! “Call an ambulance,” he said, turning to me. I ran to a nearby phone booth and called. Then we left and walked quickly to the bus station. I looked at Socrates. There were faint tears in his eyes, and for the first time since I’d known him, he looked pale and very tired.
We spoke little on the bus ride home. That was fine with me; talking hurt too much. When the bus stopped at University and Shattuck, Socrates got off and said, “You’re invited to my office next Wednesday, for a few drinks... ” Smiling at my pained expression, he continued, “... of herb tea.”
I got off the bus a block from home. My head was ready to explode. I felt like we’d lost the fight, and they were still beating on my head. I tried to keep my eyes closed as much as possible, walking the last block to the apartment house. So this is what it feels like to be a vampire, I thought. Sunlight can kill.
Our celebration had taught me two things: first, that I had needed to loosen up and let go; second, that heavy drinking, at least for me, wasn’t worth the price. Besides, the pleasure was insignificant compared to what I was beginning to enjoy.
Monday’s gymnastics workout was a struggle; still, there was a chance that I might somehow get ready in time. My leg was healing better than I’d had any right to expect; I had been taken under the wings of an extraordinary man.
Walking home, I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I knelt outside my apartment and touched the earth. Taking a handful of dirt in my hand, I gazed up through emerald leaves shimmering in the breeze. For a few precious seconds, I seemed to slowly melt into the earth. Then, for the first time since I was a young boy, I felt a life-giving Presence without a name.
Then my analytical mind piped in: Wow! A spontaneous mystical experience. The spell was broken. I returned to my earthly predicament — an ordinary man, standing under an elm, holding dirt in his hand. In a relaxed daze, I entered my apartment, read for a while, and fell asleep.
Tuesday was a day of quiet — the quiet before the storm.
Wednesday morning I plunged into the mainstream of classes. My feelings of serenity, which I thought were permanent, soon gave way to subtle anxieties and old urges. After all my disciplined training, I was profoundly disappointed. Then something new happened — a powerful intuitive message came to me: Old urges continue to arise, but urges do not matter; only actions do. A warrior is as a warrior does.
At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But it wasn’t a thought or a voice; it was a feeling-certainty, a knowing. It was as if Socrates was inside me, a warrior within. This feeling was to remain with me.
That evening, I went to the station to tell Socrates about my mind’s recent hyperactivity, and about the Feeling. I found him replacing a generator in a battered Mercury. He looked up, greeted me, and said casually, “I heard that Joseph died this morning.”
I fell back against a station wagon behind me, shocked by the news of Joseph’s death — and by Soc’s callousness. Finally, I was able to speak. “How did he die?”
“Very well, I imagine. He had leukemia, you see. A rare form. Had been ill for a number of years; he hung in there for a long time. A fine warrior, that one.” He spoke with affection, but without apparent sorrow.
“Socrates, aren’t you upset, just a little?”
He laid the wrench down. “That reminds me of a story I heard a long time ago, about a mother who was overcome with grief by the death of her young son.
“‘I can’t bear the pain and sorrow,’ she told her sister.
“‘My sister, did you mourn your son before he was born?’
“‘No, of course not,’ the despondent woman replied.
“‘Well then, you need not mourn for him now. He has only returned to the same place, his original home, before he was ever born.’”
“Is that story a comfort to you, Socrates?”
“Well, I think it’s a good story. Perhaps in time you’ll appreciate it,” he replied brightly.
“I thought I knew you well, Socrates, but I never knew you could be so heartless.”
“No cause for worry, Dan — death is perfectly safe.”
“But he’s gone!”
Soc laughed softly. “Maybe he’s gone, maybe not. Maybe he was never here!” His laughter rang through the garage.
I suddenly realized why I was so troubled. “Would you feel the same way if I had died?”
“Of course!” He laughed. “Dan, there are things you don’t yet understand. For now, just think of death as a transformation — a bit more radical than puberty, but nothing to get particularly upset about. It’s just one of the body’s changes. When it happens, it happens. The warrior neither seeks death nor flees from it.”
His face grew more somber before he spoke again. “Death is not sad; the sad thing is that most people don’t really live at all.” That’s when his eyes filled with tears. We sat, two friends in silence, before I headed home.
I had just turned down a side street, when the Feeling came again: Tragedy is very different for the warrior and for the fool. Socrates simply didn’t consider Joseph’s death a tragedy. I wasn’t to realize why that was so until months later, deep within a mountain cave.
I couldn’t shake the belief that Socrates and I were supposed to be miserable when death struck. Confused and unsettled, I reached home and finally fell asleep.
In the morning, I understood: Socrates had simply not met my expectations. I saw the futility of trying to live up to anyone else’s expectations, including my own. I would, as a peaceful warrior, choose when, where, and how I would behave. With that commitment, I began to live the life of a warrior.
That night, I walked into the station office and said to Socrates, “I’m ready. Nothing will stop me.”
His fierce stare undid all my months of training. I quivered. He whispered, yet his voice seemed piercing. “You sound like a fool. No one knows his readiness until the time comes. You don’t have much time left! Each day that passes is one day closer to your death. We are not playing games here, do you understand that?”
The wind began to howl outside. Without warning, I felt his fingers grasp my temples.
I was crouched in the brush. Ten feet away, facing my hiding place, was a swordsman, over seven feet tall. His massive, muscular body reeked of sulfur. His head, even his forehead, was covered by ugly, matted hair; his eyebrows were huge slashes on a hateful, twisted face.
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He stared malevolently at a young swordsman who faced him. Five identical images of the giant materialized and encircled the young swordsman. All six of them laughed at once — a groaning, growling laugh, deep in their bellies. I felt sick.
The young warrior jerked his head right and left, swinging his sword frantically, whirling, dodging, and cutting through the air. He didn’t have a chance.
With a roar, all the images leaped toward him. Behind him, the giant’s sword cut downward, hacking off his arm. He screamed in pain as the blood spurted, and slashed blindly through the air in a last frenzied effort. The huge sword sliced again, and the young swordsman’s head fell from his shoulders and rolled to the earth, a shocked expression on its face.
“Ohhh,” I groaned involuntarily, nausea washing over me. The stink of sulfur overwhelmed me. A painful grip on my arm tore me from the bushes and flung me to the ground. When I opened my eyes, the dead eyes of the young swordsman’s severed head, inches away from my face, silently warned me of my own impending doom. Then I heard the guttural voice of the giant.
“Say farewell to life, young fool!” the magician growled. His taunt enraged me. I dove for the young warrior’s sword and rolled to my feet, facing him. With a scream he attacked.
I parried, but the force of his blow knocked me off my feet. Then, suddenly, there were six of him. I tried to keep my eye on the original as I leaped to my feet, but was no longer sure.
They began a chant, deep in their bellies; it became a low-pitched, horrible death rattle as they crept slowly toward me.
Then the Feeling came to me and I knew what I had to do. The giant represents the source of all your woes; he is your mind. He is the demon you must cut through. Don’t be deluded like the fallen warrior: keep your focus! Absurdly I thought, One hell of a time for a lesson. Then I was back to my immediate predicament.
Feeling an icy calm, I lay down on my back and closed my eyes, as if surrendering to my fate, the sword in my hands, its blade across my chest and cheek. The illusions could fool my eyes but not my ears. Only the real swordsman would make a sound as he walked. I heard him behind me. He had only two choices — to walk away, or to kill. He chose to kill. I listened intently. Just as I sensed his sword about to cut downward, I drove my blade upward with all my might and felt it pierce, tearing upward through cloth, flesh, muscle. A terrible scream, and I heard the thud of his body. Face down, impaled on my sword, was the demon.
“You almost didn’t come back that time,” said Socrates, his brow knitted.
I ran to the bathroom, where I was thoroughly sick. When I came out, Soc had made some chamomile tea with licorice, “for the nerves and the stomach.”
I started to tell Socrates about the journey. “I was hiding in the bush behind you, watching the whole thing,” he interrupted. “I nearly sneezed once; sure glad I didn’t. I certainly wasn’t anxious to tangle with that character. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to step in, but you handled yourself pretty well, Dan.”
“Well, thanks, Soc.”
“But you seemed to have missed the point that nearly cost you your life.”
Now it was my turn to interrupt him. “The main point I was concerned with was at the end of that giant’s blade. Anyway, I didn’t miss it.”
“Is that so?”
“Soc, I’ve been battling illusions my whole life, preoccupied with every petty personal problem. I’ve dedicated my life to self-improvement without grasping the one problem that sent me seeking in the first place. While trying to make everything in the world work out for me, I kept getting sucked back into my own mind, always preoccupied with me, me, me. That giant was me — the ego, the little self — who I’ve always believed myself to be. And I cut through it!”
“No doubt about that,” he said.
“What would have happened if the giant had won; what then?”
“Don’t talk of such things,” he said darkly.
“I have to know. Would I have really died?”
“Possibly,” he said. “At the very least, you would have gone mad.”
Just then the teakettle began to shriek.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MOUNTAIN PATH
Socrates poured steaming hot tea into our twin mugs and spoke the first encouraging words I’d heard in many months. “Your survival in the duel means that you’re ready for the next step toward the One Goal.”
“What’s that?”
“When you discover that, you’ll already be there. In the meantime, your training can now move to a different arena.”
A change. A sign of progress! I was getting excited. Finally we’re going to get moving again, I thought. “Socrates,” I asked, “what new arena?”
“For one thing you’re going to have to find the answers from within. Beginning now — go out back, behind the station, behind the trash bin. There, in the corner of the lot, against the wall, you’ll find a large flat stone. Sit on that stone until you have something of value to tell me.”
I paused. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Sit and wait until you have an insight worth sharing.”
I went outside, found the rock, and sat in the darkness. First, random thoughts drifted through my mind. I thought of all the important concepts I’d learned in my years at school. An hour went by, then two, then three. The sun would rise in another few hours, and I was getting cold. I began to slow my breathing and to vividly imagine my belly as warm. Before long, I felt comfortable again.
Dawn came. The only thing that I could think of to tell him was a realization I’d had during a psychology lecture. I stood up on stiff, sore legs and hobbled into the office. Socrates, looking relaxed and comfortable at his desk, said, “Ah, so soon? Well, what is it?”
I was almost embarrassed to say it but hoped he’d be satisfied. “OK, Soc. Beneath all our apparent differences we share the same human needs and fears; we’re all on the same path together, guiding one another. And this understanding brings compassion.”
“Not bad. Back to the rock.”
“But it’s morning — you’re leaving.”
“That’s no problem.” He grinned. “I’m sure you’ll have thought of something by tonight.”
“Tonight? But I... ” He pointed out the door.
Sitting on the rock, my whole body aching, I reflected on my childhood and searched my past, reaching for insights. Nothing came. Then I tried to compress all that had transpired in the months with Socrates into a witty aphorism.
I thought of the classes I was missing and the excuse I’d have to give the coach. What would I say? That I’d been sitting on a rock in a gas station? That would sound crazy enough to make him laugh.
The sun crept with agonizing slowness across the sky. I sat hungry, irritated, and depressed, as darkness fell. I had nothing for Socrates. Then, just as he was due back, it came to me. He wanted something deeper, more cosmic. I concentrated harder. I saw Socrates enter the office, waving to me. I redoubled my efforts. Then, about midnight, I had it. I couldn’t even walk, so I stretched for a few minutes before shuffling into the office.
“All right, Socrates. I’ve got it. So far I’ve seen beneath people’s social masks to their common fears and troubled minds, but that has only made me cynical, because I haven’t yet looked still deeper to find the light within them.” I figured this was a revelation of major proportions.
“Excellent,” he announced. Just as I started to settle onto the sofa with a sigh, he added, “But not quite what I had in mind. Can’t you bring me something more moving?” I roared with frustration and stomped out to my philosopher’s stone.
“Something more moving,” he had said. Was that a hint? I naturally thought back to my recent workouts in the gymnastics room where my teammates now clucked about me like mother hens, worried that I might reinjure myself. Recently I was doing giant swings around the high bar, missed a pirouette change, and had to jump off from the top of the bar. I knew I was going to land on my feet pret
ty hard, but before I even hit the ground, Sid and Herb caught me in midair and set me down gently. “Be careful, Dan!” Sid scolded. “You want to snap your leg again?”
But none of that seemed relevant to my present quandary. So I let my awareness relax, hoping that maybe the Feeling would advise me. Nothing came. I was so stiff and sore I couldn’t concentrate anymore. So I stood up slowly and began to practice a few flowing movements of T’ai Chi, the Chinese form of slow-motion exercise that Soc had shown me. As I bent my knees and gracefully rocked back and forth, my arms floating in the air, I let my breath flow with the shifting of my weight. My mind emptied, then filled with a scene:
A few days before, I had jogged slowly and carefully to Provo Square, in the middle of Berkeley, across from City Hall and directly adjacent to Berkeley High School. To help relax, I began swaying back and forth in the movements of T’ai Chi. I concentrated on softness and balance, feeling like seaweed floating in the ocean.
I noticed a few boys and girls from the high school stop to watch me, before I returned my attention to the body, letting my awareness flow with the movements. When I finished the routine, I picked up my sweatpants and started to slip them back on over my running shorts. Just then my attention was captured by two pretty teenagers who were watching me and giggling. I guess those girls are impressed, I thought, as I put both legs into one pant leg, lost my balance, tipped over, and sprawled on the grass.
A few other students joined the girls in their laughter. I felt embarrassed for a moment, but then lay back and laughed with them.
I wondered, still standing on the rock, why that incident came to me. Then it hit me; I walked into the office, stood before Soc’s desk, and announced, “There are no ordinary moments!”
Soc smiled. “Welcome back.” I collapsed on the couch and he made tea.
After that, I treated every moment in the gym — on the ground as well as in the air — as special, worthy of my full attention. But as Socrates had explained to me more than once, the ability to extend razor-sharp attention to every moment in my daily life would require much more practice.
