WAY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR: A Book That Changes Lives

by Dan Millman

  Soc and I met just after sunrise every morning. I would stride along, and he would run leaping like a gazelle. Each day I grew more relaxed and my reflexes became lightning quick.

  One day, when we were in the middle of our warm-up run, he suddenly stopped, looking paler than I’d ever seen him before.

  “I’d better sit down,” he said.

  “Socrates, are you OK?”

  “Just keep running, Dan. I’ll sit quietly.” I did as he asked, but kept my eyes on him, sitting with eyes closed looking proud and straight, but older somehow.

  As we’d agreed weeks before, I no longer came to see Socrates in the evening at the station, but I called to see how he was doing.

  “How’s it going, Coach?” I asked.

  “In the pink,” he said, “but I’ve hired an assistant to take over for a few weeks.”

  The next morning I saw my new assistant run onto the track and I literally jumped for Joy. I attempted to grab and hug her. She threw me gently, head over heels onto the lawn. If that wasn’t mortifying enough, she beat me shooting baskets, then batted every ball I pitched. Whatever we did, no matter what game, she played flawlessly, making me, a world champion, feel like a novice.

  I doubled the number of exercises Socrates had given me. I trained with fierce concentration. I awoke at 4:00 A.M., practiced T’ai Chi until dawn, and ran into the hills before meeting Joy each day. I said nothing about my extra training.

  I carried Joy’s image with me into my classes and into the gym. I wanted to see her, to hold her; but first, it seemed, I had to catch her. For the present, the most I could hope for was to beat her at her own games.

  Two weeks later, I was back running, skipping, and leaping around the track with Socrates, who was back in action. “Must have been a flu,” he explained.

  “Socrates,” I said, sprinting ahead and falling behind, playing tag with him, “you’ve been pretty closemouthed about your daily habits. I’ve no idea what you’re like when we’re not together. Well?”

  Grinning at me, he leaped forward about ten feet, then sprinted off around the track. I took off after him, until I was within talking range.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  “Nope,” he said. The subject was closed.

  When we finally finished our stretching and meditation exercises for the morning, Socrates came up to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and said, “Dan, you’ve been a willing and apt pupil. From now on, you’re to arrange your own schedule; do the exercises as needed. I’m going to give you something extra, because you’ve earned it. I’m going to coach you in gymnastics.”

  I had to laugh. I couldn’t help it. “You’re going to coach me — in gymnastics? I think you’re overreaching yourself this time, Soc.” I ran quickly down the turf, and snapped into a roundoff, a back handspring, and a high layout somersault with a double twist.

  Socrates walked over to me and said, “I admit it — you’re better than I am.”

  “Hot dog!” I yelled. “I’ve finally found something I can do that you can’t.”

  “I did notice, though,” he added, “that your arms need to stretch more when you set for the twist — oh, and your head is too far back on takeoff.”

  “Soc, you old bluffer... you’re right,” I said, realizing that I had set my head back too far, and my arms did need to stretch more.

  “And once we straighten out your technique a bit, we can work on your attitude,” he added, with a final twist of his own. “I’ll be seeing you in the gym.”

  “But Socrates, I already have a coach and I don’t know if the other gymnasts will take to your wandering around the gymnastics room.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something to tell them.”

  That afternoon, during our team meeting prior to workout, I told the coach and team that my eccentric grandfather from Chicago was visiting for a couple of weeks and wanted to come watch me. “He’s a nice old guy, really spry. Fancies himself quite a coach. If you’d humor him a little — he’s not quite playing with a full deck, if you know what I mean — I’m sure he won’t disrupt workout too much.”

  The consensus was favorable. “Oh, by the way,” I added. “He likes to be called Marilyn.” I could hardly keep a straight face.

  “Marilyn?” everyone echoed, laughing.

  “Yeah. I know it’s kind of bizarre, but you’ll understand when you meet him.”

  “Maybe seeing ‘Marilyn’ in action will help us understand you, Millman. They say it’s hereditary.” They laughed and started warm-up. Socrates was entering my domain this time. I wondered if he’d like his new nickname.

  Today, I had a little surprise planned for the whole team. I’d been holding back in the gym; they had no idea that I’d recovered so fully. I arrived early and walked into the coach’s office. He was shuffling through papers scattered on the desk when I spoke.

  “Coach,” I said, “I want to be in the intersquad competition.”

  Peering over his glasses he said sympathetically, “You won’t be cleared to compete for six months, Dan. After you graduate — for the Olympic trials.”

  I pulled him aside and whispered, “I’m ready today, now! Been doing some extra work outside the gym.”

  “Not a chance, Dan. I’m sorry.”

  The team warmed up together, from event to event, around the small gymnastics room, swinging, tumbling, vaulting, pressing to handstands. I stood on the sidelines, watching.

  Then the first event came — floor exercise. Everyone looked pretty good. They were about to move to the next event when I stepped out onto the floor exercise mat and started my routine.

  Everything clicked: the double back, a smooth press to handstand, keeping a light rhythm going on the dance elements and turns I’d created, another sky-high tumbling pass, then a final aerial sequence. I landed lightly, under perfect control. I became aware of the whistling and applauding. Sid and Josh looked at one another in amazement. “Where’d the new guy come from?” “Hey, we’ll have to sign him up for the team.”

  Next event. Josh went first on rings, then Sid, Chuck, and Gary. Finally it was my turn. Coach, incredulous after my last routine, just stared. I adjusted my handguards, made sure the tape on my wrists was secure, and jumped up to the rings. Josh stilled my swing, then stepped back. My muscles twitched with anticipation. Inhaling, I pulled up to an inverted hang, then slowly pulled and pressed my body up to an iron cross.

  I heard muffled tones of excitement as I swung smoothly down, then up again to a front uprise. I pressed slowly to a handstand with straight arms and straight body. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Coach said, using the strongest language I’d ever heard him use. Bailing out of the handstand, I did a fast, light giant swing and locked it without a tremor. After a high double somersault dismount, I landed with only a small step. Not a bad job.

  And so it went. After completing my final routine, again greeted by hoots and shouts of surprise, I noticed Socrates, sitting quietly in the corner, smiling. He must have seen it all. I waved to him to come over.

  “Guys, I’d like to introduce my grandfather.” I said, “This is Sid, Tom, Herb, Gary, Joel, Josh. Guys, this is... ”

  “We’re pleased to meet you, Marilyn,” they said in chorus. Socrates looked puzzled for the merest moment, then said, “Hello, I’m glad to meet you, too. I wanted to see what kind of crowd Dan runs around with.” They grinned, probably deciding they liked him.

  “I hope you don’t think it’s too strange, my being called Marilyn,” he said casually. “My real name is Merrill, but I got stuck with the nickname. Did Dan ever tell you what he was called at home?” he chuckled.

  “No,” they said eagerly. “What?”

  “Well, I’d better not say. I don’t want to embarrass him. He can always tell you if he wants to.” Socrates, the fox, looked at me and solemnly said, “You don’t have to be ashamed of it, Dan.”

  As they walked off, they said to me, “Bye, Suzette,” “Bye, Josephi
ne,” “See you later, Geraldine.”

  “Oh, hell, look what you’ve started — Marilyn!” I headed for the showers.

  For the rest of that week, Socrates never took his eyes off me. Occasionally, he’d turn to another gymnast and offer some superb advice, which always seemed to work. I was astonished by his knowledge. Tirelessly patient with everyone else, he was much less so with me. One time I finished my best-ever pommel horse routine and walked over happily to take the tape off my wrists. Soc beckoned me and said, “The routine looked satisfactory, but you did a very sloppy job taking the tape off. Remember, every-moment satori.”

  After high bar, he said, “Dan, you still need to meditate your actions.”

  “What do you mean, meditate my actions?”

  “Meditating an action is different from doing it. To do, there is a doer, a self-conscious ‘someone’ performing. But when you meditate an action, you’ve already released attachment to outcomes. There’s no ‘you’ left to do it. In forgetting yourself, you become what you do, so your action is free, spontaneous, without ambition, inhibition, or fear.”

  On and on it went. He watched every expression on my face, listened to every comment I made.

  Some people heard that I was back in shape. Susie came by to watch, bringing with her Michelle and Linda, two new friends. Linda immediately caught my eye. She was a slim red-haired woman with a pretty face behind glasses, wearing a simple dress that suggested pleasing curves. I hoped to see her again.

  The next day, after a very disappointing workout when nothing seemed to go well, Socrates called me over to sit with him on a crash pad. “Dan,” he said, “you’ve achieved a high level of skill. You’re an expert gymnast.”

  “Why thank you, Socrates.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.” He turned to face me more directly. “An expert dedicates his life to his training with the purpose of winning competitions. Someday, you may become a master gymnast. The master dedicates his training to life.”

  “I understand that, Soc. You’ve told me a number... ”

  “I know you understand it. What I am telling you is that you haven’t yet realized it; you don’t yet live it. You persist in gloating over a few new physical skills, then mope around if the training doesn’t go well one day. But when you begin transcendental training, focusing your best efforts, without attachment to outcomes, you will understand the peaceful warrior’s way.”

  “But if I don’t care about outcomes, what’s the point?”

  “I didn’t say you don’t care — that isn’t realistic — but the House Rules reveal that you can control your efforts, not outcomes. Do your best; let God handle the rest.” He added, “I won’t be coming into the gym again. From now on, imagine that I’m inside you, watching and correcting every error, no matter how small.”

  The next few weeks were intense. I’d rise at 6:00 A.M., stretch, then meditate before class. I completed homework quickly and easily. Then I’d sit and just do nothing for about half an hour before workout.

  During this period I began seeing Susie’s friend Linda. I was attracted to her but had no time or energy to do more than talk with her for a few minutes before or after workout. I thought about her a lot — then about Joy — then about her, between my daily exercises.

  The team’s confidence and my abilities were building with each new victory. It was clear to everyone that I had more than recovered. Though gymnastics was no longer the center of my life, it was still an important part, so I did my very best.

  Linda and I went out on a few dates and hit it off very well. She came to talk with me about a personal problem one evening and ended up staying the night, a night of intimacy, but within the conditions imposed by my training. I was growing close to her so quickly that it scared me. She was not in my plans. Still, my attraction to her grew.

  I felt “unfaithful” to Joy, but I never knew when that enigmatic young woman would appear again, if ever. Joy was the ideal who flitted in and out of my life. Linda was real, warm, loving — and there.

  The coach was getting more excited, more careful, and more nervous, as each passing week brought us closer to the 1968 National Collegiate Championships in Tucson, Arizona. If we won this year, it would be a first for the university, and Coach would realize a goal of twenty years’ standing.

  Soon enough, we were out on the floor for our three-day contest against Southern Illinois University. By the final night of the team championships, Cal and SIU were running neck and neck, in the fiercest race in gymnastics history. With three events still to go, Southern had a three-point lead.

  This was a critical point. If we were going to be realistic, we could resign ourselves to a respectable second-place finish. Or we could go for the impossible.

  I, for one, was going for the impossible; it felt like my spirit was on the line. I announced to the team, “I didn’t make a comeback for nothing. We’re going all the way. I can feel it in my bones. Let’s do it!” My words were ordinary, but whatever I was feeling — the electricity — generated power in each man on the team.

  Like a tidal wave, we began to pick up momentum, speeding faster and more powerfully with each performer. The crowd, almost lethargic before, started to stir with excitement, leaning forward in their seats. Something was going on; everyone could feel it.

  Apparently, Southern was feeling our power, too, because they started to tremble in handstands and bobble on landings. But by the last event of the meet, they still had a full point lead, and the high bar was always a strong event for them.

  Finally there were two Cal gymnasts left — Sid and I. The crowd was hushed. Sid walked to the bar, leaped up, and did a routine that made us hold our breath. He ended with the highest double flyaway anyone in that gym had ever seen. The crowd went wild. I was the last man up on our team — the anchor position, the pressure spot.

  Southern’s last performer did a fine job. They were almost out of reach; but that “almost” was all I needed. I was going to have to do a 9.8 routine just to tie, and I’d never scored even close to that.

  Here it was, my final test. My mind was awash with memories: that night of pain when my thighbone was splintered; my vow to recover; the doctor’s admonition to forget about gymnastics; Socrates and my continual training; that endless run in the rain, far up into the hills. And I felt a growing power, a wave of fury at all those who said I’d never perform again. My passion turned to icy calm. There, in that moment, my fate and future seemed in balance. My mind cleared. My emotions surged with power. Do or die.

  With the spirit and focus I’d learned in that small gas station over the past months, I approached the high bar. There was not a sound in the gym. The moment of silence, the moment of truth.

  I chalked up slowly, adjusting my handguards, checking my wrist straps. I stepped forward and saluted the judges. My eyes shone with a simple message as I faced the head judge: “Here comes the best damn routine you ever saw.”

  I leaped up to the bar and drove my legs upward. From a handstand I began swinging. The only sound in the gym was that of my hands, revolving around the bar, as I vaulted, twisted, released again, and regrasped the shining pipe.

  Only movement, nothing else. No oceans, no world, no stars. Only the high bar and one mindless performer — and soon, even they dissolved into a unity of motion.

  Adding a move I’d never done in competition before, I con- tinued on, reaching past my limit. Around and around I swung, faster and faster, getting ready for the dismount, a piked double flyaway.

  I whipped around the bar, preparing to release and go flying into space, floating and twirling in the hands of a fate that I’d chosen for myself. I kicked and snapped my legs, spun ‘round once, then twice, and kicked open, stretching my body for the landing. The moment of truth had arrived.

  I made a perfect landing that echoed through the arena. Silence — then pandemonium broke loose. A 9.85: we were champions!

  My coach appeared out of nowhere, grabbing my hand and sha
king it wildly, refusing to let go in his rapture. My teammates, jumping and screaming, surrounded and hugged me; a few of them had tears in their eyes. Then I heard the applause thundering in the distance, growing louder. We could hardly contain our excitement during the awards ceremony. We celebrated all night, recounting the meet until morning.

  Then it was over. A long-awaited goal was accomplished. Only then did I realize that the applause, the scores and victories were not the same anymore. I had changed so much; my search for victory had finally ended.

  It was early spring 1968. My college career was drawing to a close. What would follow, I knew not.

  I felt numb as I said farewell to my team in Arizona and boarded a jet, heading back to Berkeley, and Socrates — and to Linda. I looked aimlessly at the clouds below, drained of ambition. All these years I had been sustained by an illusion — happiness through victory — and now that illusion was burned to ashes. I was no happier, no more fulfilled, for all my achievements.

  Finally I saw through the clouds. I saw that I had never learned how to enjoy life, only how to achieve. All my life I had been busy seeking happiness, not finding it.

  I laid my head back on the pillow as the jet started its descent. My eyes misted with tears. I felt I had come to a dead end; I didn’t know where to turn.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PLEASURE BEYOND THE MIND

  Carrying my suitcase, I went straight to Linda’s apartment. Between kisses I told her about the championship, but said nothing of my disillusion. Then Soc’s image appeared — abruptly I told Linda that I had to go somewhere.

  “After midnight?”

  “Yes. I have... a friend — a guy friend — who works nights. I really have to go.” Another kiss, and I was gone.

  Still carrying my suitcase, I stepped into the office.

  “Moving in?” he asked.

  “In, out — I don’t know what I’m doing, Socrates.”