WAY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR: A Book That Changes Lives

by Dan Millman

  “Well, you apparently knew what you were doing at the championships. I read the sports page on occasion. Congratulations. You must be very happy.”

  “You know very well what I’m feeling, Soc.”

  “I can imagine,” he said lightly as he walked into the garage to resurrect an old VW transmission. “You’re making progress — right on schedule.”

  “Delighted to hear it,” I answered without enthusiasm. “But on schedule to where?”

  “To the gate! To unreasonable happiness! To the one and only goal you’ve ever had but didn’t know it. And now it’s time to lose your mind and come to your senses once again.”

  “Again?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. You once were bathed in brightness, and found pleasure in the simplest things.” With that, he took my head in his hands and sent me back to my infancy.

  My eyes open wide. They gaze intently at shapes and colors beneath my hands as I crawl on the tiled floor. I touch a rug and it touches me back. Everything is bright and alive.

  I grasp a spoon in one tiny hand and bang it against a cup. The clinking noise delights my ears. I yell with power! Then I look up to see a skirt, billowing above me. I’m lifted up, and make cooing sounds. Bathed in my mother’s scent, my body relaxes into hers, and I’m filled with bliss.

  Some time later. Cool air touches my face as I crawl in a garden. Colorful flowers tower around me, and I’m surrounded by new smells. I tear one and bite it; my mouth is filled with a bitter message. I spit it out.

  My mother comes. I hold out my hand to show her a wiggly black thing that tickles my hand. She reaches down and knocks it away. “Nasty spider!” she says. Then she holds a soft thing to my face; it talks to my nose. “Rose,” she says, then makes the same noise again. “Rose.” I look up at her, then around me, and drift again into the world of scented colors.

  I came to lying facedown on Soc’s yellow rug. I lifted my head to peer at the legs of his ancient oak desk. But now everything seemed somehow dimmed. “Socrates, I feel half asleep, like I need to douse myself with cold water and wake up. Are you sure that last journey didn’t do some damage?”

  “No, Dan, the damage was done over the years, in ways you’ll soon see.”

  “That place — my grandfather’s garden — it was like the Garden of Eden.”

  “Yes, it was the Garden of Eden. Every infant lives in a bright Garden where everything is sensed directly, without the veils of thought — free of beliefs, interpretation, and judgments.

  “You ‘fell’ from grace when you began thinking, about — when you became a namer and a knower. It’s not just Adam and Eve, you see, it’s all of us. The birth of the mind is the death of the senses — it’s not that we eat an apple and get a little sexy!”

  “I wish I could go back,” I sighed. “It was so bright, so clear, so beautiful.”

  “What you enjoyed as a child can be yours again. Jesus of Nazareth, one of the Great Warriors, once said that you must become like a little child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” Socrates paused, then added, “Meet me tomorrow morning at 8 A.M. at the Botanical Gardens. It’s time we went on a nature hike.”

  I awoke after a few hours’ sleep, refreshed and excited. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, I’d discover the secret of the senses. I jogged up into Strawberry Canyon and waited for Soc at the entrance to the gardens. When he arrived we strolled through green acres of every imaginable kind of tree, bush, plant, and flower.

  We entered a giant greenhouse. The air was warm and humid, contrasting with the cool morning air outside. Soc pointed to the tropical foliage that towered over us. “As a child, all this would appear before your eyes and ears and touch as if for the first time. But now you’ve learned names and categories for everything: ‘That’s good, that’s bad, that’s a table, that’s a chair, that’s a car, a house, a flower, dog, cat, chicken, man, woman, sunset, ocean, star.’ You’ve become bored with things because they only exist as names to you. The dry concepts of the mind obscure your direct perception.”

  Socrates waved his arm in a sweeping gesture, taking in the palms high above our heads that nearly touched the Plexiglas canopy of the geodesic dome. “You now see everything through a veil of associations about things, projected over a direct, simple awareness. You’ve ‘seen it all before’: it’s like watching a movie for the twentieth time. You see only memories of things, so you become bored, trapped in the mind. This is why you have to ‘lose your mind’ before you can come to your senses.”

  The next night Socrates was already putting the kettle on when I stepped into the office, carefully removed my shoes, and put them on the mat beneath the couch. With his back still turned, he said, “How about a little contest? You do a stunt, then I’ll do a stunt, and we’ll see who wins.”

  “Well, OK, if you really want to.” I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I just did a one-arm handstand on the desk for a few seconds, then stood on it and did a back somersault off, landing lightly on the carpet.

  Socrates shook his head, apparently demoralized. “I thought it might be a close contest, but I can see that it’s not going to be.”

  “I’m sorry, Soc, but after all, you aren’t getting any younger, and I am pretty good at this stuff.”

  “What I meant to say,” he grinned, “is that you don’t stand a chance.”

  “What?”

  “Here goes,” he said. I watched him as he slowly turned around and walked deliberately into the bathroom. I moved toward the front door in case he came running out with a sword again. But he only emerged with his mug. He filled it with water, smiled at me, held the water up as if to toast me, and drank it slowly.

  “Well?” I said.

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s what? You didn’t do a thing.”

  “Ah, but I did. You just don’t have the eyes to appreciate my feat. I was feeling a slight toxicity in my kidneys; in a few days, it might have begun to affect my entire body. So before any symptoms could arise, I located the problem and flushed out my kidneys.”

  I had to laugh. “Soc, you’re the greatest con man I’ve ever met. Admit defeat — you’re bluffing.”

  “I am completely serious. What I’ve just described did, in fact, take place. It requires sensitivity to internal energies and the voluntary control of a few subtle mechanisms.

  “You, on the other hand,” he said, rubbing salt in the wound, “are only vaguely aware of what’s going on inside that bag of skin. Like a balance beam performer just learning a handstand, you’re not yet sensitive enough to detect when you’re out of balance, and you can still ‘fall’ ill. And for all your gymnastics skills, you’ve only developed a gross level of awareness, sufficient to perform certain movement patterns but nothing to write home about.”

  “You sure take the romance out of a triple somersault, Soc.”

  “There is no romance in it; it’s a stunt that requires time and practice to learn. But when you can feel the flow of energies in your body, then you’ll have your ‘romance.’ So keep practicing, Dan. Refine your senses a little more each day; stretch them, as you would in the gym. Finally, your awareness will pierce deeply into your body and into the world. Then you’ll think less and feel more. That way you’ll enjoy even the simplest things in life — no longer addicted to achievement or expensive entertainments. Next time,” he laughed, “perhaps we can have a real competition.”

  We sat quietly for a while, then went into the garage, where I helped Soc pull an engine from a VW and take apart another ailing transmission. When we returned later to the office, I asked Soc whether he thought rich people are any happier than “poor stiffs like us.”

  His response, as usual, shocked me. “As a matter of fact, Dan, I’m quite wealthy. One must become rich to be happy.” He smiled at my dumbfounded expression, picked up a pen from his desk, and wrote on a clean white sheet of paper:

  “You are rich if you have enough money to satisfy all your desires. So there are two ways to be rich: Y
ou earn, inherit, borrow, beg, or steal enough money to meet all your desires; or, you cultivate a simple lifestyle of few desires; that way you always have enough money.

  “A peaceful warrior has the insight and discipline to choose the simple way — to know the difference between needs and wants. We have few basic needs but endless wants. Full attention to every moment is my pleasure. Attention costs no money; your only investment is training. That’s another advantage of being a warrior, Dan — it’s cheaper! The secret of happiness, you see, is not found in seeking more, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less.”

  I felt content, listening to the spell he wove. There were no complications, no pressing searches, no desperate enterprises that had to be done. Socrates revealed to me the treasure trove of simple awareness.

  Suddenly he grabbed me under the arms, picked me up, and threw me straight up into the air, so high, my head almost hit the ceiling. When I came down, he slowed my descent, setting me back down on my feet. “Just wanted to make sure I have your attention for this next part. What time is it?”

  “Um, it’s 2:35.”

  “Wrong! The time always was, is, and always will be now! Now is the time; the time is now. Is it clear?”

  “Well, yeah, it’s clear.”

  “And where are we?”

  “We’re in the gas station office — say, didn’t we play this game a long time ago?”

  “Yes we did, and what you learned is that the only thing you know absolutely is that you are here, wherever here may be. From now on, whenever your attention begins to drift off to other times and places, I want you to snap back. Remember, the time is now and the place is here.”

  Just then, a college student burst into the office, dragging a friend with him. “I couldn’t believe it!” he said to his friend, pointing to Socrates, then speaking to him. “I was walking by on the street, when I glanced over here and saw you throw that guy to the ceiling. Who are you, anyway?”

  It looked as if Socrates was about to blow his cover. He looked at the student blankly, then laughed. “Oh,” Soc laughed again, “Oh, that’s good! No, we were just exercising to pass the time. Dan here is a gymnast — aren’t you, Dan?” I nodded. The student’s friend said he remembered me; he’d watched a couple of gymnastics meets. Soc’s story began to sound almost credible.

  “We have a little trampoline behind the desk there.” Socrates went behind the desk, where, to my complete stupefaction, he jumped on the nonexistent mini-trampoline so well I started to believe it was behind the desk. Jumping higher and higher until he could almost reach the ceiling, Soc then bounced lower, bobbing up and down, and finally stopped, bowing. I clapped.

  Confused but satisfied, they left. I ran around to the other side of the desk. There was, of course, no trampoline. I laughed hysterically. “Socrates, you’re incredible!”

  “Yep,” he said, never one for false modesty.

  By this time the sky was showing the faint light of dawn as Socrates and I got ready to leave. Zipping up my jacket, I felt as if it was a symbolic dawn for me.

  Walking home, I thought of the changes that were showing up, not so much on the outside, but on the inside. I felt a new clarity about my path and priorities. I had finally released my expectation that the world should fulfill me; with that, my disappointments had vanished. I would continue to do whatever was necessary to live in the everyday world, of course, but on my own conditions. I was starting to glimpse a profound sense of freedom even as I lived an ordinary life.

  My relationship with Socrates had changed, too. For one thing, I had fewer illusions to defend. If he called me a jackass, I could only laugh, because by his standards at least, he was right. And he rarely frightened me anymore.

  As I passed Herrick Hospital on my walk home, a hand grasped my shoulder and I slipped instinctively under it, like a cat that didn’t want to be patted. Turning, I saw a grinning Socrates.

  “Ah, you’re not such a nervous fish anymore.”

  “What are you doing here, Soc?”

  “Going for a walk.”

  “Well, it’s great to have you along.”

  We walked in silence for a block or two, then he asked, “What time is it?”

  “Oh, it’s about ... ” Then I caught myself. “... about now.”

  “And where are we?”

  “Here.”

  He said nothing else, and I felt like talking so I told him about my new feelings of freedom, my plans for the future.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Now,” I sighed. “You don’t have to keep... ”

  “Where are we?” he asked innocently.

  “Here, but... ”

  “Understand this above all,” he interrupted. “You can do nothing to change the past, and the future will never come exactly as you expect or hope for. There have never been past warriors, nor will there be future ones. The warrior is here, now. Your sorrow, your fear and anger, regret and guilt, your envy and plans and cravings live only in the past, or in the future.”

  “Hold on, Socrates. I distinctly remember being angry in the present.”

  “Not so,” he said. “What you mean is that you acted angry in a present moment. Action always happens in the present, because it is an expression of the body, which can only exist in the here and now. But the mind is like a phantom that lives only in the past or future. Its only power over you is to draw your attention out of the present.”

  I bent over to tie my shoe when I felt something touch my temples.

  I finished tying my shoe and stood up, finding myself standing alone in a musty old attic without windows. In the dim light I discerned a couple of old trunks, shaped like vertical coffins, in a corner of the room.

  All at once, the hairs on my arms stood up and I felt an icy fear. I could hear no sound but the pounding of my heart. All else was muffled by the stale dead air. Taking a tentative step, I noticed that I was standing within a pentacle, a five-pointed star, painted in brownish red on the floor. I looked closer. The brownish red color was from dried — or drying — blood.

  Behind me I heard a growling laugh, so sickening, so horrifying that I had to swallow the rising metallic taste in my mouth. Reflexively, I turned to face a leprous, misshapen beast. It breathed in my face and the sickeningly sweet stench of the long-dead hit me full force.

  Its grotesque cheeks pulled back to reveal black fangs. Then it spoke: “Commme to mmeee.” I felt impelled to obey, but my instincts held. I stayed put.

  It roared with fury. “My children, take him!” The trunks in the corner began moving slowly toward me and opened to reveal loathsome, decaying human corpses, which stepped out and advanced steadily. I gyrated wildly within the pentacle, seeking a place to run, when the attic door opened behind me and a young woman of about nineteen stumbled into the room and fell just outside the pentacle. The door remained ajar, and a shaft of light fell through.

  She was beautiful, dressed in white. She moaned, as if hurt, and said in a faraway voice, “Help me, please help me.” Her eyes were tearfully pleading, yet held a promise of gratitude, reward, and unquenchable desire.

  I looked at the advancing figures. I looked at the woman and at the door.

  Then the Feeling came to me: “Stay where you are. The pentacle is the present moment. There, you’re safe. The demon and his attendants are the past. The door is the future. Beware.”

  Just then, the girl moaned again and rolled over on her back. Her dress slid up one leg, almost to her waist. She reached out to me pleading, tempting, “Help me... ”

  Drunk with desire, I lunged out of the pentacle.

  The woman snarled at me, showing bloodred fangs. The demon and his entourage yelped in triumph and leaped toward me. I dove for the pentacle.

  Huddled on the sidewalk, shaking, I looked up at Socrates, who said, “If you’re sufficiently rested now, would you like to continue?” Some early morning joggers ran by with amused looks on their faces.

  “Do you have
to scare me half to death every time you want to make a point?” I stammered.

  “Only when it is an important point.”

  After a few moments’ silence I asked sheepishly, “You wouldn’t have that girl’s phone number, would you?” Socrates slapped his forehead and looked to the heavens.

  “I will presume you did get the point of that little melodrama?”

  “Yeah. Stay in the present: it’s safer. And don’t step outside a pentacle for anyone with fangs.”

  “Right you are,” he grinned. “Don’t let anybody or anything, least of all your own thoughts, draw you out of the present. Surely you have heard the story of the two monks:

  Two monks, one old, one very young, walked along a muddy path in a rain forest, on their way back to a monastery in Japan. They came upon a lovely woman who stood helplessly at the edge of a muddy, fast-flowing stream.

  Seeing her predicament, the older monk swept her up in his strong arms and carried her across. She smiled at him, her arms around his neck, until he put her gently down on the other side. Thanking him, she bowed, and the monks continued on their way in silence.

  As they neared the monastery gates, the young monk could no longer contain himself. “How could you carry a beautiful woman in your arms? Such behavior does not seem proper for a priest.”

  The old monk looked at his companion, replying, “I left her back there. Are you still carrying her?”

  “Looks like more work ahead.” I sighed. “Just when I thought I was getting somewhere.”

  “Your business is not to ‘get somewhere’ — it is to be here. But you still live mostly in the past or future, except when you’re doing a somersault or being badgered by me. Now is the time to apply yourself like never before, if you’re to have even a chance of finding the gate. It is here, before you; open your eyes, now!”

  “But how?”

  “Just keep your attention in the present moment, Dan. This is freedom from suffering, from fear, from mind. When thoughts touch the present, they dissolve.” He prepared to leave.

  “Wait, Socrates. Before you go, tell me — were you the older monk in the story — the one who carried the woman? That sounds like something you would have done.”