WAY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR: A Book That Changes Lives

by Dan Millman

  I had lost my mind and fallen into my heart. The gate had finally opened, and I had tumbled through, laughing, because it, too, was a joke. It was a gateless gate, another illusion, another image that Socrates had woven into the fabric of my reality, as he’d promised long ago. I had finally seen what there was to see. The path would continue, without end; but now, it was full of light.

  It was turning dark by the time we reached our camp. We made a fire and ate a small meal of dried fruit and sunflower seeds, the last of my stores. Only then, as the firelight flickered against our faces, did Socrates speak.

  “You’ll lose it, you know.”

  “Lose what?”

  “Your vision. It is rare — only possible through an unlikely set of circumstances — but it is an experience, so you’ll lose it.”

  “Perhaps that’s true, Socrates, but who cares?” I laughed. “I’ve also lost my mind and can’t seem to find it anywhere!”

  He raised his eyebrows in pleased surprise. “Well, then, it appears that my work with you is complete. My debt is paid.”

  “Wow!” I grinned. “Do you mean this is graduation day for me?”

  “No, Dan, this is graduation day for me.”

  He stood, put his pack on his shoulders, and walked off, melting into the shadows.

  It was time to return to the station, where it had all begun. Somehow, I had a feeling that Socrates was already there, waiting for me. At sunrise, I packed my knapsack and started down the mountain.

  The trip out of the wilderness took several days. I caught a ride into Fresno, then followed 101 up into San Jose, then back to Palo Alto. It was hard to believe that I’d only left the apartment a few weeks ago, a hopeless “somebody.”

  I unpacked and drove to Berkeley, arriving in the familiar streets at three in the afternoon, long before Socrates came on duty. I parked up on Piedmont and walked down through campus. School had just begun and students were busy being students. I walked down Telegraph Avenue and watched the shopkeepers playing perfect shopkeepers. Everywhere I visited — the fabric shops, the markets, the movie theaters and massage parlors — everyone was perfectly being what they believed they were.

  I walked up University, then along Shattuck, passing through the streets like a happy phantom, the Buddha’s ghost. I wanted to whisper in people’s ears, “Wake up! Wake up! Soon the person you believe you are will die — so now, wake up and be content with this knowledge: There is no need to search; achievement leads to nowhere. It makes no difference at all, so just be happy now! Love is the only reality of the world, because it is all One, you see. And the only laws are paradox, humor, and change. There is no problem, never was, and never will be. Release your struggle, let go of your mind, throw away your concerns, and relax into the world. No need to resist life; just do your best. Open your eyes and see that you are far more than you imagine. You are the world, you are the universe; you are yourself and everyone else, too! It’s all the marvelous Play of God. Wake up, regain your humor. Don’t worry, you are already free!”

  I wanted to say it to everyone I met, but if I had, they might have considered me deranged or even dangerous. I knew the wisdom of silence.

  The shops were closing. In a few hours it would be time for Soc’s shift at the station. I drove to the hills, left my car, and sat on a cliff overlooking the bay. I looked down upon the city of San Francisco in the distance, and at the Golden Gate. I could feel it all, the birds nestled in their nests in the wooded hills of Marin across the bay. I felt the life of the city, the lovers embracing, the criminals at work, the social volunteers giving what they could. And I knew that all of it, the compassion and cruelty, the high and low, the sacred and profane, were all a perfect part of the Play. Everyone played their roles so well! And I was all of it, every smidgen of it. I gazed to the ends of the world, and loved it all.

  I closed my eyes to meditate, but realized that I was always meditating now, with my eyes wide open.

  After midnight I drove into the station; the bell clanged my arrival. Out of the warmly lit office came my friend, a man who looked like a robust fifty-year-old: slim, leathery, graceful. He came around to the driver’s side, grinning, and said, “Fill ‘er up?”

  “Happiness is a full tank,” I answered, then paused. Where had I seen that saying before? What was it I needed to remember?

  While Soc pumped the gas, I did the windows; then I parked the car behind the station and entered the office for the last time. It was like a holy place for me — an unlikely temple. Tonight the room seemed electrified; something was very definitely up, but I had no idea what.

  Socrates reached into his drawer and handed me a large notebook, cracked and dried with age. In it were notes written in a careful, finely wrought hand. “This is my journal — entries of my life, since I was young. It will answer all your unasked questions. It is yours now, a gift. I’ve given everything I can. Now it’s up to you. My work is done, but you have work still to do.”

  “What could there possibly be left?” I smiled.

  “You will write and you will teach. You will live an ordinary life, learning how to remain ordinary in a troubled world to which, in a sense, you no longer belong. Remain ordinary, and you can be useful to others.”

  Socrates rose from his chair and aligned his mug carefully on the desk, next to mine. I looked at his hand. It was shining, glowing brighter than ever before.

  “I’m feeling very strange,” he said in a tone of surprise. “I think I have to go.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I said, thinking he had an upset stomach.

  “No.” Gazing into space as if the room and I no longer existed, he walked slowly to the door marked “Private,” pushed it open, and stepped inside.

  I wondered if he’d be all right. I sensed that our time in the mountains had drained him, yet he was shining now as never before. As usual, Socrates didn’t make sense.

  I sat there on the couch and watched the door, waiting for his return. I yelled through the door, “Hey, Socrates, you’re glowing like a lightning bug tonight. Did you eat an electric eel for dinner? I must have you over for dinner this Christmas; you’d make a wonderful decoration for my tree.”

  I thought I saw a flash of light under the crack in the door. Well, a blown lightbulb might hasten his business. “Soc, are you going to spend all evening in there? I thought warriors didn’t get constipated.”

  Five minutes passed, then ten. I sat holding his prized journal in my hands. I called him, then called again, but I was answered in silence. Suddenly I knew; it wasn’t possible, but I knew it had happened.

  I leaped to my feet and ran to the door, pushing it open so hard it struck the tile wall with a metallic clang that echoed hollowly in the empty bathroom. I remembered the flash of light minutes ago. Socrates had walked, glowing, into this bathroom, and disappeared.

  I stood there a long time, and I heard the familiar station bell, then a honking horn. I walked outside and mechanically filled the tank, taking the money and giving change out of my own pocket. When I returned to the office, I noticed that I hadn’t even put my shoes on. I began to laugh; my laughter became hysterical, then quieted. I sat back on the couch, on the old Mexican blanket now tattered, disintegrating, and looked around the room at the yellow rug, faded with age, at the old walnut desk, and the water cooler. I saw the two mugs — Soc’s and mine — still sitting on the desk, and last of all, his empty chair.

  Then I spoke to him. Wherever that mischievous old warrior was, I’d have the last word.

  “Well, Soc, here I am, between past and future, again, floating between heaven and earth. What can I say to you that would be enough? Thank you, my teacher, my inspiration, my friend. I’ll miss you. Farewell.”

  I left the station for the last time feeling only wonder. I knew that I’d not lost him, not really. It had taken me all these years to see the obvious, that Socrates and I had never been different. All this time, we had been one and the same.

  I wal
ked through the tree-lined paths of campus, across the creek, and beyond the shady groves out into the city — continuing on the Way, the way toward home.

  EPILOGUE

  LAUGHTER IN THE WIND

  I’d passed through the gate; seen what there was to see; realized, high on a mountain, my true nature. Yet, like the old man who shouldered his burden and continued on his way, I knew that though everything had changed, nothing had changed.

  I was still living an ordinary human life with ordinary human responsibilities. I would have to adapt myself to living a useful life in a world that was offended by one who is no longer interested in any search or problem. An unreasonably happy man, I learned, can grate on people’s nerves! There were many occasions when I began to understand and even envy the monks who set up housekeeping in faraway caves. But I had been to my cave. My time for receiving was finished; now it was time for giving.

  I moved from Palo Alto to San Francisco and began working as a housepainter. As soon as I was settled into a house, I attended to some unfinished business. I hadn’t spoken with Joyce since Oberlin. I found her number in New Jersey and called her.

  “Dan, what a surprise! How are you?” “Very well, Joyce. I’ve been through a lot recently.” There was a pause on the line. “Uh, how is your daughter — and your wife?”

  “Linda and Holly are doing fine. Linda and I were divorced some time ago.”

  “Dan” — there was another pause — “Why did you call?”

  I took a deep breath. “Joyce, I want you to come to California and live with me. I have no doubts at all about you — about us. There’s plenty of room here... ”

  “Dan.” Joyce laughed. “You’re going much too fast for me! When do you propose this little adjustment should take place?”

  “Now, or as soon as you can. Joyce, there’s so much to tell you — things I’ve never told anyone. I’ve held it in so long. Will you call me as soon as you’ve decided?”

  “Dan, are you sure of this?”

  “Yes, believe me, and I’ll be waiting here every evening for your call.”

  About two weeks later, I received a call at 7:15 P.M.

  “Joyce!”

  “I’m calling from the airport.”

  “From Newark Airport? You’re leaving? You’re coming?”

  “From San Francisco Airport. I’ve arrived.”

  For a moment, I didn’t get it. “San Francisco Airport?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “You know, that landing strip south of the city? Well? Are you going to meet me, or shall I hitchhike?”

  In the days that followed we spent every free moment together. I’d quit my painting job and was teaching in a small gymnastics studio in San Francisco. I told her about my life, much as is written here, and all about Socrates. She listened intently.

  “You know, Dan, I get a funny feeling when you tell me about that man — as if I know him.”

  “Well, anything’s possible,” I smiled.

  “No, really, like I knew him! What I never told you before, Danny, is that I left home just before starting high school.”

  “Well,” I responded, “that’s unusual, but not too strange.”

  “The strange part is that the years between my leaving home and going to Oberlin are a complete blank in my memory. And that’s not all. At Oberlin, before you came, I remember having dreams, very strange dreams, about someone like you — and about a white-haired man! And my parents — my parents, Danny... ” Her large, luminous eyes opened wide and filled with tears. “... my parents always called me by my nickname... “ I held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. In the next moment, like an electric shock, a place in our memories opened up as she said, “... my nickname was Joy.”

  We were married among our friends, in the mountains of California. It was a moment I would have given anything to share with the man who had begun it all, for both of us. Then I remembered the card he had given me — the one I was to use if I ever really needed him. I figured now was the time.

  I slipped away for a moment and walked across the road to a small mound of earth overlooking the woods and rolling hills. There was a garden there with a single elm tree, almost hidden among the grape arbors. I reached into my wallet and found the card there among my other papers. It was dog-eared, but still glowing.

  Warrior, Inc.

  Socrates, Prop.

  Specializing in:

  Paradox, Humor,

  and Change

  Emergencies Only!

  I held it in both hands and spoke softly. “All right, Socrates, you old wizard. Do your stuff. Come visit us, Soc!” I waited and tried again. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. The wind gusted for a moment — that was all.

  My disappointment surprised me. I had held on to a secret hope that he might somehow return. But he wasn’t coming; not now, not ever. My hands dropped to my sides, and I looked down at the earth. “Good-bye, Socrates. Good-bye, my friend.”

  I opened my wallet to slip the card back in, glancing again at its lingering glow. The card had changed. In place of “Emergencies Only!” was a single word, glowing brighter than the rest. It said, “Happiness.” His wedding gift.

  In that moment, a warm breeze caressed my face, mussed my hair, and a falling leaf slapped my cheek as it floated down from the elm.

  I threw my head back, laughing with delight, and looked up through the elm’s outstretched branches, into the clouds drifting lazily by. I gazed above the stone fence, out over the houses dotted in the green forest below. The wind gusted again, and a lone bird soared by.

  Then I felt the truth of it. Socrates hadn’t come, because he had never left. He was only changed. He was the elm above my head; he was the clouds and the bird and the wind. They would always be my teachers, my friends.

  Before walking back to my wife, my home, my friends, and my future, I surveyed the world around me. Socrates was here. He was everywhere.

  PEACEFUL WARRIOR — FROM BOOK TO SCREEN

  AN INTERVIEW WITH DAN MILLMAN

  Q: Why is the movie titled Peaceful Warrior? It’s about a gymnast, not a soldier or martial artist. What does it mean to be a peaceful warrior?

  A: Socrates once told me, “I call myself a warrior — a peaceful warrior — because the real battles we face are inside us.” This is also my experience. The way I teach, expressed through my books and now the film, is that we must learn to live with both courage and love, because it takes courage to live and to love in this world.

  I hold in high regard those who serve in the military, in law enforcement, and others who put themselves in harm’s way to defend the people and values we cherish. I also admire those who spend years in arduous training in the martial arts as a path of personal and spiritual growth.

  Yet I view every human being on planet Earth as a “peaceful warrior in training,” engaged in a variety of personal challenges in the school of daily life, learning to face ourselves, and the world, with a peaceful heart and a warrior spirit.

  Q: What can you say about the experience of having your book Way of the Peaceful Warrior made into a movie?

  A: Film adaptations can be a challenge for authors. Moving from the relative solitude of book writing, where I’m the master of my realm and creations, to the collaborative medium of film has provided quite an education. I’ve learned the value of letting go and getting out of the way when it serves a higher good.

  It takes some wrestling between author, director, and producers to make a film that serves both art and commerce. Because of these challenges, it’s easy for some authors — particularly those who don’t understand the demands of adaptation — to become frustrated. The late novelist and sometimes screenwriter F. Scott Fitzgerald once suggested that authors who want their books to become movies should throw their manuscripts in the direction of Hollywood and run the other way.

  But overall my experience has been positive. I’ve developed immense respect for the skills and dedication of all those involved in the creation of
a quality film.

  Q: There seem to be a growing number of films involving spiritual themes lately. What qualities make Peaceful Warrior a spiritual film?

  A: Several recent films with spiritual or metaphysical themes have opened in limited venues such as selected churches or have gone straight to DVD. Other spiritually oriented films such as Resurrection, The Natural, Field of Dreams, Wings of Desire, Ghost, Phenomenon, and The Razor’s Edge — and now Peaceful Warrior — are picked up for theatrical distribution and reach a mainstream audience.

  Even movies that have no overt metaphysical elements, like Schindler’s List, or a sports film such as Rudy, might also be called spiritual because they lift our spirits. So we might well ask whether there are spiritual films or simply films that have spiritual moments?

  The book Way of the Peaceful Warrior has many spiritual moments — incidents that occurred during my college years. The movie also addresses elements, themes, and lessons about life’s higher potential. It offers spiritual nourishment for those people interested in integrating body, mind, and spirit. The film also speaks to a growing mainstream audience, to provide a bridge or transition point between flesh and spirit, East and West, conventional reality and transcendental possibilities.

  Dan, the young protagonist, represents all those who search for something more, for higher wisdom. A typical student athlete, he parties and has an active social and love life, but later, through the intervention of a spiritual catalyst he named Socrates, discovers universal lessons about living with a peaceful heart and warrior spirit. The film audience, like so many readers of the book, can now join him on this transformative journey.

  Q: How did the book end up getting made into a film?

  A: Considering how few books become films, it’s been close to a miracle that Way of the Peaceful Warrior completed the journey from page to screen. Because of the book’s spiritual themes and teachings, it was not an easy adaptation. It took a quarter century from publication to production.