The Hidden School

by Dan Millman

  At first I felt my doubts recede. But what had I achieved in writing this translation of Soc’s ideas? Socrates might appreciate my words, but what would another reader make of them? Can a person truly cross a bridge between worlds from one moment to the next? I turned back a few pages to reread what I’d written.

  You need not realize absolute enlightenment to find relief. Even in the midst of an ordinary day, a subtle shift in awareness can bridge the temporal and the transcendent, momentarily liberating you from the fear of death and revealing the gateway to eternal life.

  Even as I blended Soc’s insights with my carefully chosen words, I felt tempted to dismiss such lofty notions as impractical speculation—only I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Throughout the time we’d trained together, Socrates had told me things that at first seemed outlandish. But later his words came to feel more true and essential than all the lessons of my youth. These memories were so vivid that it felt as if I might find Soc’s service-station office in the next room. In this state of mind, I decided to tackle one of his more difficult ideas, dealing with the question and paradox, the benefits and liabilities, of identity.

  Your identity as a man, a woman, a member of a particular profession, club, tribe, or religion brings a sense of inclusion and community. But every inclusion breeds an exclusion, every self an other, and every us creates a them.

  Each day you tap into empathic bonds of identity with family, friends, and lovers. You identify with characters in literature and film, enabling you to immerse yourself in story worlds, transcending the self thousands of times across a lifetime. And just as you can identify with a character in a story and know simultaneously that you’re not really that character, you can discover that you also play a character in everyday life.

  Realizing this reality opens a gap in the fabric of the world, enabling you to pass through. It becomes possible to live as if you have a self without being imprisoned by it. This marks the beginning of freedom and the spontaneous life, in which consistency is overrated, expectations are ignored, and self-transcendence is not only a possibility but a practice.

  As the borders of the limited self—the isolated, immutable self—become permeable, transparent, the idea of death becomes flimsier, less substantial, more open to question and interpretation. What effect will this have as you consider the loss of something that might not exactly exist?

  * * *

  Weeks passed. I often thought about my daughter even though I knew there was no way to reach her. I thought about what kind of father I wanted to be when we were together again. In the chill of late February, after the snowdrifts had thinned, Mei Bao invited me to accompany her to Taishan Village, a half-day’s hike. I filled out the postcard I’d picked up in Hong Kong, just in case.

  We left the next day after dawn, moving fast, ducking under low branches, stepping over fallen logs. Mei Bao clearly wasn’t worried about getting lost in the forest. At times the trail narrowed, and it was all I could do to stay on her heels.

  “Why make these trips yourself?” I asked. “Can’t you have someone from the town deliver what you need?”

  “That wouldn’t be possible,” she said. “As you know, it’s not easy to find us.”

  “I found you.”

  “You were meant to.”

  “You believe that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Later, when we could walk side by side again and her pace slowed, I asked her about herself, where she came from, how she’d learned English.

  At first she was silent, perhaps wondering how much to share. Then she began haltingly: “I was born in Hong Kong, and my earliest memories are happy ones. When I was six years old, the tenement house where my family lived burned down. It was late at night. While everyone else slept, I sometimes crawled out of my bed and played on the floor. When the fire began, a burning beam fell directly onto my empty bed,” she said, touching her scarred cheek. “The beam also shattered a window, allowing for my escape. My parents, my sisters and brothers, everyone else in the building—they were all killed. All but me. I felt unworthy, being the only survivor.

  “Because there was no one left to take care of me, I roamed the streets, begging. A few people took pity on me, but in the end no one wanted a scarred girl. Eventually, by chance or destiny, I found my way to the house of Hua Chi. I didn’t meet her then. I’d only found her garden, a forest of flowers, which seemed a good place to hide at night. By day, I went begging. I returned to the garden each evening to sleep in my new sanctuary.

  “From my hiding place, I’d watch Hua Chi as she left the house each morning and returned later in the day. I didn’t reveal myself at first, for fear she would scold me and forbid me to sleep there.

  “Hua Chi later told me that she’d known of my presence from the first day. Her senses are keen. It wasn’t until later that she began leaving fruit on a white napkin near my hiding place. At first I just thought she was feeding the birds. When I realized that it was meant for me, I showed myself. She returned one day and found me sitting on her front steps, waiting for her. She likes to tell this story; she always mentions how neatly I folded the napkin.” Mei Bao seemed lost in her memories. Her fingers moved as though she were once again folding the napkin.

  “Hua Chi took me in. She taught me how to live. She sent me to schools where I learned languages—English, French, German. I studied diligently to please my new mother.

  “She also encouraged me to become proficient in several different styles of martial arts. For my health, she said, but I sensed as well that she never wanted me to be exploited again. When I was eleven, she brought me to this place. Master Ch’an has been my father ever since.”

  Suddenly Mei Bao’s attention snapped back to the present. She turned and pointed into the shadows. “There—look.” Two shining eyes and a midnight-black face dissolved as soon as I saw them.

  “A leopard,” she said. “One of the Guardians.” After that, I glanced behind me many times as we continued on the path.

  When we reached the outskirts of the village—sooner than I’d expected, given my last experience alone in the forest—Mei Bao suggested that I wait in the cover of the trees. Disappointed at first, I understood her caution and agreed. It wouldn’t do for her to be seen with a foreigner. Even from this isolated outpost, “footpath news” traveled fast and far.

  I nearly forgot to give her my postcard and a little of my Chinese currency, asking if she might post it to my daughter for me. She hesitated for a few moments, and then agreed. “I’ll write a few characters in Chinese at the top before handing it to the shopkeeper. He’ll be less likely to notice the English writing.”

  I didn’t have to wait too long. Mei Bao returned, carrying bolts of cotton cloth and silk as well as dried fruit. I carried most of her purchases in an improvised pack she gave me. She’d been able to post the card without problems.

  On the way back, we stopped to pick some red winterberries and to gather a few sprigs of the Hong Hua herb for Master Ch’an. Mei Bao knew just where to find it, brushing away the cover of snow.

  We were making good progress, following the same path we’d blazed earlier through the snow, when I heard a crashing sound nearby, like a falling tree. I looked up, horrified, to see Mei Bao falling, rolling backward to the side of the path. Standing over her, lunging toward her, was the same huge bear that had sent me hurtling over the gorge.

  TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  Mei Bao lay staring up as the bear raised one lethal paw. The next thing I knew, I was charging forward. I heard a ferocious yell—my own. Seemingly startled, the bear backed away. I thought I heard a moan and went to Mei Bao’s aid. She’d clasped a hand over her mouth—to stifle a laugh!

  “What the hell’s going on? You’re not hurt?”

  “N-n-no, Dan.” She began to giggle as her hand fell away from her mouth. “I’m fine. But you may have hurt Hong Hong’s feelings. He was just playing with me.”

  “Hong Hong?! It
has a name?”

  “Why are you whispering?” She laughed even harder, unable to speak. I heard a scraping sound and turned to see Hong Hong rubbing against a tree.

  “Please don’t frighten him more,” Mei Bao said, climbing to her feet. “He’s really a very well-behaved bear. He too is a Guardian of the forest. Few of the animals are tame anymore, but Hong Hong is special to us. He often sneaks up on me, or tries to, and pushes me over. I’m so glad you didn’t hurt him!” I couldn’t quite believe what she was saying until she reached out to scratch the fur on the bear’s neck and he settled placidly back onto all fours. “Say you’re sorry, Dan; he has sensitive feelings.”

  Staring at his snout, I managed to say, “Hello, uh, sorry I frightened you, Hong Hong.” I held out my hand, wondering if I’d get it back again. The bear sniffed it loudly, took another look at Mei Bao, grunted, and then lumbered back into the forest.

  “I think he likes you,” she said. “You were brave. You didn’t know that he’s tame. Hong Hong can make some people nervous.”

  “No kidding,” I said, relating my first acquaintance with him.

  Laughing, Mei Bao said, “You showed courage to save my life. I’m grateful.” She bowed.

  “Reminds me of the time I made a vicious bull run.”

  “Really? How did you do that?”

  “It was easy. I ran away, and the bull ran after me.”

  She laughed again. The sun now appeared to hang just above her head. She noticed it too. “We’d better increase our pace if we’re to reach the school before dusk.”

  Half an hour later, as we crossed down through the field, only the farm cat came out to greet us with a loud meow. “Could you translate that for me?” I asked.

  In response, Mei Bao said, in a modest display of wit: “I could if she spoke Mandarin, but she only speaks Catonese.”

  That evening, too tired to write, I went directly to bed. But the next day, during the morning break and in the evening, I began working to expand upon what Socrates had to say about science and faith.

  Science and faith represent two different worldviews that express the paradox of conventional and transcendental truths—one of the body and another of the soul. If an idea can be tested, it falls within the realm of science; if not, it resides in the realm of faith. Both are worthy of respect, but let’s not confuse one with the other. Science has emerged as a dominant method of exploring reality. Faith remains a source of inspiration and comfort for many. Science and technology may lead to a brighter, more peaceful future. Faith calls us to our highest ideals of love and service, and to our essential unity. At the farthest reaches of scientific exploration, we confront mysteries bordering on faith. As faith becomes self-aware, seeing the limits of old stories, it finds new narratives resonant with humanity’s evolving wisdom.

  All the enduring constructs or models that anchor you to a consensual reality—including religious or metaphysical ideas about God, the soul, heaven, or reincarnation—survive because they claim to fathom and explain the mystery of life. You may accept such ideas as revealed truth or as metaphor according to your values and needs. Or you may reject them. Whether theories of science or articles of faith are true may be less important than whether they’re useful. Do they bring comfort or clarity? Do they help you to see higher truths, or draw you deeper into illusion? You can choose for yourself what you hold true, but you can’t decide for others.

  Here on the farm, where life was so simple and practical as I worked, trained, taught, ate, and slept, it felt odd to articulate such lofty ideas about the nature and meaning of our existence. Even as I reminded my students to connect their acrobatic training with the practice of life, I wondered: Is it all wishful thinking and philosophical speculation? Or is there something I’ve missed? Will this writing help me find the meaning I seek, or shall I abandon the quest altogether?

  That night I tossed and turned. When I heard the rooster’s cry, I wasn’t sure that I’d slept at all. That day I became so racked with doubt that I put my own journal aside for a few days and returned to Soc’s notes, reading them over and over. Looking for another sign, Dan? I mocked myself after yet another night of troubled contemplation.

  The following evening, I decided not to go to sleep, not to even get up from my desk, until I’d made a real attempt to answer my own question. I returned to the first pages I’d produced, back when the writing felt effortless. One phrase in particular jumped out at me: “life is a game you can play as if it matters.” As if . . . I thought, and I began to write.

  Even from an individual perspective, in any given moment you can experience and perceive the world from either of two levels.

  From a conventional view, suitable for dealing with the stuff of everyday life, you live as if you’re an individual self—what you perceive and what happens is real and matters. From a transcendent view, you find yourself less attached and more ecstatic (or unreasonably happy). You live as if both you and the world are part of an intriguing dream. Each perspective brings a different experience. As the proverb goes, “Two men looked out of prison bars. One saw mud, and the other saw stars.”

  You can access either state of awareness by a shift in attention. In any given moment or circumstance, you can remain fully functional in the conventional world even as you appreciate the transcendent vision sought by religious and spiritual practitioners everywhere.

  I reread what I’d written and let it settle awhile before I was finally prepared to return to the four paradoxes:

  From a conventional view, the following four statements are true, and supported by our everyday experience and consensual reality.

  First: Time passes.

  Second: You make free choices and are responsible for them.

  Third: You are (or have) an inner self.

  Fourth: Death is real, inevitable, and final.

  From a transcendent view, the following four statements are true, and founded on an expansive vision reflecting the realizations and testimonies of numerous spiritual adepts, mystics, philosophers, and scientists who have glimpsed another order of reality.

  First: Time is a human construct; only the eternal present exists.

  Second: Your choices are predetermined by a chain of factors within and without.

  Third: No separate inner self exists—only the same Consciousness (or Awareness) shining through billions of eyes.

  Fourth: Death cannot exist because that one Consciousness is never born and can never die.

  Be content to look on transcendent truths as you do on the stars, seeing them clearly only from time to time. To peer through the clouds and fog, take a closer look at the conventional and transcendent truths of the four paradoxes:

  Time passes. * There’s no time, only the eternal present.

  Time is a human construct that we accept as real. The second hand moves and the minutes tick by—hours, days, years. At ten o’clock you recall what you were doing at nine o’clock. You speak of yesterday, today, and tomorrow as time moves forward, waiting for no one. Aging bodies—your own, and the bodies of those with whom you share your life—provide proof of the passing of time.

  From a transcendent view, all you have is this (and this and this) present moment. All else is memory, what you call the past, and imagination, what you call the future. But the past no longer exists, and tomorrow never comes.

  You sit in a boat floating down the river of time. Someone on shore sees the conventional view of a boat moving from past to present to future—even as you sit absolutely still, in the eternal present.

  You are free to choose. * Every choice is determined by all that came before.

  Each day you make choices, limited by circumstance. With every decision, you demonstrate your freedom to choose. You are thus responsible—to one or another degree—for your choices as well as for their moral and legal consequences. Human society works more smoothly when you accept this reality.

  From a transcendent perspective, your choices and actions emer
ge as a natural and inevitable consequence of all the historical, genetic, and environmental forces that have shaped you. As one sage put it: Every event that has occurred, the birth of every star and every molecule, every life evolving or action taken by anyone who has ever lived, has brought you to this moment. You can choose whatever you wish—but can you choose what you will choose? Or do your apparent decisions flow from unconscious factors?

  I was satisfied that I had conveyed the meaning and message that Socrates had intended, but I felt troubled by the idea that our choices are predetermined. If free will was an illusion, what about responsibility?

  I thought about icons from history—great philosophers, villains, and saints. Do they choose the paths that lead them to renown, infamy, or martyrdom? Can any of us know or choose our future? Does our will carry us forward, or does a blend of fate and fortune shape our lives?

  With such ruminations churning in my mind, I continued writing.

  We are separate selves. * We are each and all part of the same Consciousness.

  In any given moment, other bodies don’t feel your pain, think your thoughts, or feel your emotions. Thus, you operate as an independent self. With every misunderstanding you become newly aware of your separateness.

  From a transcendent perspective, “I” is a persistent illusion. Billions of bodies live everyday lives without the necessity (or existence) of an independent inner self at the controls.

  Death is real. * Life is eternal.

  If you have sat with a dying person or viewed a body after death, you have observed its reality. The body grows cold and soon begins to decompose. The spark of life force that once shone through that body’s eyes is extinguished.