Way of the Peaceful Warrior (11 page)

Later that morning, I went running around Edwards Field. There I met Dwight, who worked up at the Lawrence Hall of Science in the Berkeley Hills. I had to ask his name a second time, because I “didn't catch it” the first time; another reminder of my feeble attention and wandering mind. After a few laps, Dwight remarked about the cloudless blue sky. I had been so lost in thought, I hadn't even noticed the sky. Then he headed for the hills. He was a marathon runner--and I returned home, thinking about my mind a self-defeating activity if ever there was one.
 

I observed that in the gym I kept my attention focused precisely on every action, but when I stopped soaring, my thoughts would again obscure my perception.
 

That night I walked to the station early, hoping to greet Socrates at the beginning of his shift. By now I'd done my best to forget about yesterday's incident in the library and was ready to hear any antidote to my hyperactive mind that Soc cared to suggest.
 

I waited. Midnight arrived. Soon after, so did Socrates.
 

We had just settled into the office when I started to sneeze and had to blow my nose. I had a slight cold. Soc put the tea kettle on, and I began, as was my custom, with a question.
 

“Socrates, how do I stop my thoughts, my mind--other than by developing a sense of humor?”
 

“First you need to understand where your thoughts come from, how they arise in the first place. For example, you have a cold now; its physical symptoms tell you that your body needs to re balance itself, to restore its proper relationship with sunlight, fresh air, simple food; to relax into its environment.”
 

“What does all this have to do with my mind?”
 

“Everything. Random thoughts that disturb and distract you are symptoms, too, of 'dis-ease' with your environment. When the mind resists life, thoughts arise. When something happens to conflict with a belief, turmoil is set up. Thought is an unconscious reaction to life.”
 

A car rolled into the station bearing a formally dressed older couple who sat like two ramrods in the front seat. “Come with me,” Soc ordered. He removed his windbreaker and his cotton sportshirt, revealing a bare chest and shoulders with lean, well defined muscles under smooth, translucent skin.
 

He walked up to the driver's side of the car and smiled at the shocked pair. “What can I do for you folks? Gasoline to fuel your spirits? Perhaps oil to smooth out the rough spots in your day? How about a new battery to put a little charge in your life?” He winked at them openly and stood his ground, smiling, as the car lurched forward and sped away from the station. He scratched his head. “Maybe they just remembered that they left the water running at home.”
 

While we relaxed in the office, sipping our tea, Socrates explained his lesson. “You saw that man and woman resist what to them represented an abnormal situation. Conditioned by their values and fears, they haven't learned to cope with spontaneity. I could have been the highlight of their day!
 

“You see, Dan, when you resist what happens, your mind begins to race; the same thoughts that impinge upon you are actually created by you.”
 

“And your mind works differently?”
 

“My mind is like a pond without ripples. Your mind, on the other hand, is full of waves because you feel separated from, and often threatened by, an unplanned, unwelcome occurrence. Your mind is like a pond into which someone has just dropped a boulder!”
 

As I listened, I gazed into the depths of my tea cup, when I felt a touch just behind the ears. Suddenly my attention intensified; I stared deeper and deeper into the cup, down, down . . .
 

I was underwater, looking up. This was ridiculous! Had I fallen into my tea cup? I had fins and gills; very fishy. I whipped my tail and darted to the bottom, where it was silent and peaceful.
 

Suddenly, a huge rock crashed into the water's surface. Shock waves slapped me backwards. My fins whipped the water again and I took off, seeking shelter. I hid until everything quieted down again. As time passed, I became accustomed to the little stones that sometimes fell into the water, making ripples. The large plunks, however, still startled me.
 

In a world filled with sound and dryness again, I lay on the couch, looking up, wide-eyed, at Soc's smile.
 

“Socrates, that was incredible!”
 

“Please, not another fish story. I'm glad you had a nice swim. Now, may I continue?” He didn't wait for an answer.
 

“You were a very nervous fish, fleeing every large ripple. Later, you became used to the ripples but still had no insight into their cause. You can see,” he continued, “that a magnificent leap of awareness is required for the fish to extend its vision beyond the water in which it is immersed to the source of the ripples.”
 

“A similar leap of awareness will be required of you. When you understand the source clearly, you'll see that the ripples of your mind have nothing to do with you; you'll just watch them, without attachment, no longer compelled to overreact every time a pebble drops. You will be free of the world's turbulence as soon as you calm your thoughts. Remember when you are troubled, let go of your thoughts and deal with your mind!”
 

“Socrates, how?”
 

“A not-so-bad question!” he exclaimed. “As you've learned  from your physical training, leaps of gymnastics--or of awareness don't happen all at once; they require time and practice. And the practice of insight into the source of your own ripples is meditation.”
 

With that grand announcement, he excused himself and went to the bathroom. Now it was time to spring my surprise on him. I yelled from the couch, so he could hear me through the bathroom door. “I'm one step ahead of you, Socrates. I joined a meditation group a week ago. I thought I'd do something myself about this old mind of mine,” I
explained. “We sit together for half an hour each evening. I'm already starting to relax more and get some control over my thoughts. Have you noticed I've been calmer? Say, Soc, do you practice meditation? If not, I can show you what I've learn--”
 

The bathroom door blasted open and Socrates came straight at me, screaming a blood-curdling shriek, holding a gleaming samurai sword over his head! Before I could move, the sword slashed at me, cutting silently through the air, and stopped inches over my head. I looked up at the hovering sword, then at Socrates. He grinned at me.
 

“You sure know how to make an entrance. You scared the shit out of me!” I gasped.
 

The blade ascended slowly. Poised over my head, it seemed to capture and intensify all the light in the room. It shone in my eyes and made me squint. I decided to shut up.
 

But Socrates only knelt on the floor in front of me, gently placed the sword between us, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sat perfectly still. I watched him for a while, wondering if this “sleeping tiger” would waken and leap at me if I moved. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. I figured maybe he wanted me to meditate, too, so I closed my eyes and sat for half an hour. Opening my eyes, I watched him still sitting there like a Buddha. I started to fidget and got up quietly to get a drink of water. I was filling my mug when he put his hand on my shoulder. Water sloshed over my shoes as my hand jerked.
 

“Socrates, I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like that. Couldn't you make some noise?”
 

He smiled, and spoke. “Silence is the warrior's art--and meditation is his sword. It is the central weapon you'll use to cut through your illusions. But understand this: the sword's usefulness depends upon the swordsman. You don't yet know how to use the weapon, so it can become a dangerous, deluding, or useless tool in your hands.
 

“Meditation may initially help you to relax. You put your 'sword' on display; you proudly show it to friends. The gleam of this sword distracts many meditators into further illusion until they ultimately abandon it to seek yet another 'inner alternative'.
 

“The warrior, on the other hand, uses the sword with skill and deep understanding. With it, he cuts the mind to ribbons, slashing through thoughts to reveal their lack of substance. Listen and learn:
 

Alexander the Great, marching with his armies through the desert, came upon two thick ropes tied in the massive, convoluted Gordian knot. No one had been able to untie it until the challenge was given to Alexander. Without a moment's hesitation he drew his sword and in one powerful blow he cut the knot in two. He was a warrior!
 

“That is how you must learn to attack the knots of your mind--with the sword of meditation. Until one day you transcend your need for any weapon at all.”
 

Just then an old VW bus with a new coat of white paint and a rainbow painted on its side, chugged into the station. Inside sat six people, hard to tell apart. As we approached them, we could see that there were two women and four men, all dressed from head to toe in the same blue outfits. I recognized them as members of one of the many new spiritual groups in the Bay area. These particular people self-righteously avoided acknowledging our presence, as if our worldliness might contaminate them.
 

Socrates, of course, rose to the challenge, immediately affecting a combination limp and lisp persona. Scratching himself profusely, he was the perfect Quasimodo. “Hey,
Jack,” he said to the driver, who had the longest beard I'd ever seen, “Ya want gas, or what?”
 

“Yes, we want gas,” the man said, his voice as smooth as salad oil.
 

Socrates leered at the two women in the back and, sticking his head in the window, he whispered loudly, “Hey do you meditate?” He said it as if he were referring to a solitary form of sexual release.
 

“Yes, we do,” said the driver, cosmic superiority oozing from his voice. “Now, will you put gas in our vehicle?” Soc waved at me to fill the tank, while he proceeded to push every button the driver had. “Hey, ya know, you look kinda like a girl in that dress, guy--don't get me wrong, it's real pretty. And why don't you shave; what are ya hiding under that fuzz?”
 

While I cringed, he went from bad to even worse. “Hey,” he said to one of the women, “Is this guy your boyfriend? Tell me,” he said to the other man in the front seat, “Do you ever do it, or do you save it up like I read in the National Enquirer?”
 

That about did it. By the time Socrates counted out their change with agonizing slowness (he kept losing count and starting over) I was ready to burst out laughing and the people in the van were trembling with anger. The driver grabbed his change and drove out of the station in a very unsaintly way. As their van pulled out, Socrates yelled, “Meditation is good for you. Keep practicing.” We'd no sooner returned to the office when a big Chevy pulled  into the station. The clang of the business bell was followed by an impatient “ooga-ooga” from a musical horn. I went out with Socrates to help.
 

Behind the wheel sat a forty-year-old “teenager” dressed in flashy satin clothes, topped with a large feathered safari hat. He was extremely jittery and kept tapping the steering wheel. Next to him, batting false eyelashes in the rearview mirror as she powdered her nose, sat a woman of indeterminate age.
 

For some reason, they offended me. They looked asinine. I wanted to say, “Why don't you act your age?” but I watched and waited.
 

“Hey man, ya got a cigarette machine here?” the hyperactive driver said.
 

Socrates stopped what he had been doing and with a warm smile said, “No sir, but there's an all-night market down the road.” Then he returned to checking the oil, giving it his full attention. He returned the change as if he were serving tea to the emperor.
 

After the car sped away we remained at the pump, smelling the night air. “You treated these people so courteously but were positively obnoxious to our blue-robed seekers, who were obviously on a higher evolutionary level. What's the story?”
 

For once, he gave me a simple, direct answer. “The only levels that should concern you are mine---and yours,” he said with a grin. “These people needed kindness. The spiritual seekers needed something else to reflect upon.”
 

“What do I need?” I blurted.
 

“More practice,” he answered quickly. “Your week-long meditation practice alone didn't help you stay calm when I ran at you with the sword, nor did it help our blue-robed friends when I poked a little fun at them.
 

“Let me put it this way: A forward roll is not the whole of gymnastics. A meditation technique is not the whole of the warrior's way. If you fail to understand the complete picture, you might be deluded, practicing only forward rolls--or only meditation--your whole life, thus reaping only fragmented benefits of training.
 

“What you need to stay on the right track then, is a special map that covers the entire terrain you will explore. Then you'll realize the uses--and limits---of meditation. And I ask you, where can you get a good map?”
 

“At a service station, of course!”
 

“Well then, sir, step into the office and I'll give you just the map you need.” We entered laughing, through the garage door. I plopped onto the couch; Socrates settled without a sound between the massive arm rests of his plush chair,
 

He stared at me for a full minute. “Uh-oh,” I said nervously under my breath. “Something's up.”
 

“The problem is,” he sighed at last, “that I can't describe the terrain for you, at least not in so many…words.” He rose and walked towards me with that shine in his eye that told me to pack my suitcases--I was going on a trip.