Way of the Peaceful Warrior (12 page)

For an instant, from a vantage point somewhere in space, I felt myself expanding at the speed of light, ballooning, exploding to the outermost limits of existence until I was the universe. Nothing separate remained. I had become everything. I was Consciousness, recognizing itself; I was the pure light that physicists equate with all matter, and poets define as love. I was one, and I was all, outshining all the worlds. In that moment, the eternal, the unknowable had been revealed to me as an indescribable certainty.
 

In a flash, I was back in my mortal form, floating among the stars. I saw a prism shaped like a human heart, which dwarfed every galaxy. It diffracted the light of consciousness into an explosion of radiant colors, sparkling splinters of every rainbow hue, spreading throughout the cosmos.
 

My own body became a radiant prism, throwing splinters of multi-colored light everywhere. And it came to me that the highest purpose of the human body is to become a clear channel for this light that its brightness can dissolve all obstructions, all knots, all resistance.
 

I felt the light diffracted across the systems of my own body. Then I knew that awareness is how the human being experiences the light of consciousness. I learned the meaning of attention--it is the intentional channeling of awareness. I felt my body again, as a hollow vessel. I looked at my legs; they filled with warm, radiant light, disappearing into brightness. I looked at my arms, with the same result. I focused attention on every part of the body, until I became wholly light once again. Finally, I realized the process of real meditation to expand awareness, to direct attention, to ultimately surrender to the Light of Consciousness.
 

A light flickered in darkness. I awoke to Socrates shining a flashlight back and forth across my eyes. “Power failure,” he said, baring his teeth like a Halloween pumpkin as he held the light up to his face. “Well, is it all a bit clearer now?” he asked, as if I had just learned how a light bulb worked, rather than seen the soul of the universe. I could hardly speak.
 

“Socrates, I owe you a debt that I can never repay. I understand everything now, and I know what I must do. I don't suppose I'll be needing to see you again.” I was sad that I had graduated. I would miss him.
 

He looked at me, a startled expression on his face, then started to laugh more uproariously than I'd ever seen before. He shook all over; tears ran down his cheeks.
Finally he calmed and explained his laughter. “You haven't quite graduated yet, junior; your work is hardly started. Look at yourself. You are fundamentally the same as when you stumbled in here months ago. What you saw was only a vision, not a conclusive experience. It will fade into memory, but even so, it will serve as a basis for your practice. Now relax and stop acting so serious!”
 

He sat back, as mischievous and wise as ever. “You see,” he said lightly, “these little journeys do save me some difficult explanations I must go through to enlighten you.” Just then, the lights flashed on, and we laughed.
 

He reached into his small refrigerator next to the water cooler and brought out some oranges, which he started to squeeze into orange juice as he continued. “If you must know, you're doing me a service, too. I'm also 'stuck' in a place in time and space, and owe a kind of debt myself. A lot of me is tied up with your progress. In order to teach you,” he said, tossing the orange rinds back over his shoulder into the wastebasket (making a perfect shot every time), “I literally had to put a part of me in you. Quite an investment, I assure you. So it's a team effort all the way.”
 

He finished the juice and handed me a small glassful. “A toast then,” I said, “to a successful partnership.”
 

“Done,” he smiled.
 

“Tell me more about this debt. To whom do you owe it?” “Let's say that it's part of the House Rules.” “That's silly, that's no answer at all.”
 

“Silly it may be, but still I must abide by a particular set of rules in my business.” He took out a small card. It looked normal enough, until I noticed a faint glow. In embossed letters, it said,
 

Warrior, Inc. Socrates, Prop. Specializing in:
 

Paradox, Humor, and Change
 

“Keep it safe. It may come in handy. When you need me---when you really need me--just hold the card in both hands and call. I’ll be there, one way or the other.”
 

I put the card carefully in my wallet. “I'll keep it safe, Socrates. You can count on it. Uh, by the way, you wouldn't have one of those cards with Joy's address on it, would you?”
 

He ignored me.
 

We were silent then, as Socrates began to prepare one of his crisp salads. Then I thought of a question.
 

“Socrates, how do I do it? How do I open myself to this light of awareness?”
 

“Well,” he asked, answering a question with a question, “what do you do when you want to see?”
 

I laughed. “I look! Oh, you mean meditation, don't you?” “Yep!” he answered. “And here's the core of it,” he said as he finished cutting the vegetables. “There are two simultaneous processes:
 

One is insight, the willing of attention, the channeling of awareness to focus precisely on what you want to see. The other process is surrendering, letting go of all arising thoughts. That is real meditation; that is how you cut free of the mind.”
 

“And, I just happen to have a story along these lines:
 

A student of meditation was sitting in deep silence with a small group of practitioners. Terrified by a vision of blood, death, and demons, he got up, walked to the teacher, and whispered, 'Roshi, I've just had horrible visions.'
 

'Let it go,' said his teacher.
 

A few days later, he was enjoying some fantastic erotic fantasies, insights into the meaning of life, with angels and cosmic decoration the works.
 

'Let it go,' said his teacher, coming up behind him with a stick and giving him a whack.”
 

I laughed at the story and said, “You know Soc, I've been thinking ...” Socrates gave me a whack on the head with a carrot, saying, “Let it go!”
 

We ate. I stabbed at my vegetables with a fork; he picked up each small bite with wooden chopsticks, breathing quietly as he chewed. He never picked up another bite until he was completely done with the first, as if each bite was a small meal in itself. I kind of admired the way he ate as I chomped merrily away. I finished first, sat back, and announced, “I guess I'm ready to have a go at real meditation.”
 

“Ah, yes.” He put down his chopsticks. “ 'Conquering the mind.' If only you were interested.”
 

“I am interested. I want self-awareness. That's why I'm here.”
 

“You want self-image, not self-awareness. You're here because you have no better alternatives.”
 

“But I do want to get rid of my noisy mind,” I protested. “That is your greatest illusion of all, Dan. You're like the man who refuses to wear glasses, insisting 'they aren't printing the newspapers clearly anymore.”  
 

“Wrong,” I said, shaking my head back and forth.
 

“I don't really expect you to see the truth of it yet, but you need to hear it.”
 

“What are you getting at?” I asked impatiently, my attention drifting outside.
 

“Here is the bottom line,” Socrates said, in a voice that firmly held my attention. “You identify with your petty, annoying, basically troubling beliefs and thoughts; you believe that you are your thoughts.”
 

“Nonsense.”
 

“Your stubborn illusions are a sinking ship, junior. I recommend that you let them go while there's still time.”
 

I stifled my rising temper. “How can you know how I 'identify’ with my mind?”
 

“OK,” he sighed. “I'll prove it to you: what do you mean when you make the statement, 'I'm going to my house'? Don't you naturally assume that you are separate from the house that you are going to?”
 

“Well of course, this is stupid.”
 

Ignoring me, he asked, “What do you mean when you say, 'My body is sore today'? Who is the 'I' who is separate from the body and speaks of it as a possession?”
 

I had to laugh. “Semantics, Socrates. You have to say something.”
 

“There enough, but the conventions of language reveal the ways we see the world. You do in fact, act as if you were a 'mind' or a subtle something inside the body.”
 

“Why would I possibly want to do that?”
 

“Because your greatest fear is death and your deepest craving is survival. You want Forever, you desire Eternity. In your deluded belief that you are this 'mind' or 'spirit' or 'soul', you find the escape clause in your contract with mortality. Perhaps as 'mind' you can wing free of the body when it dies, hmm?”
 

“It's a thought,” I grinned.
 

“That's exactly what it is, Dan, a thought, no more real than the shadow of a shadow. Here is the truth: consciousness is not in the body; rather, the body is in consciousness. And you are that consciousness; not the phantom mind which troubles you so. You are the body, but you are everything else too. That is what your vision revealed to you. Only the mind is deluded, threatened by change. So if you will just relax mindless into the body, you'll be happy and content and free, sensing no separation. Immortality is already yours, but not in the way you imagine or hope for. You have been immortal since before you were born and will be long after the body dissolves. The body is consciousness; it is immortal. It only changes. The mind your own personal beliefs and history and identity is the only mortal; so who needs it?”
 

Socrates signed off by relaxing into his chair.
 

“Socrates,” I said, “I'm not sure all of that sank in.”
 

“Of course not!” he laughed. “In any case, the words mean little unless you realize the truth of it yourself. Then you'll be free at last and will fall helplessly into eternity.”
 

“That sounds pretty good.”
 

He laughed. “Yes, I'd say it is 'pretty good'. But right now, I'm only laying the groundwork for what comes next.”
 

“Socrates, if I'm not my thoughts, what am I?”
 

He looked at me as if he'd just finished explaining that one and one are two and I'd then asked, “Yes, but what are one and one?” He reached over to the refrigerator, grasped an onion, and shoved it into my hand. “Peel it, layer by layer,” he demanded. I started peeling. “What do you find?” “Another layer.” “Continue.”
 

I peeled off a few more layers. “Just more layers, Soc.”
 

“Continue peeling until there are no more layers. What do you find?”
 

“There's nothing left.”
 

“There's something left, all right.”
 

“What's that?”
 

“The universe. Consider that as you walk home.”
 

I looked out the window; it was almost dawn.
 

I came in the next night after a mediocre meditation session, still brimming with thoughts. There wasn't much early evening business, so we sat back, sipping peppermint tea, and I told him about my lackluster meditation practice.
 

“Yes, your attention is still diffused. Let me tell you a story:
 

A Zen student asked his roshi the most important element of Zen. The roshi replied, “Attention.”
 

“Yes, thank you,” the student replied. “But can you tell me the second most important element?” And the roshi replied, “Attention.”
 

Puzzled, I looked up at Soc, waiting for more. “That's all, folks,” he said.
 

I stood up to get some water, and Socrates asked, “Are you paying close attention to your standing?”
 

“Uh, yes,” I answered, not at all sure that I was. I walked over to the dispenser.
 

“Are you paying close attention to your walking?” he asked. “Yes, I am,” I answered, starting to catch onto the game. “Are you paying close attention to how you talk?”
 

“Well, I guess so,” I said, listening to my voice. I was getting flustered.
 

“Are you paying attention to how you think?” he asked. “Socrates, give me a break--I'm doing the best I can.”
 

He leaned toward me. “Your best is not good enough! The intensity of your attention must burn. Aimlessly rolling around a gym mat doesn't develop a champion; sitting with your eyes closed and letting your attention roam doesn't train your awareness. The intensity of your practice brings proportionate benefits. Here is a story:
 

In a monastery, I sat day after day, straggling with a koan, a riddle my teacher had given me in order to spur the mind to see its true nature. I couldn't solve it. Each time I went to the roshi, I had nothing to offer him. I was a slow student and was becoming discouraged. He told me to continue working on my koan for one more month. “Surely then,” he encouraged me, “you will solve it.”
 

A month passed, and I tried my best. The koan remained a mystery.
 

“Stay with it one more week, with fire in your heart!” he told me. Day and night the koan burned, but still I could not see through it.
 

My roshi told me, “One more day, with all your spirit.” At the end of the day I was exhausted. I told him, “Master, it's no use--a month, a week, a day--I cannot pierce the riddle.” My master looked at me a long time. “Meditate for one more hour,” he said. “If you have not solved the koan by then, you will have to kill yourself.”