Way of the Peaceful Warrior (15 page)

“Yes--in a sense, everyone must. You pave the way with your own work.”
 

Anticipating my next question, he said, “Anyone--any human being, male or female, has within, the capacity to find the gate and pass through, but very few are moved to do so; few are interested. This is very important. I didn't decide to teach you because of any inherent capacity you possessed--as a matter of fact, you have glaring weaknesses along with your strong points--but you have the will to make this journey.”
 

That stuck a resonant chord. “I guess you could compare it to gymnastics, Soc. Even someone who is overweight, weak, or inflexible can become a fine gymnast, but the preparation is longer, more difficult.”
 

“Yes, that's exactly what it's like. And I can tell you this: your path is going to be very steep.”
 

My head felt feverish, and I started to ache all over. I leaned against the desk again and out of the corner of my eye saw Socrates come toward me, reaching out for my head. “Oh no, not now; I'm not up to it,” I thought. But he was only feeling my feverish forehead. Then he checked the glands in my neck, looked at my face and eyes, and felt my pulse for a long time.
 

“Dan, your energies are way out of balance; your spleen is probably swollen. I suggest you visit a physician, tonight--now.”
 

I was feeling really miserable by the time I limped to Cowell Hospital. My throat was burning, my body aching. The doctor confirmed Soc's diagnosis; my spleen was badly swollen. I had a severe case of mononucleosis and was admitted to the infirmary.
 

During that first fitful, feverish night, I dreamed that I had one huge leg and one shrivelled one. When I tried to swing on the bars or tumble, everything was crooked, and I fell, fell, fell into the late afternoon of the next day, when Socrates walked in with a bouquet of dried flowers.
 

“Socrates,” I said weakly, delighted by his unexpected visit, “you shouldn't have.”
 

“Yes I should have,” he replied.
 

“I'll have the nurse put them in a vase; I'll think of you when I look at them,” I grinned weakly.
 

“They're not to look at--they're to eat,” he said, leaving the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a glass of hot water. Crushing some of the flowers, he wrapped them in a piece of cheesecloth he'd brought and dipped the tea bag into the water. “This tea will strengthen you, and help cleanse the blood. Here, drink.” It tasted bitter--strong medicine.
 

Then he took a small bottle of yellow liquid in which were floating more crushed herbs, and massaged the liquid deep into my right leg, directly over the scar, I wondered
what the nurse, a very pretty, businesslike young woman, would say if she came in. “What is that yellow stuff in the bottle, Soc?” “Urine, with a few herbs.”
 

“Urine!” I said, pulling my leg away from him with disgust.
 

“Don't be silly,” he said, grabbing my leg and pulling it back. “Urine is a very respected elixir in the ancient healing traditions.”
 

I closed my tired, aching eyes; my head was throbbing like jungle drums. I felt the fever starting to rise again. Socrates put his hand against my head, then felt the pulse in my wrist.
 

“Good, the herbs are taking effect. Tonight should be the crisis; tomorrow, you'll feel better.”
 

I managed a barely audible, “Thank you, Doc Soc.”
 

He reached over and put his hand on my solar plexus. Almost immediately, everything in my body intensified. I thought my head would explode. The fever started to burn me up; my glands pulsated. Worst of all was a terrible burning pain in my right leg at the site of the injury.
 

“Stop it Socrates, stop it!” I yelled.
 

“I introduced a little more energy into your body than you're used to,” he explained. It will accelerate the healing processes. It burns only where you have knots. If you were free of obstructions if your mind was clear, your heart open, and your body free of tension, you'd experience the energy as an indescribable pleasure. Better than sex. You'd think you were in heaven, and in a way, you'd be right.
 

“Sometimes you scare me, Socrates.”
 

“Superior people are always held in fear and awe,” he grinned. “In some ways you are superior, too, Dan, at least on the outside. You look like a warrior; slim, supple, and strong from your rudimentary preparation in gymnastics. But you have a lot of work to do before you earn the kind of health I enjoy.” I was too weak to argue.
 

The nurse walked in. “Time to take your temperature, Mr. Millman.” Socrates had risen politely when she entered. I lay in bed looking pale and miserable. The contrast between the two of us had never felt greater than at that moment. The nurse smiled at Socrates, who grinned back. “I think your son is going to be just fine with a little rest,” she said.
 

“Just what I was telling him,” Soc said, his eyes twinkling. She smiled at him again, was that a flirtatious look she gave him? With a rustle of white, she walked out of the room, looking blatantly appealing.
 

Socrates sighed. “There's something about a woman in uniform.” Then he put his hand on my forehead. I fell into a deep sleep.
 

The next morning, I felt like a new man. The doctor's eyebrows rose as he checked my spleen, felt for my swollen glands, and rechecked my chart. He was dumbfounded. “I can't find anything wrong with you, Mr. Millman.” He sounded almost apologetic. “You can go home after lunch--uh, get plenty of rest.” He walked out, staring at my chart.
 

The nurse rustled by again. “Help!” I yelled,
 

“Yes?” she said, stepping inside.
 

“I can't understand it, nurse. I think I'm having heart trouble. Every time you go by, my pulse gets erotic.”
 

“Don't you mean erratic?” she said, “Oh, whatever.”  Smiling at me, she said, “It sounds like you're ready to go home.”
 

“That's what everyone keeps telling me, but you're all mistaken. I'm sure I'll need private nursing care.”
 

Smiling invitingly, she turned and walked away. “Nurse! Don't leave me,” I cried.
 

That afternoon, walking home, I was astonished by the improvement in my leg. I still limped badly, throwing my hip out to the side whenever I took a step, but I could almost walk without my cane. Maybe there was something to Soc's magic urine treatment or the battery-charge he had given me.
 

School had begun and I was again surrounded by other students and books and assignments, but that was all secondary to me now. I could play the game without concern. I had much more important things to do in a small gas station west of campus.
 

After a long nap, I walked to the station. The moment I sat down, Soc said, “Lots of work to do.”
 

“What is it?” I said, stretching and yawning.
 

“A complete overhaul.”
 

“Oh, a big job.”
 

“Especially big; we're going to overhaul you.”
 

“Oh, yeah?” I said. Oh hell, I thought.
 

“Like the Phoenix, you're going to throw yourself into the fire and rise from your ashes.”
 

“I'm ready!” I said. “For my new year's resolution, I'm going to give up doughnuts.”
 

Socrates grinned at me, saying, “I wish it were that simple. Right now you're a tangled mass of twisted circuits and outmoded habits. You're going to have to change habits of acting, of thinking, of dreaming, and of seeing the world. Most of what you are is a series of bad habits.”
 

He was starting to get to me. “Damn it, Socrates, I've overcome some difficult hurdles, and I'm still doing the best I can. Can't you show me some respect?”
 

Socrates threw his head back and laughed. Then he walked over to me and pulled my shirt out. As I was tucking it back in, he mussed up my hair. “Listen to me, O great buffoon, everyone wants respect. But it is not just a matter of saying, 'Please respect me.' You must earn respect by acting respectable--and the respect of a warrior is not easily earned.”
 

I counted to ten, then asked, “How then, am I going to earn your respect, O Great and Awesome Warrior?“
 

“By changing your act.”
 

“What act is that?”
 

“Your 'poor me' act, of course. Stop being so proud of mediocrity; show some spirit!” Grinning, Socrates jumped up and slapped me playfully on my cheek, then poked me in the ribs.
 

“Stop it,” I yelled, in no mood for his play. I reached out to grab his arm, but he leaped lightly up on his desk. Then he leaped over my head, spun, and pushed me backwards onto the couch. Climbing angrily to my feet I tried to push him back, but just as I touched him he leaped backward over the desk. I fell forwards onto the carpet. “Goddamn it,” I raged, seeing red. He slipped out the door into the garage. I limped after him in pursuit.
 

Socrates perched on a fender and scratched his head. “Why Dan, you're angry.”
 

“Stunning observation,” I fumed, panting heavily.
 

“Good,” he said. “Considering your predicament, you should be angry--but make sure you direct that anger wisely.” Soc deftly began to change the spark plugs on a VW. “Anger is one of your main tools to transform old habits”--he removed an old plug with the sparkplug wrench-- “and replace them with new ones.” He threaded a new plug into the block, tightening it with a firm tug of the wrench. “Fear and sorrow inhibit action’ anger generates is. When you learn to make proper use of your anger, you can change fear and sorrow to anger, then turn anger to action. That’s the body’s secret of internal alchemy.”
 

Back inside Socrates drew some water from the spring water dispenser and put on the evening's tea specialty, rose hips, as he continued. “To rid yourself of old patterns, focus all your energy not on struggling with the old, but on building the new.”
 

“How can I control my habits if I can't even control my emotions, Soc?”
 

“You don’t need to control emotion,” he said. “Emotions are natural, like passing weather. Sometimes it’s fear, sometimes sorrow or anger. Emotions are not the problem. The key is to transform the energy of emotion into constructive action.”

I got up, took the whistling kettle off the hot plate, and poured the steaming water into out mugs. “Can you give me a specific example, Socrates?”

“Spend time with a baby.”

Smiling, I blew on my tea. “Funny, I never thought of babies as masters of emotional control.”
 

“When a baby is upset, it expresses itself in banshee wails---pure crying. It doesn't wonder about whether it should be crying.
 

Hold or feed it and within seconds, no more tears. If the baby is angry, then it very definitely lets you know. But this too, it lets go of very quickly; can you imagine a baby's feeling guilty about its anger? Babies let it flow, then let it go. They express themselves fully, then shut up. Infants are fine teachers. And they demonstrate the right use of energy. Learn that, and you can transform any habit.”
 

A Ford Ranchero Wagon pulled into the station. Socrates went around to the driver's seat while I, chuckling, grabbed the gas hose and removed the gas cap. Inspired by his enlightening revelation of how to control emotions, I yelled over the roof of the car, “Just tell me what to do and set me loose, Soc. I'll tear those nasty habits to shreds!” Then I got a look at the passengers--three shocked nuns. I choked on my words and, turning beet-red, busied myself with washing the windows. Socrates just leaned against the pump and  buried his face in his hands.
 

After the Ranchero pulled out, much to my relief, another customer drove in. It was the blond man again--the one with the curly beard. He jumped out of the car and gave Socrates a bear hug. “Good to se you, as always, Joseph,” Socrates said.
 

“Same here. Socrates, isn't it?” He gave me a beguiling grin.
 

“Joseph, this young question machine is named 'Dan'. Push a button and he asks a question. Marvelous to have around, really, when I've no one to talk to.”
 

Joseph shook my hand. “Has the old man mellowed in his declining years?” he asked with a broad smile.
 

Before I could assure him that Soc was probably more ornery than ever, the 'old man' interrupted, “Oh, I've really become lazy; Dan has it much easier than you did.”
 

“Oh, I see,” Joseph said, maintaining a serious countenance. “You haven't taken him on any mile runs or worked with the burning coals yet, hmm?”
 

“No, nothing like that. We're just about to start with the basics, like how to eat, walk, and breathe.”
 

Joseph laughed merrily; I found myself laughing with him. “Speaking of eating,” he said, “Why don't both of you come to the cafe this morning. You'll be my private guests, and I'll whip up something for breakfast.”
 

I was just about to say, “Oh, I'd like to, but I really can't,” when Socrates volunteered, “We'd be delighted. The morning shift gets on in half an hour. We'll walk over.”
 

“Great. See you then.” He handed Soc a five dollar bill for the gas, and drove off.
 

I wondered about Joseph. “Is he a warrior, like you, Soc?”
 

“No one is a warrior like me,” he answered, laughing. “Nor would anyone want to be. Each man or woman has natural qualities. For example, while you've excelled in gymnastics, Joseph has mastered the preparation of food.”