Way of the Peaceful Warrior (26 page)

“Bullshit! Sorrow is not good enough.”
 

My shame turned to frustration. “You can be infuriating sometimes, you old wizard! What do you want from me, blood?”
 

“Anger is not good enough,” he intoned dramatically, pointing at me with his eyes popping out like an old-fashioned movie villain.
 

“Socrates, you're completely loony,” I laughed.
 

“That's it, laughter is good enough!”
 

Socrates and I both laughed with delight; then, chuckling softly, he fell asleep. I left quietly.
 

When I came to visit the next morning, he appeared stronger. I took him to task right away. “Socrates, why did you persist in running with me and, furthermore, doing all those leaps and bounds when you knew that they might kill you at any time?”
 

“Why worry? Better to live until you die. I am a warrior; my way is action,” he said. “I am a teacher; I teach by example. Someday you too may teach others as I have shown you, then you'll understand that words are not enough; you too must teach by example, and only what you've realized through your own experience.”
 

Then he told me a story:

A mother brought her young son to Mahatma Gandhi. She begged, “Please, Mahatma. Tell my son to stop eating sugar.”
 

Gandhi paused, then said, “Bring your son back in two weeks.” Puzzled, the woman thanked him and said that she would do as he had asked.
 

Two weeks later, she returned with her son. Gandhi looked the youngster in the eye and said, “Stop eating sugar.”
 

Grateful but bewildered, the woman asked, “Why. did you tell me to bring him back in two weeks? You could have told him the same thing then.”
 

Gandhi replied, “Two weeks ago, I was eating sugar.”
 

“Dan, embody what you teach, and teach only what you have embodied.”
 

“What would I teach other than gymnastics?”
 

“Gymnastics is enough, as long as you use it as a medium for conveying more universal lessons,” he said. “Respect others. Give them what they want at first and, perhaps eventually, a few of them will want what you want to give them. Be content to teach flips until someone asks for more.”
 

“How will I know if they want something more?”
 

“You'll know.”
 

“But Socrates, are you sure I'm destined to be a teacher? I don't feel like one.”
 

“You appear to be headed in that direction.”
 

“That brings me to something I've wanted to ask you for a long time--you often seem to read my thoughts or to know my future. Will I someday have these kinds of powers?” Upon hearing this, Soc reached over and clicked the TV on and started to watch cartoons. I clicked it back off.
 

He turned to me and sighed. “I was hoping you would completely bypass any fascination with powers. But now that it's come up, we might as well get it out of the way. All right, what do you want to know?”
 

“Well, for starters, foretelling the future. You seem to be able to do it sometimes.”
 

“Reading the future is based on a realistic perception of the present. Don't be concerned about seeing the future until you can clearly see the present.”
 

“Well, what about mind-reading?” I asked.
 

Socrates sighed. “What about it?”
 

“You seem to be able to read my mind most of the time.” “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he admitted, “I do know what you're thinking most of the time. Your 'mind' is easy to read, because it's written all over your face.”
 

I blushed.
 

“See what I mean?” he laughed, pointing to my rouge complexion. “And it doesn't take a magician to read faces; poker players do it all the time.”
 

“But what about real powers?”
 

He sat up in bed and said, “Special powers do in fact exist. But for the warrior, such things are completely beside the point. Don't be deluded. Happiness is the only power that counts. And you cannot attain happiness; it attains you, but only after you surrender everything else.”
 

Socrates seemed to grow weary. He gazed at me for a moment, as if making a decision. Then he spoke in a voice both gentle and firm, saying the words I had most feared. “It's clear to me that you are still trapped, Dan, still searching somewhere else for happiness. So be it. You shall search until you tire of it altogether. You are to go away for awhile. Seek what you must, and learn what you can. Then we shall see.”
 

My voice quavered with emotion. “How--how long?”
 

His words jolted me. “Nine or ten years should be sufficient.” I was terrified. “Socrates, I'm not really that interested in powers. I honestly understand what you've said. Please, let me stay with you.”
 

He closed his eyes, and sighed. “My young friend, have no fear.
 

Your path will guide you; you cannot lose your way.” “But when can I see you again, Socrates?” “When your search is finished--really finished.” “When I become a warrior?”
 

“A warrior is not something you become, Dan. It is something you either are, in this moment, or something you are not. The Way itself creates the warrior. And now you must forget me altogether. Go, and come back radiant.”
 

I had grown to depend so much on his counsel, on his certainty. Still trembling, I turned and walked to the door. Then I looked one last time into those shining eyes. “I'll do all that you've asked, Socrates---except one. I'll never forget you.”
 

I walked down the stairs, out into the city streets, and up the winding roads through campus into an uncertain future.
 

I decided to move back to Los Angeles, my hometown. I took my old Valiant out of storage and spent my last weekend in Berkeley packing for my departure. Thinking of Linda, I walked to the corner phone booth and dialed the number of her new apartment. When I heard her sleepy voice, I knew what I wanted to do.
 

“Sweetheart, I have a couple of surprises. I'm moving to L.A.; will you fly up to Oakland as soon as you can tomorrow morning? We could drive down south together; there's something we need to talk about.”
 

There was a pause on the other end. “Oh, I'd love to! I'll be on the 8:00 A.M. plane. “Um”---a longer pause---”What do you want to talk about, Danny?”
 

“It's something I should ask you in person, but I'll give you a hint: It's about sharing our lives, and about babies, and waking up in the mornings hugging.” A longer pause ensued. “Linda?”
 

Her voice quivered. “Dan--I can't talk now. I'll fly up early tomorrow.”
 

“I'll meet you at the PSA gate. Bye, Linda.”
 

“Bye, Danny.” Then there was the lonely buzz on the line.
 

I arrived at the gate by 8:45 A.M. She was already standing there, bright-eyed, a beauty with dazzling red hair. She ran up to me, laughing, and threw her arms around me. “Ooh, it's good to hold you again, Danny!”
 

I could feel the warmth of her body radiate into mine. We walked quickly to the parking lot, not finding any words at first.
 

I drove back up to Tilden Park and turned right, climbing to Inspiration Point. I had it all planned. I asked her to sit on the fence and was about to pop the question, when she threw her arms around me and said “Yes!” and began to cry. “Was it something I said?” I joked feebly.
 

We were married in the Los Angeles Municipal Courthouse in a beautiful private ceremony. Part of me felt very happy; another part was unaccountably depressed, I awoke in the middle of the night and gently tiptoed out to the balcony of our honeymoon suite. I cried soundlessly. Why did I feel as if I had lost something, as if I had forgotten something important? The feeling was never to leave.
 

We soon settled into a new apartment. I tried my hand at selling life insurance; Linda got a part-time job as a bank teller. We were comfortable and settled, but I was too busy to devote much time to my new wife. Late at night, when she was sleeping, I sat in meditation. Early in the morning I would do a few exercises. But before long my job responsibilities left me little time for such things; all my training and discipline began to fade.
 

After six months of sales work, I had had enough. I sat down with Linda for our first good talk in many weeks.
 

“Honey, how do you feel about moving back up to Northern California and looking for different work?”
 

“If that's what you want to do, Dan, it's OK with me. Besides, it might be nice to be near my folks. They're great babysitters.” “Babysitters?”
 

“Yes. How do you feel about being a father?”
 

“You mean a baby? You--me--a baby?” I hugged her very gently for a long time.
 

I couldn't make any wrong moves after that. The second day up North Linda visited her folks and I went job-hunting. I learned from my ex-coach Hal that the men's coaching position for gymnastics was open at Stanford University. I interviewed for the job that day and drove up to my in-laws' to tell Linda the news. When I arrived, they said I had received a call from the Stanford Athletic Director and had been offered the coaching job, to begin in September. I accepted; I'd found a career, just like that.
 

In late August, our beautiful daughter, Holly, was born. I drove all our belongings up to Menlo Park and moved us into a comfortable apartment. Linda and the baby flew up two weeks later. We were contented, for a time, but I was soon immersed in my job, developing a strong gymnastics program at Stanford. I ran for miles through the golf course early each morning and often sat alone on the shore of Lake Lagunita. Again, my energies and attention flew in many directions, but sadly, not in Linda's.
 

A year went by almost without my noticing it. Everything was going so well; I couldn't understand my persistent feeling that I had lost something, a long time ago. The sharp images of my training with Socrates--running into the hills, the strange exercises late at night, the hours of talking and listening and watching my enigmatic teacher--were fading memories.
 

Not long after our first anniversary, Linda told me she wanted us to see a marriage counselor. It came as a complete shock, just when I felt we'd be able to relax and have more time together.
 

The marriage counselor did help, yet a shadow had come between Linda and me--maybe it had been there since our wedding night. She had grown quiet and private, drawing Holly with her into her own world. I came home from work each day totally spent, with too little energy left for either of them.
 

My third year at Stanford, I applied for the position of Faculty Resident in one of the university residence halls so that Linda could be with other people. It soon became apparent that this move had worked only too well, especially in the arena of romance. She had formed her own social life, and I had been relieved of a burden I could not, or would not, fulfill. Linda and I were separated in the spring of my third year at Stanford. I delved even deeper into my work, and began my inner search once again. I sat with a Zen group in the mornings in our gym. I began to study Aikido in the evenings. I read more and more, hoping to find some clues or directions or answers to my unfinished business.
 

When I was offered a faculty position at Oberlin College, a residential liberal arts college in Ohio, it seemed like a second chance for us. But there I only pursued my personal search for happiness with more intensity. I taught more gymnastics, and developed two courses--'Psycho-physical Development” and “Way of the Peaceful Warrior”—which reflected some of the perspectives and skills I'd learned from Socrates.
At the end of my first year there, I received a special grant from the college to travel and do research in my chosen field.
 

After a troubled marriage, Linda and I separated. Leaving her and my young daughter behind, I set off on what I hoped would be my final search. I was to visit many places around the world--Hawaii, Japan, Okinawa, India, and elsewhere, where I encountered some extraordinary teachers, and schools of yoga, martial arts, and shamanism. I had many experiences, and found great wisdom, but no lasting peace.
 

As my travels neared their conclusion, I became even more desperate—compelled toward a final confrontation with the questions that rang out in my mind: “What is enlightenment? When will I find peace?” Socrates had spoken of these things, but at the time, I didn't have the ears to hear him.
 

When I arrived in the village of Cascais on the coast of Portugal, the last stop on my journey, the questions continued to replay themselves endlessly, burning deeper into my mind.
 

One morning I awoke on an isolated stretch of beach where I had camped for a few days. My gaze drifted to the water, where the tide was devouring my painstakingly constructed castle of sand and sticks.
 

For some reason, this reminded me of my own death, and what Socrates had tried to tell me. His words and gestures played back in bits and pieces, like the twigs from my castle, now scattered and floating in the shallow surf: “Consider your fleeting years, Danny. One day you'll discover that death is not what you might imagine; but then, neither is life. Either may be wondrous, filled with change; or, if you do not awaken, both may turn out to be a considerable disappointment.”
 

His laughter rang out in my memory. Then I remembered an incident in the station: I had been acting lethargic; Socrates suddenly grabbed me. I began to feel a terrible sense of urgency, but there was nowhere to go. So I stayed, a beachcomber who never stopped combing through his own mind. “Who am I? What is enlightenment?”