Way of the Peaceful Warrior (29 page)

I closed my eyes to meditate, but realized that I was always meditating now, with my eyes wide open.
 

After midnight I drove into the station; the bell clanged my arrival. Out of the warmly lit office came my friend, a man who looked like a robust fifty year old; slim, leathery, graceful. He came around to the driver's side, grinning, and said, “Fill 'er up?”
 

“Happiness is a full tank,” I answered, then paused. Where had I seen that saying before? What was it I needed to remember?
 

While Soc pumped gas, I did the windows; then I parked the ear behind the station and entered the office for the last time. It was like a holy place for me--an unlikely temple. Tonight the room seemed electrified; something was very definitely up, but I had no idea what.
 

Socrates reached into his drawer and handed me a large notebook, cracked and dried with age. In it were notes written in a careful, finely wrought hand. “This is my journal--entries of my life, since I was young. It will answer all your unasked questions. It is yours now, a gift. I've given everything I can. Now it's up to you. My work is done, but you have work to do.”
 

“What could there possibly be left?” I smiled.
 

“You will write and you will teach. You will live an ordinary life, learning how to remain ordinary in a troubled world to which, in a sense, you no longer belong. Remain ordinary, and you can be useful to others.”
 

Socrates rose from his chair and aligned his mug carefully on the desk, next to mine. I looked at his hand. It was shining, glowing brighter than ever before.
 

“I'm feeling very strange,” he said in a tone of surprise. “I think I have to go.”
 

“Is there anything I can do?” I said, thinking he had an upset stomach.
 

“No.” Gazing into space as if the room and I no longer existed, he walked slowly to the door marked “Private,” pushed it open, and stepped inside.
 

I wondered if he'd be all right. I sensed that our time in the mountains had drained him, yet he was shining now as never fore. As usual, Socrates didn't make sense.
 

I sat there on the couch and watched the door, waiting for his return. I yelled through the door, “Hey, Socrates, you're glowing like a lightning bug tonight. Did you eat an electric eel for dinner? I must have you over for dinner this Christmas; you'd make a wonderful decoration for my tree.”
 

I thought I saw a flash of light under the crack in the door. Well, a blown lightbulb might hasten his business. “See, are you going to spend all evening in there? I thought warriors didn't get constipated.”
 

Five minutes passed, then ten. I sat holding his prized journal in my hands. I called him, then called again, but I was answered by silence. Suddenly I knew; it wasn't possible, but I knew it had happened.
 

I leaped to my feet and ran to the door, pushing it open so hard it struck the tile wall with a metallic clang that echoed hollowly in the empty bathroom. I remembered the flash of light, minutes ago. Socrates had walked, glowing, into this bathroom, and disappeared.
 

I stood there a long time, until I heard the familiar station bell, then a honking horn. I walked outside and mechanically filled the tank, taking the money and giving change
out of my own pocket. When I returned to the office, I noticed that I hadn't even put my shoes on. I began to laugh; my laughter became hysterical, then quieted. I sat back on the couch, on the old Mexican blanket now tattered, disintegrating, and looked around the room at the yellow carpet, faded with age, at the old walnut desk, and the water cooler. I saw the two mugs--Soc's and mine--still sitting on the desk, and last of all, his empty chair.
 

Then I spoke to him. Wherever that mischievous old warrior was, I'd have the last word.
 

“Well, Soc, here I am, between past and future, again, floating between heaven and earth. What can I say to you that would be enough? Thank you my teacher, my inspiration, my friend. I'll miss you. Farewell.”
 

I left the station for the last time feeling only wonder. I knew that I'd not lost him, not really. It had taken me all these years to see the obvious, that Socrates and I had never been different. All this time, we had been one and the same.
 

I walked through the tree-lined paths of campus, across the creek, and beyond the shady groves out into the city---continuing on the Way, the way toward home.
 

LAUGHTER IN THE WIND  
 

I'd passed through the gate; seen what there was to see; realized, high on a mountain, my true nature. Yet, like the old man who shouldered his burden and continued on his way, I knew that though everything had changed, nothing had changed.
 

I was still living an ordinary human life with ordinary human responsibilities. I would have to adapt myself to living a happy, useful life in a world which was offended by one who is no longer interested in any search or problem. An unreasonably happy man, I learned, can grate on people's nerves! There were many occasions when I began to understand and even envy the monks who set up housekeeping in faraway caves. But I had been to my cave. My time for receiving was finished; now it was time for giving.
 

I moved from Palo Alto to San Francisco, and began working as a house painter. As soon as I was settled into a house, I attended to some unfinished business. I hadn't spoken with Joyce since Oberlin. I found her number in New Jersey and called her.
 

“Dan, What a surprise! How are you?”
 

“Very well, Joyce. I've been through a lot recently.”
 

There was a pause on the line. “Uh, how is your daughter and your wife?”
 

“Linda and Holly are doing fine. Linda and I were divorced some time ago.”
 

“Dan”---there was another pause, “Why did you call?”
 

I took a deep breath. “Joyce, I want you to come to California and live with me. I have no doubts at all about you--about us. There's plenty of room here ....”
 

“Dan,” Joyce laughed. “You're going much too fast for me!
 

When do you propose this little adjustment should take place?”
 

“Now, or as soon as you can. Joyce, there's so much to tell you--things I've never told anyone. I've held it in so long. Will you call me as soon as you've decided?”
 

“Dan, are you sure of this?”
 

“Yes, believe me, and I'll be waiting here every evening for your call.”
 

About two weeks later, I received a call at 7:15PM. “Joyce!”
 

“I'm calling from the airport.”
 

“From Newark Airport? You're leaving? You're coming?”
 

“From San Francisco Airport. I've arrived.”
 

For a moment, I didn't get it. “San Francisco Airport?”
 

“Yes,” she laughed. “You know, that landing strip south of the city? Well? Are you going to meet me, or shall I hitchhike?”
 

In the days that followed we spent every free moment together. I'd quit my painting job and was teaching in a small gymnastics studio in San Francisco. I told her about my life, much as is written here, and all about Socrates. She listened intently.
 

“You know Dan, I get a funny feeling when you tell me about that man--as if I know him.”
 

“Well, anything's possible,” I smiled.
 

“No, really, like I knew him! What I never told you before, Danny, is that I left home just before starting high school.”
 

“Well,” I responded, “that's unusual, but not too strange.” “The strange part is that the years between my leaving home and coming to Oberlin are a complete blank in my memory. And that's not all. At Oberlin, before you came, I remember having dreams, very strange dreams, about someone like you and about a white haired man! And my parents--my parents, Danny . . .” Her large, luminous eyes opened wide and filled with tears. “... my parents always called me by my nickname . . .” I held her shoulders and looked into her eyes. In the next moment, like an electric shock, a place in our memories opened up as she said, my nickname was Joy.”
 

We were married among our friends, in the mountains of California. It was a moment I would have given anything to share with the man who had begun it all, for both of us. Then I remembered the card he had given me--the one I was to use if I ever really needed him. I figured now was the time.
 

I slipped away for a moment, and walked across the road to a small mound of earth, overlooking the woods and rolling hills. There was a garden there with a single elm tree, almost hidden among the grope arbors. I reached into my wallet and found the card there among my other papers. It was dog-eared, but still glowing.
 

Warrior, Inc. Socrates, Prop. Specializing in:
 

Paradox, Humor, and Change Emergencies Only!
 

I held it in both hands and spoke softly. “All right, Socrates, you old wizard. Do your stuff. Come visit us, Soc!” I waited and tried again. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. The wind gusted for a moment--that was all.
 

My disappointment surprised me. I had held to a secret hope that he might somehow return. But he wasn't coming; not now, not ever. My hands dropped to my sides, and I looked down at the earth. “Goodbye, Socrates. Goodbye, my friend.”
 

I opened my wallet to slip the card back in, glancing again at its lingering glow. The card had changed. In place of “Emergencies Only” was a single word, glowing brighter than the rest. It said, “Happiness.” His wedding gift.
 

In that moment, a warm breeze caressed my face, mussed my hair, and a falling leaf slapped my cheek as it floated down from the elm.
 

I threw my head back, laughing with delight, and looked up through the elm's outstretched branches, into the clouds drifting lazily by. I gazed above the stone fence, out over the houses dotted in the green forest below. The wind gusted again, and a lone bird soared by.
 

Then I felt the truth of it. Socrates hadn't come, because he had never left. He was only changed. He was the elm above my head; he was the clouds and the bird and the wind. They would always be my teachers, my friends.
 

Before walking back to my wife, my home, my friends, and my future, I surveyed the world around me. Socrates was here. He was everywhere.
 

A book can inspire, expand perspectives, remind us of the truth we already know--but real transformation entails a whole life of practice.
 

The life and practice of the peaceful warrior is action--being useful to others. In the eyes of Spirit, little things count. What you give, you receive. Doing is understanding. And you can do anything when you find the heart for it, and the courage.
 

Of course we make mistakes; it's how we learn. We're all in training. Life can be difficult; what an opportunity! The Light will disturb us when we're comfortable, and comfort us when we're disturbed. We turn to Spirit for help when our foundations are shaking, only to find that it is Spirit who is shaking them.
 

I'm not special; we all have our “Socrates.” He's your higher self. So be guided by the best that's within you. In any moment you can ask, “What would my high self do?” and you'll know the right course. Trust yourself; trust the process that is your life. You are the spiritual being you've been waiting for.
 

It's said that there's one Journey but many paths. Here's wishing you well on your own path, on the Journey without distance we travel together.
 

Over the years, Dan Millman has distilled perennial wisdom and a variety of mind-body disciplines into an approach to life he calls “the way of the peaceful warrior.” He has taught at several major universities and trained  people from all walks of life, including physicians, therapists, educators, and other professionals in the field of personal growth. His writings have been translated into fourteen languages.
 

The Peaceful Warrior Series

Way of the Peaceful Warrior

Sacred Journey of the Peaceful Warrior

Especially for Children Secret of the Peaceful Warrior Quest for the Crystal Castle

Other Books by Dan Millman

The Warrior Athlete

No Ordinary Moments

The Life You Were Born to Live

In response to requests, Dan has created tapes, trainings, and services to meet different levels of interest, commitment, and financial resources. A growing portion of his income goes to organizations that help make a difference in the world. Peaceful Warrior Services provides materials at no cost to youth service organizations, prison libraries, and other institutions,
 

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