Way of the Peaceful Warrior (8 page)

“Facts,” I challenged him.
 

“Facts,” he said, tossing aside the tofu he'd been dicing. “Dan, you are suffering; you do not fundamentally enjoy your life. Your entertainments, your playful affairs, and even your gymnastics are temporary ways to distract you from your underlying sense of fear.”
 

“Wait a minute, Soc.” I was irritated. “Are you saying that gymnastics and sex and movies are bad?”
 

“Not inherently. But for you they're addictions, not enjoyments. You use them to distract you from what you know you should do: break free.”
 

“Wait, Socrates. Those aren't facts.”
 

“Yes, they are, and they are entirely verifiable, even though you don't see it yet. You Dan, in your conditioned quest for achievement and entertainment, avoid the fundamental source of your suffering.”
 

“So that's what you think, huh?” I retorted sharply, unable to keep the antagonism out of my voice.
 

“That was not something you really wanted to hear, was it?” “No, not particularly. It's an interesting theory, but I don't think it applies to me, that's all. How about giving me something a little more up beat?”
 

“Sure,” he said, picking up his vegetables and resuming his chopping. “The truth is, Dan, that life is going wonderfully for you and that you're not really suffering at all. You don't need me and  you're already a warrior. How does that sound?”
 

“Better” I laughed, my mood instantly brightened. But I knew it wasn't true. “The truth probably lies somewhere in between, don't you think?”
 

Without taking his eyes off the vegetables, Socrates said, “I think that your 'in between' is hell, from my perspective.”
 

Defensively I asked, “Is it just me who's the moron, or do you specialize in working with the spiritually handicapped?”
 

“You might say that,” he smiled, pouring sesame oil into a wok and setting it on the hot plate to warm. “But nearly all of humanity shares your predicament.”
 

“And what predicament is that?”
 

“I thought I had already explained that,” he said patiently. “If you don't get what you want, you suffer; if you get what you don't want, you suffer; even when you get exactly what you want, you still suffer because you can't hold onto it forever. Your mind is your predicament. It wants to be free of change, free of pain, free of the obligations of life and death. But change is a law, and no amount of pretending will alter that reality.”
 

“Socrates, you can really be depressing, you know that? I don't even think I'm hungry anymore. If life is nothing but suffering, then why bother at all?”
 

“Life is not suffering; it's just that you will suffer it, rather than enjoy it, until you let go of your mind's attachments and just go for the ride freely, no matter what happens.”
 

Socrates dropped the vegetables into the sizzling wok, stirring. A delicious aroma filled the office. I relinquished all resentment, “I think I just got my appetite back.” Socrates laughed as he divided the crisp vegetables onto two plates and set them on his old desk, which served as our dining table.
 

He ate in silence, taking small morsels with his chopsticks. I gobbled the vegetables in about thirty seconds; I guess I really was hungry. While Socrates finished his meal, I asked him, “So what are the positive uses of the mind?”
 

He looked up from his plate. “There aren't any.” With that, he calmly returned to his meal.
 

“Aren't any! Socrates, that's really crazy. What about the creations of the mind? The books, libraries, arts? What about all the advances of our society that were generated by brilliant minds?”
 

He grinned, put down his chopsticks, and said, “There aren't any brilliant minds.” Then he carried the plates to the sink.
 

“Socrates, stop making these irresponsible statements and explain yourself!”
 

He emerged from the bathroom, bearing aloft two shining plates. “I'd better redefine some terms for you. 'Mind' is one of those slippery terms like 'love'. The proper definition depends on your state of consciousness. Look at it this way: you have a brain that directs the body, stores information, and plays with that information. We refer to the brain's
abstract processes as 'the intellect'. Nowhere have I mentioned mind. The brain and the mind are not the same. The brain is real; the mind isn't.
 

'Mind' is an illusory outgrowth of basic cerebral processes. It is like a tumor. It comprises all the random, uncontrolled thoughts that bubble into awareness from the subconscious. Consciousness is not mind; awareness is not mind; attention is not mind. Mind is an obstruction, an aggravation. It is a kind of evolutionary mistake in the human being, a primal weakness in the human experiment. I have no use for the mind.”
 

I sat in silence, breathing slowly. I didn't exactly know what to say. Soon enough, though, words came.
 

“You certainly have a unique perspective, Soc. I'm not sure what you're talking about, but you sound really sincere.”
 

He just smiled and shrugged.
 

“Soc,” I continued, “Do I cut off my head to get rid of my mind?”
 

Smiling, he said, “That's one cure, but it has undesirable side effects. The brain can be a tool. It can recall phone numbers, solve math puzzles, or create poetry. In this way, it works for the rest of the body, like a tractor. But when you can't stop thinking of that math problem or phone number, or when troubling thoughts and memories arise without your intent, it's not your brain working, but your mind wandering. Then the mind controls you; then the tractor has run wild.”
 

“I get it.”
 

“To really get it, you must observe yourself to see what I mean. You have an angry thought bubble up and you become angry. It is the same with all your emotions. They're your knee-jerk responses to thoughts you can't control. Your thoughts are like wild monkeys stung by a scorpion.”
 

“Socrates, I think...”
 

“You think too much!”
 

“I was just going to tell you that I'm really willing to change. That's one thing about me; I've always been open to change.”
 

“That,” said Socrates, “is one of your biggest illusions. You've been willing to change clothes, hairstyles, women, apartments, and jobs. You are all too willing to change anything except yourself, but change you will. Either I help you open your eyes or time will, but time is not always gentle,” he said ominously. “Take your choice. But first realize that you're in prison--then we can plot your escape.”
 

With that, he pulled up to his desk, picked up a pencil, and began checking off receipts, looking like a busy executive. I got the distinct feeling I'd been dismissed for the evening. I was glad class was out.
 

For the next couple of days which soon stretched to weeks, I was too busy, I told myself, to drop in and visit with Socrates. But his words rattled around in my mind; I became preoccupied with its contents.
 

I started keeping a small notebook in which I wrote down my thoughts during the day---except for workouts, when my thoughts gave way to action. In two days I had to buy a bigger notebook; in a week, that was full. I was astounded to see the bulk and general negativity of my thought processes.
 

This practice increased my awareness of my mental noise; I'd turned up the volume on my thoughts that had only been subconscious background Muzak before. I stopped
writing, but still the thoughts blared. Maybe Soc could help me with the volume control. I decided to visit him that night.
 

I found him in the garage, steam-cleaning the engine of an old Chevrolet. I was just about to speak when the small, dark-haired figure of a young woman appeared in the doorway. Not even Soc had heard her enter, which was very unusual. He saw her just before I did and glided toward her with open arms. She danced toward him and they hugged, whirling around the room. For the next few minutes, they just looked into each other's eyes. Socrates would ask, “Yes?” and she'd answer, “Yes.” It was pretty bizarre.
 

With nothing else to do, I stared at her each time she whirled by. She was a little over five feet tall, sturdy looking, yet with an aura of delicate fragility. Her long black hair was tied in a bun, pulled back from a clear, shining complexion. The most noticeable feature on her face was her eyes--large, dark eyes.
 

My gaping must have finally caught their attention.
 

Socrates said, “Dan, this is Joy.”
 

Right away, I was attracted to her. Her eyes sparkled over a sweet, slightly mischievous smile.
 

“Is Joy your name or a description of your mood?” I asked, trying to be clever.
 

“Both,” she replied. She looked at Socrates; he nodded. Then she embraced me. Her arms wrapped softly around my waist in a very tender hug. All at once I felt ten times more energized than ever before; I felt comforted, healed, rested, and totally lovestruck.
 

Joy looked at me with her large, luminescent eyes, and my own eyes glazed over. “The old Buddha's been putting you through the wringer, has he?” she said softly.
 

“Uh, I guess so.” Wake up, Dan!
 

“Well, the squeeze is worth it. I know, he got to me first.” My mouth was too weak to ask for the details. Besides, she turned to Socrates and said, “I'm going now. Why don't we all meet here Saturday morning at ten and go up to Tilden Park for a picnic? I'll make lunch. It looks like good weather. OK?” She looked at Soc, then at me. I nodded dumbly as she soundlessly floated out the door.
 

I was no help to Socrates for the rest of the evening. In fact, the rest of the week was a total loss. Finally, when Saturday came, I walked shirtless to the bus station, I was looking forward to getting some spring tan, and also hoped to impress Joy with my muscular torso.
 

We took the bus up to the park and walked cross-country over crackling leaves scattered in thick piles among the pine, birch, and elm trees surrounding us. We unpacked the food on a grassy knoll in full view of the warm sun. I flopped down on the blanket, anxious to roast in the sun, and hoped Joy would join me.
 

Without warning, the wind picked up and clouds gathered. I couldn't believe it. It had begun to rain--first a drizzle, then a sudden downpour. I grabbed my shirt and put it on, cursing. Socrates only laughed.
 

“How can you think this is funny!” I chided him. “We're getting soaked, there's no bus for an hour, and the food's ruined. Joy made the food; I'm sure she doesn't think its so…” Joy was laughing too.
 

“I'm not laughing at the rain,” Soc said. “I'm laughing at you.” He roared, and rolled in the wet leaves. Joy started doing a dance routine to “Singin' in the Rain.” Ginger Rogers and the Buddha--it was too much.
 

The rain ended as suddenly as it had begun. The sun broke through and soon our food and clothes were dry.
 

“I guess my rain dance worked.” Joy took a bow.
 

As Joy sat behind my slumped form and gave my shoulders a rub, Socrates spoke. “It's time you began learning from your life experiences instead of complaining about them, or basking in them, Dan. Two very important lessons just offered themselves to you; they fell out of the sky, so to speak.” I dug into the food, trying not to listen.
 

“First,” he said, munching on some lettuce, “neither your disappointment nor your anger was caused by the rain.”
 

My mouth was too full of potato salad for me to protest. Socrates continued, regally waving a carrot slice at me.
 

“The rain was a perfectly lawful display of nature. Your 'upset' at the mined picnic and your 'happiness' when the sun reappeared were the product of your thoughts. They had nothing to do with the actual events. Haven't you been 'unhappy' at celebrations for example? It is obvious then, that your mind, not other people or your surroundings, is the source of your moods. That is the first lesson.”
 

Swallowing his potato salad, Soc said, “The second lesson comes from observing how you became even more angry when you noticed that I wasn't upset in the least. You began to see yourself compared to a warrior--two warriors, if you please.” He grinned  at Joy. “You didn't like that, did you, Dan? It might have implied a change was necessary.”
 

I sat morosely, absorbing what he'd said. I was hardly aware that he and Joy had darted off. Soon it was drizzling again.
 

Socrates and Joy came back to the blanket. Socrates started jumping up and down, mimicking my earlier behavior. “God damn rain.” he yelled. “There goes our picnic.” He stomped back and forth, then stopped in mid-stomp, and winked at me, grinning mischievously. Then he dove onto his belly in a puddle of wet leaves and pretended to be swimming. Joy started singing, or laughing--I couldn't tell which.
 

I just let go then and started rolling around with them in the wet leaves, wrestling with Joy. I particularly enjoyed that part, and I think she did too. We ran and danced wildly until it was time to leave. Joy was a playful puppy--yet with all the qualities of a proud, strong woman. I was sinking fast.
 

As the bus rocked and rolled its way down the curving hills overlooking the Bay, the sky turned pink and gold in the sunset. Socrates made a feeble attempt to summarize my lessons while I did my best to ignore him and snuggle with Joy in the back seat.