SACRED JOURNEY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR

by Dan Millman

  So, I was to go on a treasure hunt—some kind of odyssey. Well, I could start in the morning—that made sense. But the riddle said I would travel “day and night.” On the other hand, there was no use starting until I knew where I was going. I looked at the riddle again. Clearly, I was to go a number of places: over water, under sea—that part had me baffled—and in the forests, too. Most puzzling was the last part: “As you see it, you will know, as above, then so below.”

  On an impulse, perhaps hoping for a sign or clue, I decided to hike up into the forest to get a better perspective. A full moon was rising in the east, low on the horizon, but enough to light my way.

  “Walking alone in a forest at night playing hide-and-seek with the moon,” I sang aloud, in time with my footsteps as I hiked rhythmically up the damp, moonlit path. I felt fresh, alert, and alive. The forest didn’t really change much at night, but I did. Mysterious and unaccustomed activity brought my Basic Self to the surface. I enjoyed the excitement.

  A warm glow began in my abdomen and, like an expanding energy, bubbled up through my chest so that I had to let out a cry like a bird. “Eeeaaahh,” I screeched in a high-pitched tone. I felt like a bird, then like a mountain lion, padding silently through the night. I’d never had a challenge quite like this one.

  As I climbed higher, a light sheen of sweat formed on my face and chest in the warm night. And I wondered about the mystery of this life. This magical night seemed unreal, or rather, as real as a dream. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe I fell off that surfboard into the sea; perhaps I was in a delirium in another body, another lifetime, or in my bed in Ohio.

  I stopped and surveyed the forest below; the dark trees were highlighted by silver brush strokes of moonlight. No, this wasn’t a dream; this was real sweat, and that was a real moon, and I was really tired. Soon, it would be dawn. The ridge was just above—another half hour, maybe. So I pushed on, racing the dawn to the top.

  When I made it, breathing hard, I found a sheltered spot and slept until the sun peeked over the rocks and touched my face. I looked out over Molokai. Now what?

  Soc’s voice came to me then, in my memory. He had been speaking about the koan, an insolvable riddle designed to frustrate the conscious mind. The “solution” or answer was not the right words, but the insight behind them.

  I wondered if Mama Chia’s riddle was a koan, as well. A part of my mind began to contemplate this question, and would continue contemplating it many hours, whether I was awake or asleep.

  Then I thought about shape-shifting. Mama Chia had called it a “deep form of empathy.” When I was a child, I had played “what-if” games: What if I were a tiger—what would that be like? What if I were a gorilla? And in my own childlike way, I would mimic these beasts, not skillfully, but with real feeling. Maybe that would help me now.

  As that idea came to me, I saw an albatross, flying quite low, soaring on a thermal, sitting almost stationary in the air above me. With a shock, I realized that for a single instant I had become the albatross, seeing through its eyes, looking down at me. With a loud caw, the bird flew, in a straight line, as if coasting down an endless slide, toward another town. And I knew the next place I would go—yes—the town of Kuanakakai. What a miraculous night!

  Before I started my descent, I surveyed the entire island, bathed in moonlight. It’s perfect that I came here, first, to get an overview, I thought. I was about to leave when I noticed a feather of the albatross at my feet. I picked it up, then felt an ancient urge rising inside me. I was beginning a quest—why not start with a ceremony?

  I raised the feather over my head with my left arm, and pointed my right arm to the ground—connecting heaven and earth. I felt, and looked, like the magician card of a tarot deck I remembered. Then, I saluted the North, the South, the East, and the West and asked the island spirits for assistance.

  My Basic Self gave me renewed strength as I headed down, as quickly as my legs could carry me. I stopped only once for a brief rest, in the late morning, picking some papayas on the way, tearing them open, eating them sloppily, with no regard for manners, and tossing the skins to enrich the soil. I walked with a vengeance, with a purpose, although I had no idea yet what it was. Ah, yes, I told myself. Going to town.

  A helpful rainsquall washed the papaya juice from my face and hands and chest; then the sun dried me, and the wind blowdried my hair and beard.

  I hitched a ride partway in the back of a pickup truck with “Molokai Ranch” stenciled on the side, and I walked the rest of the way to Kaunakakai. I felt quite the rugged mountain man when I sauntered into town—straight into the arms, so to speak, of my recent acquaintance and old nemesis, Beer Belly, along with his companions.

  By this time, I wasn’t totally grounded, to say the least. Up most of the night, fueled by a few papayas, I felt past tired—approaching punch-drunk. As the glow of recognition slowly filled Beer Belly’s round face and his fists started clenching, I heard myself say, in my best cowboy voice, “I hear you bushwhackers bin’ lookin’ fer me.”

  This stopped their advance for the moment. “Bushwakas,” mused Beer Belly. “Dis guy called us ‘bushwakas.’”

  “I don’ think dat’s good,” one of his larger friends volunteered.

  “I don’ pay you to think,” their fearless leader announced.

  “You don’ pay me at all,” Big Fella retorted in a stroke of genius. I noticed that the smallest of these young gentlemen outmatched me by six inches and maybe fifty pounds.

  As their discussion continued, Beer Belly recalled his original intent and inspiration: to turn me into poi. Usually you mash up taro root into a white paste, but I would do fine, I believed he surmised, as he stepped forward to clean my chops.

  Beer Belly swung and I managed to draw upon enough of my recent training to dodge the blow, rolling with that punch, and the next, and the next. He threw punches like a major-league pitcher—speedballs, curves, and baseline screamers. My Basic Self must have learned its lessons well. Force comes in, get out of the way, I thought, evading each punch.

  I was no martial arts master after one lesson. But it had been a very good lesson. And if the truth be known, Beer Belly may have already had a few too many and was not really at his best.

  I had to hand it to this kid; he was persistent. Turning red in the face, huffing and puffing, he tried to swat this hippie haole boy, probably from California. And he was failing. In front of his friends.

  I continued slipping and bobbing and weaving, starting to feel like Bruce Lee. I even had time to send a silent thanks to Fuji.

  Then I remembered something else Fuji had taught me: Sometimes, the best way to win a fight is to lose it.

  Instantly, I turned in to this young fellow, I felt what he was feeling, and I grew sad. This was his domain I had invaded—and fighting was one of the few things he prided himself in, and he was falling apart in front of the only friends he had. As usual, I’d only been thinking about me. Fuji was right. An important part of selfdefense is knowing when not to defend the self.

  I let down my guard and rolled with the punch as Beer Belly, with one last heroic effort, let loose a right hook that glanced off my cheekbone. It was like getting hit with a flying ham. I heard a loud sound as my head snapped to the side; I saw stars and found myself lying on a pile of scattered trash.

  Half sitting up, rubbing my head, I said, “That was one hell of a punch. You have brass knuckles, or what?”

  He had saved face. I was the vanquished enemy. I saw his expression change as he held up his fist.

  “Deez knuckles made of iron,” he said.

  “Help me up, will you?” I said, reaching up. “Let me buy you guys a beer.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Sunlight Under the Sea

  In the sea caves, there’s a thirst,

  there’s a love, there’s an ecstasy, all hard like shells,

  you can hold them in your palm.

  —George Seferis, Book of Exercises

  HE HESITA
TED, then reached down and pulled me up. “I can drink a lot of beer,” he said with a smile that revealed two missing teeth. As we walked toward the store—the sign over the door said “Spirits”—I rubbed my bruised cheekbone, glad for the ten-spot Fuji had given me, since I had almost no other cash. I thought to myself, This is one hell of a way to make new friends.

  But make new friends I did. Especially with Beer Belly, whose real name was Kimo. He seemed to take a liking to me, too. The other guys drifted off after my money ran out, but Kimo stayed around. He even offered to buy me one.

  “Oh, thanks, Kimo, but I’m full up—hey,” I said on impulse, “do you know where I can get hold of a sailboat?” I really don’t know where that idea came from, but I was going, as they say, with the flow.

  To my surprise, Kimo, who had been staring at the bar and sipping his beer, came alive. His cheeks got more colorful, and he turned to me, excited as a young schoolkid. “You wanna sail? I got a boat. I’m the best sailor in dis town.”

  To put it mildly, we were out of there. And half an hour later, we were cruising out to sea on a stiff breeze, bouncing over the slight chop. “I know dis good spot for fishin’. You like fishin’?” This question was, of course, purely rhetorical, as if he’d said, “You like breathin’?”—leaving little room for a negative response.

  “I haven’t been fishing in years,” I said diplomatically. As it turned out, there was one rod, so Kimo fished, lost in his own world, and I, glad for the company, leaned over the side and gazed beneath the surface.

  The chop had calmed to a glassy surface; the water was clear as crystal. I saw schools of fish swimming below, and wondered what it would be like …

  WITHOUT ANY CONSCIOUS EFFORT on my part—maybe that was the key—I found my awareness flying with the fish. That’s what it was—flying. To the fish, the sea is air. I felt an unaccustomed sense of aquatic mastery; with a flick of my tailfin, I was a rocket, a shooting star. The next moment, I was totally relaxed and gliding …

  Relaxed, but always alert. Death came from any direction here, and suddenly. I saw a larger fish snap and a smaller one was gone. The sea was a living machine of movement and reproduction, eating and death, but in spite of it all, great beauty, and peace.

  I SNAPPED BACK AS KIMO SAID, “You know, Dan, dis boat—and dis ocean—it feels like my life.”

  Sensing that he was sharing something personal, I listened intently.

  “Seem like sometime it’s peaceful—like now. Udder times dere’s a storm—can’t control da storm—but can trim da sail, tie things down, get tru dat storm and you’re a lot stronger—you know?”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean, Kimo. My life’s a lot like that, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I guess we’ve all got our storms,” I said.

  He grinned at me. “You’re all right, you know? I didn’t think so, before. But I do, now.”

  I grinned back at him. “I think you’re all right, too.” I really meant it; Kimo seemed like a different person, now that I had looked beneath the surface.

  Kimo was about to say something else, I could tell. He hesitated, maybe working up the nerve, then confided, “Someday, I’m gonna finish high school, an’ get a good job. Learn to speak betta, like you.” He waited. Somehow, my opinion meant something to him.

  “Well,” I said, “anyone who understands the sea as well as you do—I think he can do any damn thing he sets his mind to.”

  I saw a glow spread across his face. “You really think so?”

  “I really think so.”

  Thoughtful, he didn’t say anything for a while, so I just sat and gazed into the clear water below. Then, abruptly, he pulled in his fishing rod and set sail. “Dere’s someplace I wanna show you.” Tacking, we headed south, until we came to a reef, just visible beneath the water’s surface.

  Kimo trimmed the sail, kicked off his thongs, and dove into the water like a seal. His head quickly reappeared. Clearly in his element, he reached inside the boat, grabbed a diving mask, threw me a pair of goggles, and said, “Come on in!”

  “You bet!” I said enthusiastically. Sweaty and dirty, I needed a swim. I slipped off my shirt, rid myself of my sneakers and socks, adjusted and slipped on the goggles, and followed him as he glided smoothly through the water, directly over the beautiful, razoredged coral reef, about ten feet below the surface.

  Kimo swam about twenty yards more, then stopped, treading water, and waited for me. Not being a very strong swimmer, I felt the exertion; by the time I reached him and started treading water like a landlubber, I was already tired. So I had my doubts when he said, “Follow me down.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, panting, wishing I’d spent more time doing laps at the college pool. “What’s down there?”

  So at home in the water himself, Kimo didn’t really appreciate that I might not be entirely comfortable. But he saw my doubtful expression and, floating on his back, otterlike, he explained, “Dere’s a cave. Nobody knows about it but me. I’m gonna show it to you.”

  “But, it’s underwater. How’re we going to breathe?”

  “At first you gotta hold your breath. But once we get tru da tunnel, we come up in dis cave, an’ dere’s air,” he said, sharing his discovery with growing excitement.

  Far less enthusiastic, I asked, “How long do we have to hold our br—?” He suddenly turned bottom up and dove straight down beneath the shimmering surface. “Kimo!” I yelled after him. “How long is the tunnel?”

  I had a few seconds to make my decision. Would I follow him, or just swim back to the boat? That was safer, and probably wiser. But that little voice I’d heard many times before, said, Go for it!

  “Oh, shut up!” I heard myself say aloud, as I took some deep, rapid breaths, and dove, following Kimo.

  The goggles fit okay, and I was actually more relaxed underwater than trying to hold myself above. And all the breathing exercises I’d done in the past, and the few I did daily, helped. I could take a deep breath and hold it longer than most people, but not necessarily while swimming fifteen feet down, then through a tunnel that went who knows how far.

  My ears started hurting from the pressure. I held my nose and blew, then stroked madly to catch up with Kimo, focusing all the while on that cave, with air. I saw him go into a large hole in the side of the reef, and I followed him into the dim light.

  To my dismay, the tunnel narrowed as we swam; I carefully avoided the sharp coral. A mental image of an eel made me look right and left into the many dark spaces that could hold a sea creature. My lungs told me it was time to breathe—now—but the tunnel continued as far as I could see. Then, it began to narrow even more. In a moment of panic, I realized I couldn’t turn around. My lungs were pumping madly, but I clamped my lips together and fought on.

  I saw Kimo’s feet disappear, and just as my mouth was about to burst open to feel the choking water rush in, I angled upward, then gasped like a newborn infant as my head emerged into the air of an underwater cavern.

  My mood much improved, I lay panting, half submerged, on a rock ledge.

  “Some kinda place, huh?” he asked.

  “Uh huh,” I managed to say. Recovering, I looked up and around at purple, green, and blue coral, dramatically colored as if it had been decorated by a movie set designer. Then I noticed something odd: A single beam of sunlight shone through the roof of the cave. But the whole reef was underwater! How could there be an opening?

  “You noticed da light, huh?” Kimo said. “Up dere, in da ceiling—see dat piece of glass? It covers an opening, so da water don’t come in.”

  “How—?”

  “Ama—Japanese divers from a long time ago, I think. Maybe dey explore dis cave—put da glass dere,” he pointed.

  I nodded, still puzzled. “But how did the air get in here?

  “Comes in a few times a year when da tide’s low. Sometimes it leaks. I first foun’ dis place when I saw some tiny bubbles coming up to da surface.”


  Feeling better, I sat up, and felt the excitement of being in this hidden alcove, safe from the world. We grinned at each other like two boys in their secret clubhouse. “Do you think anyone else has ever been here?” I asked.

  Kimo shrugged. “Jus’ dose ama divers an’ me.”

  We were silent after that, gazing in awe, feeling the energy of this underwater cave where the sunlight streamed in.

  Kimo lay back and stared at the ceiling. I explored, crawling carefully over the sharp coral. In this subsea tide pool, algae and seaweed grew thick, clinging to the coral, giving the cave an eerie greenish hue.

  I was turning to crawl back, when my arm slipped. It plunged down into a crevice in the coral, right up to my shoulder. I was starting to extract my arm when my hand closed around something—maybe a chunk of rock. I pulled it out, opened my hand, and was amazed to see what appeared to be a small statue, so encrusted with tiny barnacles and algae it was hard to be sure. “Look at this!” I called to Kimo.