WAY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR: A Book That Changes Lives

by Dan Millman

  “Listen!” I said. “There are things you should know about me. For one thing, I’m already a warrior of sorts. I happen to be a damn good gymnast.” To punctuate what I’d said and to show him I could be spontaneous, I stood up from the couch and did a standing backward somersault, landing gracefully on the carpet.

  “Hey,” he said, “that’s great. Do it again!”

  “Oh, it’s no big deal — pretty easy, actually.” I smiled modestly. I was used to showing this sort of thing to kids at the beach or the park. They always wanted to see it again, too.

  “All right now, Soc, watch closely.” I leaped upward and was just turning over when someone or something tossed me through the air. I landed in a heap on the couch. The Mexican blanket from the back of the couch wrapped itself around me, covering me. I poked my head out from the covers quickly, looking for Socrates. He was still sitting across the room, twelve feet away, curled in his chair and smiling mischievously.

  “How did you do that?” My confusion was as total as his look of innocence.

  “Want to see it again?” he said. Then, seeing my expression, he added, “Don’t feel badly about your little slip, Dan; even a great warrior like you can make a boo-boo now and then.”

  I stood numbly and straightened the couch, tucking the blanket back in. I had to do something with my hands; I needed time to think. How had he done it? Another question that would go unanswered.

  Socrates padded softly out of the office to fill the tank of a pickup truck full of household belongings. Off to cheer up another traveler on his journey, I thought. Then I closed my eyes and pondered Soc’s apparent defiance of natural laws, or at least, common sense.

  “Would you like to learn some secrets?” I hadn’t even heard him come in. He was seated in his chair, his legs crossed.

  I crossed my legs, too, and leaned forward eagerly. Misjudging the softness of the couch, I leaned a little bit too far and tipped over. Before I could untangle my legs, I found myself sprawled facedown on the rug.

  Socrates made an effort not to laugh. And failed. I sat up quickly, ramrod straight. One look at my stolid expression left Soc helpless with mirth. More accustomed to applause than ridicule, I leaped to my feet in shame and anger.

  “Sit down!” Soc commanded, his voice charged with authority. He pointed to the couch. I sat. “I asked you if you wanted to hear a secret.”

  “I do — about rooftops.”

  “You get to choose whether or not you want to hear a secret. I choose what it is about.”

  “Why do we always have to play by your rules?”

  “Because it’s my station, that’s why.” Soc spoke with exaggerated petulance, possibly mocking me further. “Now pay close attention. By the way, are you comfortable and, uh, stable?” he winked.

  I clenched my teeth but held my tongue.

  “Dan, I have places to show you and tales to tell. I have secrets to unfold. But before we begin this journey together, you must appreciate that a secret’s value is not in what you know, but in what you do.”

  Soc took an old dictionary from his drawer and held it in the air. “Use whatever knowledge you have but see its limitations. Knowledge alone does not suffice; it has no heart. No amount of knowledge will nourish or sustain your spirit; it can never bring you ultimate happiness or peace. Life requires more than knowledge; it requires intense feeling and constant energy. Life demands right action if knowledge is to come alive.”

  “I know that, Soc.”

  “That’s your problem — you know but you don’t act. You’re no warrior.”

  “Socrates, I know at times I behave like a warrior, when the pressure is on — you should see me in the gym.”

  He nodded. “You may experience the mind of a warrior on occasion, resolute, flexible, clear, and free of doubt. You can develop the body of a warrior, lithe, supple, sensitive, and filled with energy. In rare moments, you may even feel the heart of a warrior, extending compassion to those around you. But these qualities are fragmented in you. You lack integration. My task is to put you back together again, Humpty.”

  “Wait a damn minute! I know you have some unusual talents and like to surround yourself with an air of mystery, but I don’t see how you can presume to put me back together. Let’s look at the situation: I’m a college student; you service cars. I’m a world champion; you tinker in the garage, make tea, and wait for some poor fool to walk in so you can frighten the wits out of him. Maybe I can help put you back together.” I didn’t quite know what I was saying, but it felt good.

  Socrates laughed, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Then he came over to me, knelt down at my side, looked into my eyes, and spoke softly. “Maybe you will have a chance someday. But for now, you should understand the difference between us.” He poked me in the ribs, then poked me again and again, saying, “The warrior acts... ”

  “Damn it, stop that!” I yelled. “You’re getting on my nerves!”

  “... and the fool only reacts.”

  “Well, what do you expect?”

  “I poke you and you get irritable; I insult you and you react with pride and anger; I slip on a banana peel and... ” He took two steps away from me and slipped, landing with a thud on the rug. I couldn’t hold it in. I bellowed.

  He sat up on the floor and turned to face me, making a final point. “Your feelings and reactions, Dan, are automatic and predictable; mine are not. I create my life spontaneously; yours is determined by your thoughts, your emotions, your past.”

  “How can you assume all this about me, about my past?”

  “Because, I’ve been watching you for years.”

  “Sure you have,” I said, waiting for the joke. None came.

  It was getting late, and I had a lot to think about. I felt burdened by a new obligation, one I wasn’t sure I could fulfill. Socrates came in, wiped his hands, and filled his mug with springwater. As he sipped slowly, I said, “I’ve got to go now, Soc. It’s late and I have a lot of important schoolwork to do.”

  Socrates remained quietly seated as I stood and put on my jacket. Then, as I was about to go out the door, he spoke slowly and carefully. Each word had the effect of a gentle slap on my cheek.

  “You had better reconsider your ‘importances’ if you are to have even a chance of becoming a warrior. Right now, you have the intelligence of a jackass; your spirit is mush. You do have a great deal of important work to do but in a different classroom than you now imagine.”

  I had been staring at the floor. I snapped my head up to face him, but I couldn’t look him in the eye. I turned away.

  “To survive the lessons ahead,” he continued, “you’re going to need far more energy than ever before. You’ll have to cleanse your body of tension, free your mind of stagnant beliefs, and open your heart to loving-kindness.”

  “Soc, I’d better explain my time schedule. I want you to understand how busy I am. I’d like to visit with you often, but I have so little time.”

  He looked at me with somber eyes. “You have even less time than you might imagine.”

  “What do you mean?” I gasped.

  “Never mind that now,” he said. “Go on.”

  “Well, I have these goals. I want to be a champion gymnast. I want my team to win the national championships. I want to graduate in good standing, and that means books to read and papers to write. What you seem to be offering me instead is staying up half the night in a gas station, listening to — I hope you won’t take this as an insult — a very strange man who wants to draw me into his fantasy world. It’s crazy!”

  “Yes,” he smiled sadly, “it is crazy.” Socrates sat back in his chair and looked down at the floor. My mind rebelled at his helpless-old-man ploy, but my heart was drawn to this robust old eccentric who claimed to be some kind of warrior. I sat back down. Then a story that my grandfather had told me came to mind:

  There was once a beloved king whose castle was on a high hill, overlooking his shire. He
was so popular that the nearby townspeople sent him gifts daily, and his birthday celebration was enjoyed throughout the kingdom. The people loved him for his renowned wisdom and fair judgments.

  One day, tragedy struck the town. The water supply was polluted, and every man, woman, and child went insane. Only the king, who had a private spring, was spared.

  Soon after the tragedy, the mad townspeople began speaking of how the king was acting “strangely” and how his judgments were poor and his wisdom a sham. Many even went so far as to say that the king had gone crazy. His popularity soon vanished. No longer did the people bring him gifts or celebrate his birthday.

  The lonely king, high on the hill, had no company at all. One day he decided to leave the hill and pay a visit to the town. It was a warm day, and so he drank from the village fountain.

  That night there was a great celebration. The people rejoiced, for their beloved king had “regained his sanity.”

  I realized then that the crazy world that Socrates had referred to was not his world at all, but mine.

  I stood, ready to leave. “Socrates, you’ve told me to listen to my own body intuition and not depend upon what I read or what people tell me. Why, then, should I sit quietly and listen to what you tell me?”

  “A very good question,” he answered. “There is an equally good answer. First of all, I speak to you from my own experience; I am not relating abstract theories I read in a book or heard secondhand from an expert. I am one who truly knows his own body and mind, and therefore knows others’ as well. Besides,” he smiled, “how do you know that I’m not your own intuition, speaking to you now?” He turned to his desk and picked up some paperwork. I had been dismissed for the evening. My whirling thoughts carried me into the night.

  I was upset for days afterward. I felt weak and inadequate around this man, and I was angry about the way he treated me. He constantly seemed to underestimate me; I wasn’t a child! Why should I choose to play a jackass sitting in a gas station, I thought, when here, in my domain, I’m admired and respected?

  I trained harder than ever in gymnastics — my body burned as I flew and fought my way through routine after routine. Yet it was somehow less satisfying than before. Every time I learned a new move or received a compliment, I remembered being tossed through the air onto the couch by that old man.

  Hal, my coach, became concerned about me and wanted to know if anything was wrong. I reassured him that everything was fine. But it wasn’t. I didn’t feel like joking around with the guys on the team anymore. I was just confused.

  That night I dreamed of death again, but with a difference. A chortling Socrates, decked out in the Grim Reaper’s gloomy getup, pointed a gun at me that went off, shooting out a flag that said, “Bang!” I woke up laughing for a change.

  The next day I found a note in my mailbox. All it said was, “Rooftop secrets.” When Socrates arrived at the station that night, I was already sitting on the steps, waiting for him. I’d come early to question the day attendants about Socrates — to find out his real name, maybe even where he lived — but they didn’t know anything about him. “Who cares anyway?” one yawned. “He’s just some old geezer who likes the night shift.”

  Soc removed his windbreaker. “Well?” I pounced. “Are you finally going to tell me how you got up on the roof?”

  “Yes, I am. I think you’re ready to hear it,” he said seriously.

  “In ancient Japan, there existed an elite group of warrior assassins.”

  He said the last word with a hissing sound, making me acutely aware of the dark silence lurking outside. My neck started to get that prickly feeling again.

  “These warriors,” he continued, “were named ninja. The legends and reputation surrounding them were fearful. It was said that they could change themselves into animals; it was even said that they could fly — for short distances only, of course.”

  “Of course,” I agreed, feeling the door to the dreamworld blow open with a chill gust. I wondered what he was leading up to, when he beckoned me into the garage, where he was working on a Japanese sports car.

  “Got to change the plugs,” Socrates said, ducking his head under the sleek hood.

  “Yes, but what about the rooftop?” I urged.

  “I’ll get to it in a moment, as soon as I change these plugs. Be patient. What I’m about to tell you is worth waiting for, believe me.”

  I sat toying with a mallet lying on the worktable.

  From Socrates’ corner I heard, “You know, this is very amusing work, if you really pay attention to it.” For him it was, perhaps.

  Suddenly he put down the plugs, ran over to the light switch, and flicked it. In a darkness so total that I couldn’t even see my hands in front of me, I began to get nervous. I never knew what Socrates would do, and after that talk about ninja...

  “Soc? Soc?”

  “Where are you?” he yelled from directly behind me.

  I spun around and fell onto the hood of a Chevy. “I — I don’t know!” I stammered.

  “Absolutely right,” he said, turning on the lights. “I guess you are getting smarter,” he said, with a Cheshire cat grin.

  I shook my head at his lunacy and perched myself on the Chevy’s fender, glancing under the open hood to find its innards missing. “Socrates, will you quit clowning and get on with it?”

  As he deftly screwed in the new plugs, unsnapped the distributor cap, and examined the rotors, he continued.

  “These ninja were not practitioners of magic. Their secret was the most intense physical and mental training known to man.”

  “Socrates, where is all this leading?”

  “To see where something leads, it’s best to wait until you reach the end,” he replied and continued with the story.

  “The ninja could swim wearing heavy armor; they could climb sheer walls like lizards, using only fingers and toes in tiny cracks. They designed imaginative scaling ropes, dark and nearly invisible, and used clever means of hiding, tricks of distraction, illusion, and escape. The ninja,” he finally added, “were great jumpers.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere!” I almost rubbed my hands in anticipation.

  “The young warrior, when still a child, would be trained in jumping in the following manner: He was given a corn seed and told to plant it. Just as the stalk was beginning to grow, the young warrior would jump over the small stalk many, many times. Each day the stalk would grow; each day the child would jump. Soon the stalk was higher than the child’s head, but that wouldn’t stop him. Finally, if he failed to clear the stalk, he would be given a new seed and would begin over. Eventually, there was no stalk that the young ninja could not leap over.”

  “Well, then what? What is the secret?” I asked, waiting for the final revelation.

  Socrates paused and took a deep breath. “So you see, the young ninja practiced with cornstalks. I practice with gas stations.”

  Silence filled the room. Then, suddenly, Soc’s musical laughter pealed through the station; he was laughing so hard he had to lean against the Datsun he’d been working on.

  “So that’s it, huh? That’s what you were going to tell me about rooftops?”

  “Dan, that is all you can know until you can do,” he answered.

  “You mean you’re going to teach me how to jump up on the roof?” I asked, my demeanor suddenly brightening.

  “Maybe, maybe not. For now, toss me that screwdriver, will you?”

  I threw it to him. I swear he grabbed it out of the air while looking in the other direction! He finished with it quickly and tossed it back to me, yelling, “Heads up!” I dropped it and it fell to the floor with a loud clatter. This was exasperating; I didn’t know how much more ridicule I could take.

  The weeks passed quickly, and my sleepless nights became commonplace. Somehow, I adjusted. And there was another change: I found that my visits with Socrates were becoming even more interesting to me than gymnastics practice.

  Each night while we serviced
cars — he put the gas in, I did windows, and both of us joked with customers — he would encourage me to talk about my life. He was strangely silent about his own, meeting my questions with a terse “Later,” or answering in complete non sequiturs.

  When I asked him why he was so interested in the details of my life, he said, “I need to understand your personal illusions to grasp the scope of your illness. We are going to have to clear your mind before the door to the warrior’s way can open.”

  “Don’t you touch my mind. I like it just the way it is.”

  “If you really liked it the way it is, you wouldn’t be here now. You’ve changed your mind many times in the past. Soon, you’re going to do it in a more profound way.” After that, I decided I was going to have to be very careful with this man. I didn’t know him all that well, and I still wasn’t sure how crazy he was.

  As it was, Soc’s style was constantly changing, unorthodox, humorous, and even bizarre. Once he ran screaming after a little white dog that had just peed on the station steps — right in the middle of a lecture he was giving me on the “supreme benefits of an unshakably serene composure.”

  Another time, about a week later, after we’d stayed up all night, we walked to Strawberry Creek and stood on a bridge, looking down at the stream overflowing with the winter rains.

  “I wonder how deep the stream is today” I casually remarked, gazing absentmindedly down into the rushing waters. The next thing I knew, I’d splashed into the churning, muddy brown water.

  He had tossed me off the bridge!

  “Well, how deep is it?”

  “Deep enough,” I sputtered, dragging myself and my waterlogged clothes to shore. So much for idle speculation. I made a mental note to keep my mouth shut.

  As the days passed I started to notice more and more differences between us. In the office, I’d devour candy bars when I got hungry; Soc munched on a fresh apple or pear or made himself herb tea. I fidgeted around on the couch while he sat serenely still on his chair, like a Buddha. My movements were awkward and noisy compared to the way he softly glided across the floor. And he was an old man, mind you.