by Dan Millman
Removing my knapsack, I swung it by the straps and hurled it to the other side, where it landed securely. Now I was committed. I closed my eyes and imagined myself making the leap to the branch, as I’d done so many times before trying a new move or before competing. Sinking back onto bent knees, I launched myself at the branch.
One of my shoes must have caught on an exposed root. The fingers of my desperate, outstretched hands brushed by the branch. I fell.
As an acrobat and springboard diver, I had deliberately flung my body in controlled falls over water—from piers, cliffs, and other objects. So the rush of wind and momentary disorientation were familiar to me—so familiar that I had time to yell “Ohhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiit!” as I fell, instinctively ducking my head so I’d land on my back, with my feet and arms slapping to absorb the force of my landing in shallow water. It would hurt, but it would break the fall instead of my neck.
I felt a sharp sting as my body smashed into the water and then the muddy bottom three feet below. Struggling and sputtering, I was able to claw my way up onto the bank. In a rush of shock and adrenaline, I threw myself at the cliffside and began to climb, hand over hand, my feet scrambling for toeholds. When I slid down a few feet, it only triggered a more zealous effort, as if some reptilian part of me had taken command. Fingers bleeding, both knees skinned, my jeans and T-shirt torn and splattered with dirt, I reached the top and lay panting.
As my heartbeat began to slow, the power of complex thinking returned to me, and the brute strength that had coursed through me receded. Feeling drained, I forced myself to sit up. Only then did I realize that in my haste to climb, I’d scaled the cliff on the wrong side of the river—returning to the same place from which I’d leapt only a few minutes before.
Soon the sun would set, and I wouldn’t even be able to see the branch—or my knapsack on the other side of the gorge. I’d already given my best effort and missed. Sore, tired, and wet, I couldn’t make another attempt now. The slightest hesitation, a loose stone, a small slip, and I’d be back in the river, considerably the worse for wear. I might die if I tried again tonight. So I decided to find a place to sleep; I’d try again in the morning, when I was rested. It was going to be a long, cold night. No tarp. No food. No canteen.
Fighting off self-pity, intent on pushing through some bushes to find a small clearing I’d passed earlier, I thought I saw a dark, indistinct shape moving through the bramble. Had the fall or the river affected my vision? I took a step back, then froze as I identified the shape: a bear. The biggest, meanest-looking monster of a bear I’d ever seen. Or maybe it just looked that way because it was close enough for me to smell its breath. Standing, it towered over me and roared—a heart-stopping, bloodcurdling bellow.
I turned tail and ran like a crazy man, plunging through the thicket as though it were mist. I ran at full speed and leapt into thin air, and the branch seemed to swing into my outstretched hands. My body arced forward so quickly that I almost forgot to let go of the branch. Fortunately, no one was there to grade my dismount. I landed flat on my ass and bounced onto solid earth. My knapsack rested miraculously between my straddled legs. I didn’t see the bear when I looked back across the gorge, but that didn’t stop me from sliding onto my knees, shaking one fist, and giving a Bronx cheer before I collapsed.
As I lay there, a Sufi story ambled into my head: A ruler summoned a renowned sage to his court and said, “Prove to me you’re not another charlatan or I’ll have you executed on the spot!”
Instantly the sage went into a trance. “I see, oh great king, rivers of silver and gold flowing through the heavens, on which ride dragons spitting fire. I see giant serpents, even now, crawling through the earth far below!”
The king, impressed, asked, “How is it that you can see far into the heavens and deep into the bowels of the earth?”
“Fear is all you need,” he replied.
Amen to that, I thought, shaken and stirred like a cocktail. It was all I could do to crawl forward a few feet, putting a little more distance between myself and the cliff edge, before I curled up around the knapsack, cradling it tenderly, and fell into a sleep troubled by dreams of running and pursuit.
The next morning, chilled and hungry, I moved carefully down a steep incline, then ascended a gentler grade, pushing myself onward until midday, when I found the semblance of a path. Another path leading nowhere, I thought, dulled from hunger and fatigue. I moved my feet, one wobbling step after another, my body ravaged, my spirit shaken.
A few hours later, with the sun descending toward the rim of the mountains, the path came to an abrupt end.
SEVENTEEN
* * *
Stumbling into a clearing, I saw the shimmering stalks of a cultivated cornfield along with a red-roofed barn, reminding me of Ohio. Directly ahead and to the right, about a hundred yards away, lay a sturdy-looking two-story house. Beyond I could make out what looked like a pavilion, painted white, and a series of small dwellings—Chinese architecture in its purest form, with gracefully curving roofs that lifted my gaze to the orange sky. And there, in the shadow of the large roof’s overhang, the figure of a man emerged. I was too far away to see him clearly, but he was watching me. I could feel it.
I heard dogs barking and saw two of them running toward me—not menacing but watchful, with a large pig trailing behind them. The trio approached cautiously. One of the dogs let me scratch it lightly behind the ears. The other cut in and shoved its nose into my palm. The pig gave a sniff too, and grunted before the welcoming committee headed back down the grade.
My eyes swept past a smaller house beside the large one to a fast-flowing stream running behind both structures. I saw a woman approaching. The last rays of the evening sun painted her white silk tunic shades of pink and gold. Conscious of my ragged appearance, I made a futile attempt to straighten my clothes and ran a dirty hand through my hair. The woman stopped a few feet away. She had an oval face with a large scar across her cheek—from a serious burn, I guessed—and beautiful eyes framed by jet-black hair tied in a single braid. She made a slow bow as if I were a visiting dignitary. She spoke in clipped, British-sounding English, her voice unexpectedly lower than Hua Chi’s: “My name is Mei Bao. How can I help you?”
I made a belated attempt to bow, then turned to search through my pack for the letter I was to present to Master Ch’an. Unable to find it, I turned back to see her gazing at me, puzzled. After a speechless moment, I replied in a run-on sentence reminiscent of seven-year-old Bonita. “Oh, uh, my name is Dan Millman, you see I was sent here, well, not really sent, I mean I came of my own accord, but Hua Chi suggested I meet—”
“Hua Chi?” she said, now looking past me, over my shoulder, perhaps expecting Hua Chi to appear behind me. After a pause: “Surely you didn’t travel here on your own?”
I nodded, still preoccupied as I searched through my bag. “Somewhere I have a letter of—”
She pursed her lips. “I’ve forgotten my manners; you must be weary from your journey. Let me show you where you may rest for the night. In the morning we’ll speak over tea. By then you’ll have found the letter.” Mei Bao spoke soothingly as though I were a small child who’d woken from a nightmare.
She led me to a small room just inside and to the left of the barn’s entrance. There the smell of horse manure gave way to fresh, clean straw. Near a raised sleeping loft stood a makeshift desk and a box to store my things.
“I apologize for the condition. There’s a dormitory where the students stay, but perhaps it’s better if you stay here.”
“Of course,” I said. “After where I’ve slept recently, this room will do very nicely.”
After she left, I unpacked, folded my dirty laundry and put it aside, and then set the samurai and the kachina doll on a small table, next to Soc’s journal and my notebook.
I found the letter Hua Chi had written for Master Ch’an—it had slid behind the lining like everything else, it seemed. Setting it under the samurai, I lay back on t
he straw and took a deep breath, waiting for sleep. But my mind kept whirling: Why did I risk my life to get here? Why did my unchaperoned arrival surprise Mei Bao? Will Master Ch’an accept me as a student?
* * *
Awakened abruptly by the cry of a rooster above me, I pulled on my only clean pair of pants and the collared shirt I’d saved for this purpose, and stepped into the cool air of early October.
In the soft light of dawn, I could see the fields in orderly rows. A lone cat streaked by as the yelping dogs joined me, along with, yes, their pig pal. I’d seen several sheep grazing last evening, and I now passed a pen with several more pigs. This was indeed a farm.
I saw young people, mostly teenagers, their heads wrapped, heading into the fields; others walked toward what might have been a kitchen and dining hall adjacent to the pavilion I’d noticed last night. Netting hung down on all sides—to keep out insects, I guessed. Peering into the spacious pavilion, I saw mats made of rice straw like the Japanese tatami covering most of the wood-planked floor. It had taken devoted labor to build all this over the years.
Outside again, I let my gaze follow a stream that flowed between the rear of the big house and the pavilion. An arched bridge connected the house to the pavilion entrance. On the other side of the house, a waterwheel lifted bamboo cups of water up to a second-floor window, where they spilled into what must have been a form of plumbing, sending gravity-fed running water down through the house. The entire area was silent and tranquil, at once distinct from and yet in harmony with the surrounding forest.
I jumped as Mei Bao touched my shoulder. “Would you please follow me, Mr. Millman—”
“Please call me Dan.”
She nodded. “I hope you slept well. Master Ch’an would like to welcome you as a friend of Hua Chi’s.”
“We’re not really old friends. In fact, she and I only met recently. . . .”
As we entered the house, I removed my boots, suddenly anxious.
Mei Bao said, “Just relax and be natural.” Which naturally made me feel tense and awkward, knowing this was not an idle chat but a kind of interview.
After I stepped into guest slippers, we padded over a shining cedar floor to a sitting room, where he waited. The Master of Taishan Forest. Flowers were arranged on a table alongside bowls of water and cotton hand towels.
Dressed in a plain gray tunic, Master Ch’an was an imposing figure despite his small stature, a few inches over five feet. His black hair had grayed around the temples, and bushy eyebrows protruded over alert eyes. His face, absent of tension, gave no clue to his age.
I bowed and held out the folded letter Hua Chi had written. Mei Bao took it and handed it to Master Ch’an. He read it slowly. I watched his expression for any sign—a smile, a nod. Anything. He said a few words to Mei Bao and passed the letter back to her to read. Finally she spoke. “Thank you for bringing us this news from Hua Chi.”
I waited for her to say something more, but she and Master Ch’an only stared at me appraisingly, exchanging small words in Chinese. So that’s it! Maybe every few months Hua Chi finds a gullible foreigner to deliver her mail.
Mei Bao spoke again. “Hua Chi noted that you have an interest in practicing t’ai chi, and that you might also consent to teach acrobatics to our students. There are about twenty of us right now.”
Ah, so that was her agenda, I thought. Hua Chi sent me here not only as a mail carrier but as a possible teacher. I was glad that the two of them couldn’t hear my thoughts; at least, I was fairly certain they couldn’t. With or without the journal, I hadn’t come empty-handed, “begging alms of insight”—Soc did have a way with words when he wasn’t racked by fever. “I’d be happy to help however I can,” I said out loud.
Mei Bao translated my few words for Ch’an, then excused herself to prepare tea.
The master and I sat in silence as we waited for her return. Catching a sidelong glance, I noticed how his prominent cheekbones added a toughness to his wiry appearance. He projected vitality and strength.
Mei Bao returned with fragrant, steaming bowls of rice and stir-fried vegetables. I waited for Master Ch’an and Mei Bao to begin. They were apparently waiting for me. Finally Mei Bao said, “Please, enjoy your meal. After this, you’ll eat in the dining hall with the students each morning following work in the fields.”
As we ate, she told me of the daily routine: “For your time here, you’ll rise with the rooster—”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said, remembering my earlier wake-up call.
She laughed, then tried and apparently failed to translate the joke for Master Ch’an—if his expression was any indicator. Still smiling, she continued: “You’ll work in the fields or kitchen before the main meal in the dining hall. You’ll hear a bell. After that, you’ll have two hours of rest and open time before afternoon training—”
Master Ch’an said something to her. She nodded, and added, “You’ll have the opportunity to practice t’ai chi for two hours, and after a short break you can teach acrobatics for the next two hours. Normally the martial arts take up the whole afternoon, but while you’re here, it seems a good opportunity for the students to develop new skills of agility and balance.”
I nodded, considering this new responsibility. People often assume that any skilled athlete, artist, or musician can also teach. But I’d learned that teaching is itself an art, one that requires practice. In my early teens I’d helped my friends at a trampoline center figure out how to learn or improve various somersaults. Later I offered suggestions to my college teammates and taught at a few summer gymnastics camps and clinics. My communication skills improved while coaching and teaching beginning gymnastics at Stanford and more recently at Oberlin. But I’d never before had (or wanted) the challenge of teaching young men and women tempered in the kiln of a different culture, who didn’t speak my language while I couldn’t speak theirs.
Our meal complete—and my stomach, as usual, still growling for more—we sipped a bitter, energizing tea. When Mei Bao stood, I started to get up as well, assuming that my meeting with Ch’an had concluded, but she checked me with a gesture.
“There’s one thing more,” Mei Bao added. “Just a small test.” She reached into a silver box and took out a straight pin. After she pushed the point of the pin down into the wood so that it stood upright, she turned to me. “Master Ch’an asks that you send the pin into the table.”
She sat back down and waited.
I swallowed.
EIGHTEEN
* * *
The task reminded me of one of Papa Joe’s riddles. I recalled the response of Alexander the Great when he confronted the tangled Gordian knot securing a closed gate that blocked his way. He was challenged to untangle the knot. A man of action, he drew his sword and sliced through it.
So, without hesitation, I slammed my palm straight down onto the pinhead with full force and concentration. My hand made a resounding thud as it connected with the table surface. To my surprise, the only pain I felt resulted from slapping my palm onto the table. I lifted my hand to see what had happened to the pin. It lay on the table, bent in two.
Master Ch’an nodded, his face expressionless.
Seeing my crestfallen expression at failing to drive the pin into the table, Mei Bao reassured me. “Yours was a proper response. Your aim was true, and your commitment clear. If you had held back, the pin might have cut your skin, but the pin, like other obstacles that appear on your path, gave way to the force of your intention. You focused on the goal, not on the obstacle. This is how we face our lives.”
With that, she stood, and so did I. I bowed to Master Ch’an once more. My last impression, as I left the house, was of the flowing back of Mei Bao’s tunic as she disappeared through a doorway, passing quietly through a curtain of beads.
The next morning before I began the work detail, Mei Bao showed me around the farm. As we skirted the edge of the trees, she cautioned me about returning to the forest.
“I
t’s too easy to become lost,” she said.
“Do students sometimes get lost?”
“From time to time,” she said seriously. “Nearly always we can find them again.”
She took me out into the fields and showed me where I could get gloves.
“Just imitate what the others are doing, whether planting potatoes or practicing t’ai chi,” she advised. “Please take pride in all that you do. Everything matters. We strive to remain self-sufficient and self-reliant here. Do you understand?”
I nodded, having grasped her meaning and more. On this farm I found a different China from the one I’d expected, and a revolution more profound than Mao’s.
When Mei Bao departed, I pulled on the work gloves and headed out into the fields, ready to make the daily routines of the farm and school my own. At least for the next month or so.
An hour into the work of bending, hoeing, and planting, I realized how much brute labor was required to keep a farm running. As I stopped to stretch for a few moments, I noticed a muscular man about my age. He wore a long-sleeved gray cotton shirt like the others, but he was more solidly built, with a barrel chest—more wrestler than martial artist. All the younger workers had towels wrapped around their heads and wore rubber boots. I was afraid that I stood out rather comically in my hiking boots and my red star cap, but the others seemed intent on their tasks. I did my best to follow their example despite blisters.
After the work detail, and before the midday meal, I washed my face and hands in the stream alongside my companions. They stole furtive looks at me, the newcomer, a foreigner.
The small dining hall was quieter than I might have expected. The young people—mostly in their teens but a few in their twenties—spoke in whispers. When I sat down with my food near the center of the long table, everyone near me stopped speaking and cast shy glances in my direction, too polite to stare.