by Dan Millman
My sleep was filled with a tumult of movement. When I awoke and stepped outside, the farm was empty. They had all vanished like a mirage.
Hua Chi found me sitting in the empty pavilion. “So you see,” she said, “they really were prepared to leave on short notice. We are the last to go.”
What a shame, I thought. Gross injustice—petty bureaucrats and so-called revolutionary ideology! I didn’t know whether to feel sad or furious—probably a mixture of both. They had devoted so much to this place.
I recalled the story Socrates had told me about the monk Hakuin, who was wrongly accused of fathering a child with a young girl. When villagers insisted he raise the child, he said only three words as he took the child in his arms: “Is that so?” Two years later, the girl and the young father asked for the child back. His response was the same. He received and let go without resistance. This transcendent capacity still eluded me as I surveyed the empty fields and silent pavilion that had nourished so much life and learning.
Hua Chi and I bypassed Taishan Village for a larger town to catch a small steam train. At the station, I asked, “Do you really have official papers for me?”
In a silent reply, she handed me an envelope with documents. Then she said, “You’ve given much to my brother’s community. A part of you will remain with them. That much, at least, I foresaw.”
And they will remain with me, I thought. Speaking it aloud would have sounded trivial, so I remained silent.
Hua Chi cautioned me to keep a low profile on the trip back to Hong Kong. Even in the warming spring, I was covered in traditional clothing and a traditional conical hat, pulled down low over my eyes so my face was in shadow.
The butter-colored air of spring thickened as we traveled south, rolling past small villages, past the Celestial Mountains to the east. “The mountains are home to the snow leopard and to wolves that migrate down from Mongolia,” Hua Chi whispered, still the consummate travel guide. I too now viewed such creatures as Guardians. And I wondered what would become of Hong Hong, the forest bear.
My thoughts were interrupted by Hua Chi, who spoke softly, her English accent muffled by the sounds of the train: “I’m fascinated by nature, but I couldn’t live out in the country.”
No television reception, I thought, discovering that I could still smile.
Far behind us lay the mystical Pamir region, where Socrates had studied with Nada (then María) and the others—a place threaded by the ancient Silk Road, where Hindu, Islamic, and Chinese cultures traded goods and stories. To the southwest lay the towering peaks of Tibet and Nepal. I peered at a curve of track ahead and saw, through a haze of yellow clay, straw grids to fend off the ever-encroaching dunes of dust.
The next day we entered the Shanxi region, called the Middle Kingdom in ancient times, the wellspring of Chinese civilization. As we steamed past the broad Yellow River and the Fen, Hua Chi said, “These great rivers were known as China’s sorrow as well as China’s pride. They gave life along the shores, but when they flooded, thousands died and many more lost crops and homes. China’s history, like many, I suppose, is a bittersweet one.”
That evening we caught a ferry from Guangzhou to Hong Kong. That was the only point when an official gave us any trouble. He held us back, eyeing me suspiciously. But after President Nixon’s visit to China just a few years before, and the country’s new contact with a larger world, foreigners were treated with more courtesy. So, with a severe nod, the official finally let me pass. Only then did Hua Chi follow. I felt the relief shared by most travelers returning to a more familiar culture and language. I spent that night at Hua Chi’s home.
When I woke the next morning, the first thing I saw was David Carradine’s face—she’d hung the poster to celebrate our mutual enthusiasm. After tea and some breakfast, I joined her in the park for a little push hands. She seemed pleased at my modest improvement. We exchanged bows. I looked into her eyes for the last time before shouldering my knapsack and heading for the airport.
A few hours later, through the aircraft window, I surveyed the coast of Hong Kong and the vast land of China across the harbor and beyond. Only then did it strike me that I’d never given Hua Chi the journal to read. And she’d never asked. How important are these words on paper, given all that has happened? I thought. Will the words ever matter? I’d never know unless I shared them someday.
Now Japan lay before me. Socrates had once told me to follow my nose and trust my instincts. So that’s what I would do.
PART THREE
* * *
Stones, Roots, Water
Die in your mind every morning and you will no longer fear death.
YAMAMOTO TSUNETOMO, HAGAKURE: BOOK OF THE SAMURAI
THIRTY
* * *
After arriving in Osaka, I was now en route to Kyoto, two hours away by train. Japan’s ancient capital, Kyoto reflected Shinto and Buddhist traditions still resonant in the city’s abundant temples, gardens, teahouses, and castles, where samurai once guarded and served the emperor.
In the customs line I overheard someone say, “Kyoto has a thousand temples and ten thousand bars.” So much for ancient traditions, I thought.
From the train station I called a small hotel in central Kyoto and booked a room. Noting the name and address, I caught a taxi. It looked new and unusually clean. The white-gloved driver took pride in his work and made a good first impression. Using what little Japanese I knew, I directed him toward the hotel: “Hoteru Sunomo no hana, kudasai.”
“Hai—arigato,” replied the driver. He seemed pleased at my modest attempt to speak his language. We took off like a shot. I noticed he was young, and like many young drivers he worked the edges of the speed limit. I almost told him to slow down, but didn’t know how to say it. I wish I had tried.
We were just entering the city center. I scanned the sights ahead. As we approached an intersection, I saw a motorcycle rider with a passenger dart out from a side street. The driver was glancing the other way. “Watch out!” I yelled, less than two seconds before the right fender of the taxi smashed at full speed into the motorcycle. The sound was horrific and the sight worse. The bike spun wildly, and both riders were thrown into the air as the taxi came screeching to a halt. Reflexively, both the taxi driver and I jumped out and ran to the two fallen riders. My legs felt rubbery—not only from what had just occurred, but because of the memory flash of my own motorcycle crash nine years earlier. I felt sick.
Then time sped up as we drew near a young woman, bloodied, crying, and rocking back and forth from the pain of likely broken bones and other injuries. She wore a helmet, which a bystander carefully removed. It was most likely the driver’s helmet, since he had none. He lay absolutely still, his body a distorted tangle. One look at his bloody, smashed-in head told us he was probably dead. The clerk of a nearby store had run back inside to call for help. Soon we heard sirens.
I stayed at the scene long enough to tell the police that we had had the green light and that the motorcycle had shot out from the side street directly into our path. The young taxi driver looked ashen and bowed to me again and again in apology. I gave the officer the name of my hotel in case they needed to ask me anything else, then found another taxi. I hardly remember anything more until I arrived at my hotel.
Shaken, I checked in, entered my room, unrolled the traditional futon bed on the tatami-mat floor, and lay down. It was the second death I’d witnessed in the space of one week.
This fatal collision seemed like a dark omen, as if the reaper were right next to me, whispering words I couldn’t grasp. I lay there, my mind whirling. I tried to make plans, but then thought, Why make plans when plans change? What plans had that young taxi driver made, or the couple on the motorcycle? And why have I come here, anyway? Have I misread the message of the little samurai?
At some point in the night, the black-hooded specter who’d haunted me during my college days in Berkeley returned to point a bony finger. It could take me. Anytime. Anywhere. I kn
ew that now.
The next morning, I awoke in a better mental state but somber—echoes and images of yesterday’s events still with me. No longer second-guessing whether I should have come to Japan, I accepted my reality: I was here, so I would visit a few martial arts schools and make some notes for my report to the grant committee. Then I would head home.
After checking directions with the bellman, who spoke some English, I ate a Japanese-style breakfast: miso soup, rice, pickles, and dumplings. Then I set out to explore the city and attend to professional business.
As a youth, and later during my years coaching at Stanford, I’d studied enough karate and aikido to know which questions to ask. My recent t’ai chi training also gave me more sensitive eyes for perceiving the flows of energy underlying the physical techniques.
I visited a well-known karate school first. After observing a class, I was able to speak with the head instructor through one of his students. This aging sensei fit the picture of a karate veteran, with his graying hair, chiseled cheekbones, and flattened knuckles. He wore a sturdy cotton uniform—a traditional gi—tied with a faded and worn black belt. The older the belt, the greater the experience, I reminded myself.
I’d observed the instructor demonstrating and sparring with another black belt during the class. He’d seemed a formidable fighter, but he spoke in a gentle voice. As the student translated, the sensei related one version of karate history. His voice faded in and out as my focus wavered; I was still shaken and preoccupied with the deaths of my friend Chun Han back in China and of the motorcyclist the day before. Does every death remind us of our own?
Meanwhile, the sensei spoke of a journey undertaken by the Indian prince Bodhidharma, who traveled from India to China spreading Buddhism and martial training, especially among the Shaolin monks. He devised a system of martial movements to promote vitality after hours of meditation and to serve as self-defense from bullies or bandits, a style which came to be known as Shaolin temple boxing. According to the legend, in doing so, he knit together karate, Asian martial arts, and Buddhist meditation.
Having observed and made notes for my report, I bowed and took my leave.
Later that afternoon, I made my way to a satellite school of the aikido headquarters. Finding no one in the entryway or small office, I removed my shoes and stepped quietly into the tatami-floored practice hall, or dojo, which means place or school of the way. There I came upon a somber scene: The students knelt in rows facing the traditional altar and image of Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of aikido. At the head of the room knelt four senior instructors in the traditional seiza posture. They were dressed in the white cotton tops and black skirtlike hakama pants of elder instructors. Their students also knelt in stunned silence as one of the instructors carefully folded up a piece of parchment from which he had been reading. I noticed several students crying softly. Sad news. Perhaps a death, I thought. Another death.
My mind and heart flashed back to the pond in Taishan Forest as Chun Han’s body went into the earth. I sat on a low bench in the back of the room and listened to yet another language I couldn’t understand. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, said a voice in my head. You don’t speak Japanese, Dan, but you speak the language of martial arts.
True enough, and I did recognize the instructor’s next words to his students: “Renshu shite kudasai—onegaishimasu!” His tone was warm but emphatic. Please continue practicing—carry on! I thought, translating to myself.
The students rose quickly, wiping at their eyes as they formed into pairs, doing their best to show gaman, or stoic forbearance, a facet of the Japanese character I’d come to understand during my aikido training. They took turns circling one another, staying alert and relaxed, moving in for random attacks, which enabled their partners to practice a variety of flowing, circular defenses, mostly involving wrist locks and leveraged throws, turning the momentum of the attack seamlessly into a controlled defense that neutralized the attack without seriously injuring the attacker.
One of the instructors approached me, and I thought I heard him say something in English. I turned to him and asked, “Please, kudasai, what has happened?”
At first he said nothing—he might have been searching for the right words or deciding whether to share the news with a foreign visitor. In slow, fractured English, he explained that their esteemed chief instructor, a seventh-degree black belt and the founder of that dojo, had recently taken his own life.
A chill wind blew through me. For an instant, the sensei before me was replaced by the hooded specter. Everywhere I go, death stalks me, I thought. And I wondered, Am I the servant forever fleeing to Samarra? In answer, a phrase from Socrates came to mind: “There is no victory over death, only the realization of who we really are.” What does that mean? I shouted internally.
Before he took his leave, seeing the expression on my face, the sensei added, “He did not practice seppuku in the manner of the samurai. There was no dishonor. Sensei Nakayama, a teacher of great strength and wisdom, had deep sadness. A depression. I read a message he wrote to the students—to encourage them to practice sincerely, before he departed for Aokigahara Jukai.”
“Aokigahara Jukai—what’s that?” I asked, but the instructor didn’t appear to hear me. He bowed and departed. So I returned to my seat to observe. Even in their grief, the students guided one another with attacks and defenses in a graceful dance of power, where harmony was lost and restored again and again.
With everything that had happened—including learning that a master of aikido had just taken his own life—I left in a daze. Energy fields, I thought as I pushed open the door and stepped out into the hazy sunlight and humid air of spring. I wandered the streets after that, seeing little, recalling nothing.
In the early evening, back in my hotel room, I picked up the journals and read them, first Soc’s notes, then my own. When I finally set them down late that night, I had to face the fact that the heart of his message hadn’t yet penetrated me. My words had sprung from his insight, his realization. I’d finally glimpsed the gate he spoke of, but I hadn’t yet passed through it. Just before I fell asleep, an odd thought came to me: Maybe I’ve already died, and this is the afterlife.
The shadowy specter followed me down darkened dream streets until I sat up, gasping. My eyes darted around the dark room; I couldn’t seem to get enough air. Stumbling to my feet, I splashed cold water over my face and chest at the sink and dressed quickly. Fleeing the confines of my tiny hotel room in the beautiful city of Kyoto, I returned to aimless wandering, desperate to shake off the feeling that I was no longer in the world.
Everywhere I looked, I sensed the fragility of human life. I had no defense or denial left. In a snap of eternity’s finger, I too would fall like the blossoms now strewn in white and pink carpets beneath the cherry trees. The people walking past me would all die too. Even now they appeared as ghostly, transparent figures. No one seemed to take any notice of me, a gaijin in a sea of Japanese, increasing my sense of invisibility, my dread of nonbeing.
THIRTY-ONE
* * *
I entered a park. All was quiet before the dawn, but inside me a battle raged between love and fear, selfhood and nonbeing. In the first light of dawn, seeking to reestablish my connection to the earth, I did some push-ups, then kicked up to a handstand on a bench. After some stretching, I began the familiar routine of t’ai chi that had become a part of me. Finally my attention settled into the body. I won’t die a victim, I thought. Even if I never become a warrior like Socrates, I’ll find my own way.
I returned to my hotel room to get some rest. As soon as I opened the door, I saw him standing there in front of me—with the familiar grin and posture. Socrates hadn’t aged at all, at least not in my imagination. It wasn’t really him, of course, but an apparition, a reminder that quickly faded. But I could hear his voice saying, “I’m not here for you to trust me, Dan. I’m here to help you trust yourself.” I turned to the little samurai on the desk, pointing the way. “W
herever you step,” Socrates had written in his letter, “a path will appear.”
Leaving the hotel to find my path for the day, for my life, I recalled an uneasy moment during an all-night hike I’d once taken in the woods. With just a sliver of moon showing, my only light was a small headlamp. At one point, about four o’clock in the morning, I realized that I’d lost my way. I slowly backtracked until, ten minutes later, I found the faint outlines of the trail. I felt like that now, the way I had in the moments before my path appeared. I took one step, then another, to see where they might lead.
That day I walked past neighborhood gardens and small Shinto shrines, and I rode several small connector trains to other parts of the city. I let my thoughts roam, trusting my brain to sort through and make sense of all that had transpired.
Disembarking from the local train in the early dusk, I walked through the warm, humid evening back toward my hotel, searching among the small shops for a café where I could find noodles or rice and vegetables. As I passed a magazine stand, the proprietor, an elderly white-haired man, held out an English-language newspaper in both hands for my inspection. After purchasing the paper, I found a nearby eatery where I pointed to a picture of rice, vegetables, and tofu, managing a “Gohan, yasai, tofu, kudasai”—reminding the counter clerk that I was a bejitarian. I sat down at a plastic table and looked at the newspaper.
On the front page below the fold, a piece caught my eye. It mentioned the eerie woods on the northern base of Mount Fuji that the Japanese called Aokigahara Jukai—the Sea of Trees, or the Suicide Forest. Isn’t that the same place where the aikido master went to die? I recalled. The article went on to describe it as “a notorious site where so many suicides occur each year, the local government has erected a sign on the main hiking trail urging visitors to think of their families and to contact a suicide prevention group.”