Way of the Peaceful Warrior (5 page)

“Perhaps so, perhaps not. Each of us has our own unique talents. You may learn to jump up on rooftops,” he grinned. “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-sequitirs.
 

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 clean 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 absent-mindedly 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.
 

There were many small lessons that awaited me each night, even in the early days. One night I made the mistake of complaining about how people at school just didn't seem to act very friendly toward me.
 

Softly, he said, “It is better for you to take responsibility for your life as it is, instead of blaming others, or circumstances, for your predicament. As your eyes open, you'll see that your state of health, happiness, and every circumstance of your life has been, in large part, arranged by you--consciously or unconsciously.”
 

“I don't know what you mean, but I don't think I agree with it.” “Well, here's a story about a guy like you, Dan:
 

On a construction site in the Midwest, when the lunch whistle blew, all the workers would sit down together to eat. And with singular regularity Sam would open his lunch pail and start to complain.
 

“Son of a gun!” he'd cry, “not peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again. I hate peanut butter and jelly!”
 

Sam moaned about his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches day after day after day. Weeks passed, and the other workers were getting irritated by his behavior. Finally, another man on the work crew said, “Fer crissakes, Sam, if you hate peanut butter and jelly so much, why don't you just tell yer o' lady to make you something different?”
 

“What do you mean, my o' lady?” Sam replied. “I'm not married. I make my own sandwiches.”
 

Socrates paused, then added, “So you see, we all make our own sandwiches in this life.” He handed me a brown bag with two sandwiches in it. “Do you want cheese and tomato or tomato and cheese?” he asked, grinning.
 

“Oh, just give me either,” I jested back.
 

As we munched, Socrates said, “When you become fully responsible for your life, you can become fully human; once you become human, you may discover what it means to be a warrior.”
 

“Thanks, Soc, for the food for thought, and for belly.” I bowed grandly. Then I put on my jacket and got ready to leave. “I won't be by for a couple of weeks. Finals are coming up. And I also have some hard thinking to do.” Before he could comment I waved goodbye and left for home.
 

I lost myself in the semester's last classes. My hours in the gym were spent in the hardest training I’d ever done. Whenever I stopped pushing myself, my thoughts and feelings began to stir uneasily. I felt the first signs of what was to become a growing sense of alienation from my everyday world. For the first time in my life, I had a choice between two distinct realities. One was crazy and one was sane--but I just didn't know which was which, so I committed myself to neither.
 

I couldn't shake a growing sense that maybe, just maybe, Socrates was not so eccentric after all. Perhaps his descriptions of my life had been more accurate than I'd imagined. I began to realise how I acted with people, and what I saw began to disturb me. I was sociable enough on the outside, but I was really only concerned about myself.
 

Bill, one of my best friends, fell from the horse and broke his wrist; Rick learned a full twisting back somersault that he'd been working on for a year. I felt the same emotional response in both cases; nothing.
 

Under the weight of my growing self-knowledge, my self-esteem was sinking fast.
 

One night, just before finals, I heard a knock at my door. I was surprised and happy to find toothpaste Susie, the blond cheerleader
 

I hadn't seen in weeks. I realized how lonely I'd been.
 

“Aren't you going to invite me in, Danny?”
 

“Oh! Yes. I'm really glad to see you. Uh, sit down, let me take your coat, would you like something to eat? Something to drink?” She just gazed at me.
 

“What is it, Susie?”
 

“You look tired, Danny, but...” she reached out and touched  my face. “There's something…your eyes look different, somehow. What is it?”
 

I touched her cheek. “Stay with me tonight, Susie.”
 

“I thought you'd never ask. I brought my toothbrush!”
 

The next morning I turned over to smell Sue's tousled hair, sweet like summer straw, and to feel her soft breath on my pillow. “I should feel good,” I thought, but my mood was grey like the fog outside.
 

For the next few days, Sue and I spent a lot of time together. I don't think I was very good company, but Sue's spirits were enough for both of us.
 

Something kept me from telling her about Socrates. He was of another world, a world in which she had no part. How could she understand when I couldn't even fathom what was happening to me?
 

Finals came and went. I did well, but I didn't care. Susie went home for spring vacation, and I was glad to be alone.
 

Spring vacation was soon over, and warm winds blew through the littered streets of Berkeley. I knew that it was time to return to that warrior's world, to that strange little gas station--this time perhaps more open and more humble than before. But now I was more sure of one thing. If Socrates cut at me with his sharp wit again, I was going to slash right back!
 

THE WINDS OF CHANGE
 

It was late evening. After my workout and dinner, I took a nap. When I awoke it was nearly midnight. I walked slowly through the crisp night air of early spring toward the station. A strong breeze blew from behind me, as if impelling me forward along the campus paths.
 

As I neared the familiar intersection, I slowed down. A light drizzle had begun, chilling the night. In the glow from the warmly lit office I could see Soc's shape through the misted window, drinking from his mug, and a mixture of anticipation and dread squeezed my lungs and accelerated my heart beat.
 

I looked down at the pavement as I crossed the street and neared the office door. The wind gusted against the back of my neck. Suddenly chilled, I snapped my head up to see Socrates standing in the doorway, staring at me and sniffing the air like a wolf. He seemed to be looking right through me. Memories of the Grim Reaper returned. I knew this man had within him great warmth and compassion, but I sensed that behind his dark eyes lay a great unknown danger.
 

My fear dissipated when he gently said, “It's good that you've returned.” He welcomed me into the office with a wave of his arm. Just as I took off my shoes and sat down, the station bell clanged. I wiped the mist off the window and looked out to see an old Plymouth limp in with a fiat tire. Socrates was already headed out the door wearing his army surplus rain poncho. Watching him, I wondered momentarily how he could possibly have frightened me.
 

Then rain clouds darkened the night, bringing back fleeting images of the black-hooded death of my dream, changing the pattering of the soft rain into bony fingers drumming madly on the roof. I moved restlessly on the couch, tired from my intense workouts in the gym. The Conference Championships were coming up next week, and today had been the last hard workout before the meet.
 

Socrates opened the door to the office. He stood with the door open and said, “Come outside--now,” then left me. As I rose and put on my shoes, I looked through the mist. Socrates was standing out beyond the pumps, just outside the aura of the station lights. Half-shrouded in darkness, he appeared to be wearing a black hood.
 

I was not going out there. The office was like a fortress against the night--and against a world outside that was beginning to grate on my nerves like noisy downtown traffic. Nope. I wasn't going out. Socrates beckoned me again, then again, from out in the darkness. Surrendering to fate, I went outside.
 

As I approached him cautiously, he said, “Listen, can you feel it?”
 

“What?”
 

“Feel!”
 

Just then the rain stopped and the wind seemed to change directions. Strange--a warm wind. “The wind, Sot?”
 

“Yes, the winds. They're changing. It means a turning point for you--now. You may not have realized it; neither did I, in fact--but tonight is a critical moment in time for you. You left, but you returned. And now the winds are changing.” He looked at me for a moment, then strode back inside.
 

I followed him in and sat down on the familiar couch. Socrates was very still in his soft brown chair, his eyes riveted upon me. In a voice strong enough to pierce walls but light enough to be carded by the March winds, he announced, “There is something I must do now. Don't be afraid.”
 

He stood. “Socrates, you're scaring the hell out of me!” I stammered angrily, sliding back in the couch as he slowly came toward  me, stalking, like a tiger on the prowl.
 

He glanced out the window for a moment checking for possible interruptions, then knelt in front of me, saying softly, “Dan, do you recall that I told you-we must work on changing your mind before you can see the warrior's way?”
 

“Yes, but I really don't think…”
 

“Don't be afraid,” he repeated. “Comfort yourself with a saying of Confucius,” he smiled. “Only the supremely wise and the ignorant do not alter. “Saying that, he reached out and placed his hands gently but firmly on my temples.
 

Nothing happened for a moment then suddenly, I felt a growing pressure in the middle of my head. There was a loud buzzing, then a sound like waves rushing up on the beach. I heard bells tingling, and my head felt as if it was going to burst. That's when I saw the light, and my mind exploded with its brightness. Something in me was dying--I knew this for a certainty and something else was being born! Then the light engulfed everything.
 

I found myself lying back on the couch. Socrates was offering me a cup of tea, shaking me gently.
 

“What happened to me?”
 

“Let's just say I manipulated your energies and opened a few new circuits. The fireworks were just your brain's delight in the energy bath. The result is that you are relieved of your lifelong illusion of knowledge. From now on, ordinary knowledge is no longer going to satisfy you, I'm afraid.”
 

“I don't get it.”
 

“You will,” he said, without smiling.
 

I was very tired. We sipped our tea in silence. Then, excusing myself, I rose, put on my sweater, and walked home as if in a dream.
 

The next day was full of classes and full of professors babbling words that had no meaning or relevance for me. In History, Watson lectured on how Churchill's political instincts had affected  the war. I stopped taking notes. I was too busy taking in the colors and textures of the room, feeling the energies of the people around me. The sounds of my professors' voices were far more interesting than the concepts they conveyed. Socrates, what did you do to me? I'll never make it through finals. I was walking out of class, fascinated by the knobby texture of the carpet, when I heard a familiar voice.