Way of the Peaceful Warrior (18 page)

“Dan, I was a very angry and self-centered young man. By making extremely rigorous demands on me for service, he showed me how to give myself away, with real happiness and love.”
 

“And what better place to learn how to serve,” I said, “than at a service station.”
 

Smiling, Joseph said, “He wasn't always a service station attendant, you know. His life has been extremely unusual and varied.” “Tell me about it!” I urged.
 

“Hasn't Socrates told you about his past?”
 

“No, he likes to keep it mysterious. I don't even know where he lives.”
 

“Not surprising. Well, I'd better keep it mysterious, too, until he wants you to know.”
 

Hiding my disappointment, I asked, “Did you call him Socrates, too? It seems an unlikely coincidence.”
 

“No, but his new name, like his new student, has spirit,” he smiled.
 

“You said he made rigorous demands on you.”
 

“Yes, very rigorous. Nothing I did was good enough and if I had a single negative thought, he always seemed to know and would send me off for weeks.”
 

“As a matter of fact, I may not be able to see him ever again.”
 

“Oh? Why so?”
 

“He said I had to stay away until I could breathe properly--relaxed and natural. I've been trying but I just can't.”
 

“Ah, that,” he sad, putting down his broom. He came over to me and put one hand on my belly, one on my chest. “Now breathe,” he said.
 

I started breathing deeply, the way Socrates had shown me. “No, don't try so hard.” After a few minutes I started to feel funny in my belly and chest. They were warm inside, relaxed, and open. Suddenly, I was crying like a baby, wildly happy and not knowing why. In that moment, I was breathing completely without effort; it felt like I was being breathed. It felt so pleasurable, I thought, “Who needs to go to movies to be entertained?” I was so excited I could hardly contain myself! But then I felt the breathing start to tighten again.
 

“Joseph, I lost it!”
 

“Don't worry, Dan. You just need to relax a little. I helped you with that. Now you know what natural breathing feels like. To stabilize it, you'll have to let yourself breathe
naturally, more and more, until it starts to feel normal. Controlling the breath means undoing all your emotional knots and when you do, you're going to discover a new kind of body happiness.”
 

“Joseph,” I said, hugging him, “I don't know how you did  what you did, but thank you--thank you so much.”
 

He flashed that smile that made me feel warm all over and, putting away his broom, said, “Give my regards to... Socrates.”
 

My breathing didn't improve right away. I still struggled. But one afternoon, after an early workout in the gym, pressing weights with my improving leg, I was walking home and noticed that without my trying, my breathing was completely natural--close to the way it felt at the cafe.
 

That night, I burst into the office, ready to regale Socrates with my success and apologize for my behavior. He looked like he'd been expecting me. As I skidded to a halt in front of him, he said calmly, “Okay, let's continue,”--as if I'd just returned from the bathroom, rather than from six weeks of intensive training!
 

“Have you nothing else to say, Soc? No, 'Well done, lad,' no 'looking good'?”
 

I shook my head in exasperation, then smiled with effort. Although I was going to try my best to be more respectful, I was hurt by his indifference. But at least I was back.
 

When I wasn't cleaning toilets, I was learning new and more frustrating exercises, like meditating on internal sounds until I could hear several at once. One night, as I practiced that exercise, I found myself drawn into a state of peace and relaxation I'd never known before. For a period of time---I don't know how long I felt as if I was out of my body. This was the first time that my own efforts and energy resulted in a paranormal experience; I hadn't needed Soc's fingers pressing into my head.
 

Excited, I told him about it. Instead of congratulating me, he said, “Dan, if you want an experience, go see a movie; it's easier than yoga. Meditate all day, if you like; hear sounds and see lights, or even see sounds and hear lights. You'll still remain a jackass if you become trapped by experience. Let it go! I've suggested that you become a vegetarian, not a vegetable.”
 

Frustrated, I said, “I'm only 'experiencing', as you call it, because you told me to!”
 

Socrates looked at me as if surprised. “Do I have to tell you everything?”
 

About to get furious, I found myself laughing. He laughed too, pointing at me. “Dan, you just experienced a wondrous alchemical transformation. You've transmuted anger to laughter. This means your energy level is much higher than before. Barriers are breaking down. Maybe you're making a little progress after all.” We were still chuckling when he handed me the mop.
 

The following night, for the first time, Socrates was completely silent about my behavior. I got the message: I was going to have to be responsible for watching myself from now on. That's when I realized the kindness in all of his criticisms. I almost missed them.
 

I wasn't aware of it then, nor would I realize it until months later, but that evening, Socrates had stopped being my “parent” and started being my friend.
 

I decided to pay Joseph a visit, and tell him what had happened. As I walked down Shattuck a couple of fire engines wailed by me. I didn't think anything about it until I neared the cafe and saw the orange sky. I began to run.
 

The crowd was already dispersing when I arrived. Joseph had just arrived himself and was standing in front of his charred and gutted cafe. I was still twenty yards away from Joseph when I heard his cry of anguish and saw him drop slowly to his knees and  
 

cry. He leaped up with a scream of fury; then he relaxed. He saw me. “Dan! It's good to see you again.” His face was serene.
 

The fire chief came over to him, and told him that the fire had probably started at the dry cleaners next door. “Thank you,” Joseph said.
 

“Oh, Joseph, I'm so sorry. It was such a beautiful place, Joseph,” I sighed, shaking my head.
 

“Yes,” he said, wistfully, “wasn't it?”
 

For some reason, his calm now bothered me. “Aren't you upset now at all?”
 

He looked at me dispassionately, then said, “I have a story you might enjoy, Dan. Want to hear it?”
 

“Well--OK.”
 

In a small fishing village in Japan, there lived a young, unmarried woman who gave birth to a child. Her parents felt disgraced and demanded to know the identity of the father. Afraid, she refused to tell them. The fisherman she loved had told her, secretly, that he was going off to seek his fortune and would return to marry her. Her parents persisted. In desperation, she named Hakuin, a monk who lived in the hills, as the father.
 

Outraged, the parents took the infant girl up to his door, pounded  until he opened it, and handed him the baby, saying “This child is yours; you must care for it!”
 

“Is that so?” Hakuin said, taking the child in his arms, waving good-bye to the parents.
 

A year passed and the real father returned to marry the woman. At once they went to Hakuin to beg for the return of the child. “We must have our daughter,” they said.
 

“Is that so?” said Hakuin, handing the child to them.
 

Joseph smiled and waited for my response.
 

“An interesting story, Joseph, but I don't understand why you're telling it to me now. I mean, your cafe just burned down!”
 

“Is that so?” he said. Then we laughed as I shook my head in resignation.
 

“Joseph, you're as crazy as Socrates.”
 

“Why, thank you, Dan--and you're upset enough for both of us. “Don't worry about me, though; I've been ready for a change. I'll probably move south soon--or north. It makes no difference.” “Well don't go without saying good-bye.”
 

“Good-bye, then,” he said, giving me one of his hugs that left me glowing. I'll be leaving tomorrow.”
 

“Are you going to say good-bye to Socrates?”
 

He laughed, replying, “Socrates and I rarely say hello or goodbye. You'll understand later.” With that, we parted. It was the last time I would ever see Joseph.
 

About 3:00 A.M. Friday morning I passed the clock at Shattuck and Center on my way to the gas station. I was more aware than ever of how much I still had to learn.
 

I stepped into the office already talking. “Socrates, Joseph's cafe burned down tonight.”
 

“Strange,” he said, “Cafes usually burn up.” He was making jokes! “Anyone hurt?” he asked, without apparent concern.
 

“Not that I know of. Did you hear me, aren't you even a little upset?”
 

“Was Joseph upset when you spoke with him?”
 

“Well... no.”
 

“All right, then.” And that topic was simply closed.
 

Then, to my amazement, Socrates took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Speaking of smoke,” he said, “Did I ever mention to you that there's no such thing as a bad habit?”
 

I couldn't believe my eyes or my ears. This isn't happening, I told myself.
 

“No, you didn't, and I've gone to great lengths on your recommendation to change my bad habits.”
 

“That was to develop your will, you see, and to give your instincts a refresher course. And we can say that habit itself--any unconscious, compulsive ritual--is negative. But specific activities-smoking, drinking, taking drugs, eating sweets, or asking silly questions are bad and good; every action has its price, and its pleasures. Recognizing both sides, you become realistic and responsible for your actions. And only then can you make the warrior's free choice--to do or not to do.
 

I laughed at this image, while Socrates blew perfect smoke rings.
 

“Responsibility means recognizing both pleasure and price, making a choice based on that recognition, and then living with that choice without concern.”
 

“It sounds so 'either-or'. What about moderation?.”
 

“Moderation?” He leaped up on the desk, like an evangelist. “Moderation? It's mediocrity, fear, and confusion in disguise. It's the devil's reasonable deception. It's the wobbling compromise that makes no one happy. Moderation is for the bland, the apologetic, for the fence sitters of the world afraid to take a stand. It's for those afraid to laugh or cry, for those afraid to live or die. Moderation,” he took a deep breath, getting ready for his final condemnation, “is lukewarm tea, the devil's own brew!”
 

Laughing, I said, “Your sermons come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, Soc. You'll have to keep practicing.”
 

He shrugged his shoulders, climbing down from the desk. “They always told me that in the seminary.” I didn't know whether he was kidding or not. “Soc, I still think smoking is disgusting.”
 

“Haven't I got the message across to you yet? Smoking is not disgusting; the habit is. I may smoke one cigarette a day, then not smoke again for six months; I may enjoy one cigarette a day, or one a week, without any unmanageable urges to have another. And when I do smoke, I don't pretend that my lungs won't pay a price; I follow appropriate action afterward to help counterbalance the negative effects.”
 

“I just never imagined a warrior would smoke.”
 

He blew smoke rings at my nose. “I never said that a warrior behaved in a way that you considered perfect, nor do all warriors act exactly as I do. But we all follow the House Rules, you see.
 

“So whether or not my behavior meets your new standards or not, it should be clear to you that I have mastered all compulsions, all behavior. I have no habits; my actions are conscious, intentional, and complete.”
 

Socrates put out his cigarette, smiling at me. “You've become too stuffy, with all your pride and superior discipline. It's time we did a little celebrating.”
 

Then Socrates pulled out a bottle of gin from his desk. I just sat in disbelief, shaking my head. He mixed me a drink with gin and soda pop.
 

“Soda pop?” I asked.
 

“We only have fruit juice here, and don't call me 'Pop',” he said, reminding me of the words he'd spoken to me so long ago. Now here he was, offering me a gin-and-ginger ale, drinking his straight.
 

“So,” he said, drinking the gin quickly, “Time to party, no holds barred.”
 

“I like your enthusiasm, Soc, but I have a hard workout on Monday.”
 

“Get your coat, sonny, and follow me.” I did.
 

The only thing I remember clearly is that it was Saturday night in San Francisco; we started early and never stopped moving. The evening was a blur of lights, tinkling glasses, and laughter.
 

I do remember Sunday morning. It was about five o'clock. My head was throbbing. We were walking down Mission, crossing Fourth Street. I could barely see the street signs through the thick early-morning fog that had rolled in. Suddenly, Soc stopped and stared into the fog. I stumbled into him, giggled, then woke up quickly; something was wrong. A large dark shape emerged from the mist. My half-forgotten dream flashed into my mind but vanished as I saw another shape, then a third: three men. Two of them--tall, lean, tense,--blocked our way. The third approached us and drew a stiletto from his worn leather jacket. I felt my pulse pounding through my temples.