Way of the Peaceful Warrior (3 page)

“You have,” he answered, again opening the doorway in my mind where dreams and reality became one. I paused.
 

“Uh, Socrates, I've been having this dream--you're in it.” I watched him carefully, but his face revealed nothing.
 

“I've been in many people's dreams; so have you. Tell me about your dream,” he smiled.
 

I told him, in as much detail as I could remember. The room seemed to darken as the terrible scenes became vivid in my mind, and my familiar world began to recede,
 

After I finished, he said, “Yes, a very good dream.” Before I could ask him what he meant by that, the station bell clanged, and clanged again. He put on a poncho and went outside into the wet night. I stared out the window, watching him.
 

It was a busy time of evening: the Friday-night rush. Things got pretty hectic, with one customer driving in after another. I felt silly just sitting there so I went out to help him, but he didn't seem to notice me.
 

An endless line of cars greeted me: two-tones, reds, greens, blacks, hard-tops, pickups, and foreign sports cars. The moods of the customers varied as much as their cars. Only one or two people seemed to know Socrates, but many people looked twice at him, as if noticing something odd but indefinable.
 

Some of the people were in a party mood, laughing loudly and blaring their radios while we waited on them. Socrates laughed right along with them. One or two customers were sullen, putting forth a special effort to be unpleasant, but Socrates treated one and all with the same courtesy as if each person were his personal guest.
 

After midnight, the cars and customers became more scarce. The cool air seemed unnaturally still after having been filled with raucous noise and activity. As we entered the office, Socrates thanked me for my assistance. I shrugged it off but was pleased that he'd noticed. It had been a long time since I'd helped anyone with anything.
 

Once inside the warm office, I remembered our unfinished business. I started talking as soon as I flopped onto the couch. “Socrates, I have a couple of questions.”
 

He held his hands in a gesture of prayer, looking upwards to the office ceiling as if asking for divine guidance--or divine patience. “What,” he sighed, “are your questions?”
 

“Well, I still want to know about the roof, and why you said, 'I'm pleased to see you again,' and I want to know what I can do for you and how you can be useful to me. And, I want to know how old you are.”
 

“Let's take the easiest one, for now. I'm ninety-six years old, by your time.” He was not ninety-six. Fifty-six, maybe; sixty-six at the outside; seventy-six, possible but
amazing. But ninety-six? He was lying--but why would he lie? And I had to find about the other thing he had let slip, too.
 

“Socrates, what do you mean 'by your time'? Are you on Eastern Standard Time or are you,” I joked feebly, “from outer space?”
 

“Isn't everyone?” he replied. By then, I had already considered that as a distinct possibility.
 

“I still want to know what we can do for each other.”
 

“Just this: I wouldn't mind having one last student, and you obviously need a teacher.”
 

“I have enough teachers,” I said too quickly.
 

“Oh, do you?” He paused. “Whether you have a proper teacher or not depends upon what you want to learn.” He rose lightly from his chair and walked to the door. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
 

We walked to the corner, from where we could see down the avenue to the lights of the business district and beyond them to the lights of San Francisco.
 

“The world out there,” he said, waving his arm across the horizon, “is a school, Dan. Life is the only real teacher. It offers many experiences, and if experience alone brought wisdom and fulfillment, then elderly people would be happy, enlightened masters.
 

But the lessons of experience are hidden. I can help you learn from experience to see the world clearly, and clarity is something you desperately need right now. Your intuition knows this is true, but your mind rebels; you've experienced much, but you've learned little.”
 

“I don't know about that, Socrates. I mean, I wouldn't go that far. ''
 

“No, Dan, you don't know about it yet, but you will. And you will go that far and beyond; I can assure you.”
 

We headed back for the office just as a shiny red Toyota pulled in. Socrates continued talking as he opened the gas tank. “Like most people, you've been taught to gather information from outside yourself; from books, magazines, experts.” He stuck the gas nozzle into the tank. “Like this car, you open up and let the facts pour in. Sometimes the information is premium and sometimes it's low octane. You buy your knowledge at the current market rates, much like you buy gasoline.”
 

“Hey, thanks for reminding me. My tuition check for next quarter is due in two days!”
 

Socrates just nodded and continued to fill the customer's tank. When the tank was full, Socrates kept pumping gas, until fuel started overflowing the tank and pouring down onto the ground. A flood of gasoline ran across the pavement.
 

“Socrates! The tank is full--watch what you're doing?'
 

Ignoring me, he let the flood continue--saying, “Dan, like this gas tank, you are overflowing with preconceptions; full of useless knowledge. You hold many facts and opinions, yet know little of yourself. Before you can learn, you'll have to first empty your tank.” He grinned at me, winked, and turning the pump off with a click, added, “Clean up the mess, will you?”
 

I got the feeling he was referring to more than the spilled gas. I hurriedly watered down the pavement. Soc took the driver's money and gave him back some change and a smile. We walked back to the office and settled in.
 

“What are you going to do, fill me full of your facts?” I bristled.
 

“No, I'm not going to burden you with more facts; I'm going to show you 'body wisdom'. Everything you'll ever need to know is within you; the secrets of the universe are imprinted on the cells of your body. But you haven't learned inner vision; you don't know how to read the body. Your only recourse has been to read books and listen to experts and hope they are right. When you learn body wisdom, you'll be a Teacher among teachers.”
 

I made an effort not to smirk. This gas station attendant was accusing my professors of ignorance and implying that my college education was pointless! “Oh, sure Socrates, I understand what you mean by this 'body wisdom' idea, but I don't buy it.”
 

He shook his head slowly. “You understand many things but have realized practically nothing.”
 

“What is that supposed to mean?”
 

“Understanding is one dimensional. It is the comprehension of the intellect. It leads to knowledge, which you have. Realization, on the other hand, is three dimensional. It is the simultaneous comprehension of the 'whole-body'---the head, heart, and physical instincts. It comes only from clear experience.”
 

“I'm still not with you.”
 

“Do you remember when you first learned to drive? Prior to that time, you'd been a passenger; you only understood what it was. But you realized what it was like when you did it for the first time.”
 

“That's right,” I said. “I remember feeling, ‘So that's what it's like!’ ”
 

“Exactly! That phrase describes the experience of realization perfectly. One day, you'll say the same thing about life.”
 

I sat quietly for a moment, then piped up. “You still haven't explained ‘body wisdom’.”
 

“Come with me,” Socrates beckoned, leading me toward the door marked “Private.” Once inside, we were in total darkness. I started to tense, but then the fear gave way to keen anticipation. I was about to learn my first real secret: body wisdom.
 

The lights flashed on. We were in a bathroom and Socrates was peeing loudly into the toilet bowl. “This,” he said proudly, “is body wisdom.” His laughter echoed off the tile walls as I walked out and sat down on the couch and glared at the rug.
 

When he came out, I said, “Socrates, I still want to know...”
 

“If you are going to call me 'Socrates',” he interrupted, “you might at least do the name honor by allowing me to ask the questions, on occasion, and you can answer them. How does that sound?”
 

“Fine!” I responded. “You just asked your question, and I answered it. Now it's my turn. About that flying stunt you pulled the other night....”
 

“You are a persistent young man, aren't you?”
 

“Yes, I am. I didn't get where I am today without persistence. And that's another question you got a straight answer for. Now, can we deal with some of mine?”
 

Ignoring me, he asked, “Where are you today, right now?” Eagerly, I started talking about myself. However, I noticed that I was being sidetracked from getting answers to my questions. Still, I told him about my distant and recent past and about my inexplicable depressions. He listened patiently and intently, as if he had all the time in the world, until I finished several hours later,
 

“Very well,” he said. “But you have still not answered my question about where you are.”
 

“Yes I did, remember? I told you how I got to where I am today: by hard work.”
 

“Where are you?”
 

“What do you mean, where am I?” “Where are you?” he repeated softly.
 

“I'm here.”
 

“Where is here?”
 

“In this office, in this gas station!” I was getting impatient with this game.
 

“Where is this gas station?” “In Berkeley.” “Where is Berkeley?” “In California.” “Where is California?” “In the United States.” “Where is the United States?”
 

“On a land mass, one of the continents in the Western Hemisphere. Socrates, I . . .”
 

“Where are the continents?”
 

I sighed. “On the earth. Are we done yet?”
 

“Where is the earth?”
 

“In the solar system, third planet from the sun. The sun is a small star in the Milky Way galaxy, all right?”
 

“Where is the Milky Way?”
 

“Oh, brother,” I sighed impatiently, roiling my eyes, “In the Universe.” I sat back and crossed my arms with finality.
 

“And where,” Socrates smiled, “is the Universe?”
 

“The Universe is, well, there are theories about how it's shaped . . .”
 

“That's not what I asked. Where is it?” “I don't know--how can I answer that?”
 

“That is the point. You cannot answer it, and you never will. There is no knowing about it. You are ignorant of where the Universe is, and thus, where you are. In fact, you have no knowledge of where anything is; nor do you know what anything is or how it came to be. It's a mystery.”
 

“My ignorance, Dan, is based on this understanding. Your understanding is based on ignorance. I am a humorous fool; you are a serious jackass.”
 

“Listen,” I said, “there are things you should know about me. For one thing, I'm already a warrior of sorts. I'm 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!”
 

“Well, it isn't really that terrific, Soc. It's pretty easy for me, in fact.” I did my best to keep the condescension out of my voice but was unable to hold back a proud smile. 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.
 

“Did you like the ride?” he asked. “Do you want to see it again?” adding, “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 traveller 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 face down on the rug.
 

Socrates was beside himself with laughter. I sat up quickly, ramrod straight. One look at my stolid expression almost made Soc completely helpless with mirth. More accustomed to applause than to ridicule, I leaped to my feet in shame and anger. Soc cut himself short; his face and voice were charged with authority.