WAY OF THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR: A Book That Changes Lives Read online

  “Your book brought tears and laughter.”

  — Dr. Ines Freedman

  Sunnyvale, California

  “Your book made a deep impression on me... I felt as though someone had just slapped my face and woke me up.”

  — Alan Kaplan

  aikido teacher

  “Hard to find words to explain the experience. It helped me find an inner peace stronger than I’ve ever known.”

  — Sue Tabashnik

  Southfield, Michigan

  “My young students loved your book... because they were able to apply the lessons in life.”

  — Dennis Edwards

  West British Columbia

  “My name is Hope. I’m fifteen years old. Your book changed my life.”

  — Hope Wagner

  Hinkley, Ohio

  “Is it true? Maybe, maybe not... but it’s totally true in its ability to make you reflect on the deepest questions of life.”

  — Charles Tart, PhD

  professor of psychology

  “Your book has helped me experience feelings I haven’t felt since I was a very young child. I’m renewed with the pleasures of just being alive.”

  — Deb Paschal

  San Diego, California

  Books by Dan Millman

  THE PEACEFUL WARRIOR SAGA

  Way of the Peaceful Warrior

  Sacred Journey of the Peaceful Warrior

  The Journeys of Socrates

  GUIDEBOOKS

  The Life You Were Born to Live

  Everyday Enlightenment

  No Ordinary Moments

  The Laws of Spirit

  Body Mind Mastery

  Divine Interventions

  Living on Purpose

  CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  Secret of the Peaceful Warrior

  Quest for the Crystal Castle

  WAY OF THE

  PEACEFUL WARRIOR

  A BOOK THAT CHANGES LIVES

  DAN MILLMAN

  H J KRAMER

  NEW WORLD LIBRARY

  NOVATO, CALIFORNIA

  An H J Kramer Book

  published in a joint venture with

  New World Library

  Editorial office:

  H J Kramer Inc.

  P.O. Box 1082

  Tiburon, California 94920 Administrative office:

  New World Library

  14 Pamaron Way

  Novato, California 94949

  Copyright © 1980, 1984 by Dan Millman

  Revised Edition Copyright © 2000 by Dan Millman

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, or transmitted in any form, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

  Design and composition: Tona Pearce Myers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Millman, Dan.

  Way of the peaceful warrior : a book that changes lives / Dan

  Millman.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-10: 1-932073-20-5 (alk. paper)

  1. Spiritual life. 2. Millman, Dan. I. Title.

  BL624.M533 2000

  291.4’4—dc21 00-055922

  First printing movie tie-in edition, June 2006

  Movie edition ISBN-10: 1-932073-20-5

  Movie edition ISBN-13: 978-0-98242-850-4

  Classic edition ISBN-10: 0-915811-89-8

  Printed in Canada on acid-free paper

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the Ultimate Warrior of Peace,

  of whom Socrates is but

  a twinkling reflection —

  Who has no name yet many,

  and Who is the Source of us all.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PREFACE

  THE GAS STATION AT RAINBOW’S END

  BOOK ONE: THE WINDS OF CHANGE

  1 Gusts of Magic

  2 The Web of Illusion

  3 Cutting Free

  BOOK TWO: THE WARRIOR’S TRAINING

  4 The Sword Is Sharpened

  5 The Mountain Path

  6 Pleasure beyond the Mind

  BOOK THREE: UNREASONABLE HAPPINESS

  7 The Final Search

  8 The Gate Opens

  EPILOGUE: LAUGHTER IN THE WIND

  PEACEFUL WARRIOR — FROM BOOK TO SCREEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Life has blessed me with many teachers and guiding influences who have, in their own ways, each contributed to the writing of this book. Not least among them are my parents, Herman and Vivian Millman, who nourished me with their love, faith, and sacrifice, and my publisher, Hal Kramer, who trusted his inner light and keen publishing instincts to take a chance on this book. Thanks also to copublisher Linda Kramer, for her unsparing support and passionate integrity, and to Marc Allen, Jason Gardner, and the team at New World Library, whose sage publishing wisdom has created a vibrant launching pad for my book in its twentieth year and beyond.

  From the start, Charlie Winton and the staff at Publishers Group West provided an instrumental link between author, publisher, and the public. Their excellent work too often goes unheralded, but their efforts are key for many authors and are much appreciated by this one. Thanks also to my agents Michael Larsen and Elizabeth Pomada.

  And last, but always first, my abiding love and gratitude to Joy — my wife, companion, friend, teacher, toughest editor, and most loyal supporter — a blessing in my life and a guardian angel for my spirit.

  And, of course, there’s Soc.

  PREFACE

  An extraordinary series of events took place in my life, beginning in December 1966, during my junior year at the University of California at Berkeley. It all began at 3:20 A.M., when I first stumbled upon Socrates in an all-night gas station. (He didn’t volunteer his real name, but after spending time with him that first night, I named him on impulse after the ancient Greek sage; he liked the name, so it stuck.) That chance encounter and the adventures that followed were to transform my life.

  The years prior to 1966 had smiled upon me. Raised by loving parents in a secure environment, I was later to win the World Trampoline Championship in London, travel through Europe, and receive many honors. Life brought rewards, but no lasting peace or satisfaction.

  Now I realize that I had, in a sense, been sleeping all those years and just dreaming I was awake — until I met Socrates, who came to be my mentor and friend. Before that time, I’d always believed that a life of quality, enjoyment, and wisdom were my human birthright and would be automatically bestowed upon me as time passed. I never suspected that I would have to learn how to live — that there were specific disciplines and ways of seeing the world I had to master before I could awaken to a simple, happy, uncomplicated life.

  Socrates showed me the error of my ways by contrasting them with his way, the Way of the Peaceful Warrior. He constantly poked fun at my own serious, concerned, problematic life, until I came to see through his eyes of wisdom, compassion, and humor. And he never let up until I discovered what it means to live as a warrior.

  Often I sat with him far into the early morning hours — listening to him, arguing with him, and, in spite of myself, laughing with him. This story is based on my adventure, but it is a novel. The man I called Socrates did, in fact, exist. Yet he had a way of blending into the wo
rld, so it’s been difficult at times to tell where he left off and other teachers and life experiences began. I have taken liberties with the dialogue and with some time sequences and have sprinkled anecdotes and metaphors into the story to highlight the lessons Socrates would want me to convey.

  Life is not a private affair. A story and its lessons are only made useful if shared. So I’ve chosen to honor my teacher by sharing his piercing wisdom and humor with you.

  WAY OF THE

  PEACEFUL WARRIOR

  Warriors, warriors we call ourselves. We fight for splendid virtue, for high endeavor, for sublime wisdom, therefore we call ourselves warriors.

  — Aunguttara Nikaya

  THE GAS STATION AT RAINBOW’S END

  Life begins,” I thought, as I waved good-bye to Mom and Dad and pulled away from the curb in my reliable old Valiant, its faded white body stuffed with the belongings I’d packed for my first year at college. I felt strong, independent, ready for anything.

  Singing to myself above the radio’s music, I sped north across the freeways of Los Angeles, then up and over the Grapevine, connecting with Route 99, which carried me through the green agricultural flatlands stretching to the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains.

  Just before dusk, my winding descent through the Oakland hills brought me a shimmering view of San Francisco Bay. My excitement grew as I neared the Berkeley campus.

  After finding my dormitory, I unpacked and gazed out the window at the Golden Gate Bridge and the lights of San Francisco sparkling in the darkness.

  Five minutes later I was walking along Telegraph Avenue, looking in shop windows, breathing the fresh northern California air, savoring the smells drifting out of tiny cafés. Overwhelmed by it all, I walked the beautifully landscaped paths of the campus until after midnight.

  The next morning, immediately after breakfast, I walked down to Harmon Gymnasium, where I’d be training six days a week, four muscle-straining, somersaulting, sweaty hours each day, pursuing my dreams of becoming a champion.

  Two days passed, and I was already drowning in a sea of people, papers, and class schedules. Soon the months blended together, passing and changing softly, like the mild California seasons. In my classes I survived; in the gym, I thrived. A friend once told me I was born to be an acrobat. I certainly looked the part: clean cut, short brown hair, a lean, wiry body. I’d always had a penchant for daredevil stunts; even as a child I enjoyed playing on the edge of fear. The gymnastics room had become my sanctuary, where I found excitement, challenge, and a measure of satisfaction.

  By the end of my first two years I had flown to Germany, France, and England, representing the United States Gymnastics Federation. I won the World Trampoline Championship; my gymnastics trophies were piling up in the corner of my room; my picture appeared in the Daily Californian with such regularity that people began to recognize me and my reputation grew. Women smiled at me. Susie, a savory, unfailingly sweet friend with short blond hair and a toothpaste smile, paid me amorous visits more and more often. Even my studies were going well. I felt on top of the world.

  However, in the early autumn of 1966, my junior year, something dark and intangible began to take shape. By then I’d moved out of the dorm and was living alone in a small studio behind my landlord’s house. During this time I felt a growing melancholy, even in the midst of all my achievements. Shortly thereafter, the nightmares started. Nearly every night I jerked awake, sweating. Almost always, the dream was the same:

  I walk along a dark city street; tall buildings without doors or windows loom at me through a dark swirling mist.

  A towering shape cloaked in black strides toward me. I feel rather than see a chilling specter, a gleaming white skull with black eye sockets that stare at me in deathly silence. A finger of white bone points at me; the white knucklebones curl into a beckoning claw. I freeze.

  A white-haired man appears from behind the hooded terror; his face is calm and unlined. His footsteps make no sound. I sense somehow, that he is my only hope of escape; he has the power to save me, but he doesn’t see me and I can’t call to him.

  Mocking my fear, the black-hooded Death whirls around to face the white-haired man, who laughs in his face. Stunned, I watch. Death furiously makes a grab for him. The next moment the specter is hurtling toward me, as the old man seizes him by his cloak and tosses him into the air.

  Suddenly the Grim Reaper vanishes. The man with the shining white hair looks at me and holds out his hands in a gesture of welcome. I walk toward him, then directly into him, dissolving into his body. When I look down at myself, I see that I’m wearing a black robe. I raise my hands and see bleached white, gnarled bones, come together in prayer.

  I’d awake with a gasp.

  One night, early in December, I lay in bed listening to the howling wind driving through a small crack in the window of my apartment. Sleepless, I got up and threw on my faded Levi’s, a T-shirt, sneakers, and down jacket, and walked out into the night. It was 3:05 A.M.

  I walked aimlessly, inhaling deeply the moist, chilly air, looking up into the starlit sky, listening for a rare sound in the silent streets. The cold made me hungry, so I headed for an all-night gas station to buy some cookies and a soft drink. Hands in my pockets, I hurried across campus, past sleeping houses, before I came to the lights of the service station. It was a bright fluorescent oasis in a darkened wilderness of closed food joints, shops, and movie theaters.

  I rounded the corner of the garage adjoining the station and nearly fell over a man sitting in the shadows, leaning his chair back against the red tile station wall. Startled, I retreated. He was wearing a red wool cap, gray corduroy pants, white socks, and Japanese sandals. He seemed comfortable enough in a light windbreaker though the wall thermometer by his head registered 38 degrees.

  Without looking up, he said in a strong, almost musical voice, “Sorry if I frightened you.”

  “Oh, uh, that’s OK. Do you have any soda pop?”

  “Only have fruit juice here. And don’t call me ‘Pop’!” He turned toward me and with a half smile removed his cap, revealing shining white hair. Then he laughed.

  That laugh! I stared blankly at him for one more moment. He was the old man in my dream! The white hair, the clear, unlined face, a tall slim man of fifty or sixty. He laughed again. In my confusion I somehow found my way to the door marked “Office” and pushed it open. Along with the office door, I had felt another door opening to another dimension. I collapsed onto an old couch and shivered, wondering what might come screaming through that door into my orderly world. My dread was mixed with a strange fascination that I couldn’t fathom. I sat, breathing shallowly, trying to regain my previous hold on the ordinary world.

  I looked around the office. It was so different from the sterility and disarray of the usual gas station. The couch I was sitting on was covered by a faded but colorful Mexican blanket. To my left, near the entryway, stood a case of neatly organized traveler’s aids: maps, fuses, sunglasses, and so on. Behind a small, dark brown walnut desk was an earth-colored, corduroyupholstered chair. A springwater dispenser guarded a door marked “Private.” Near me was a second door that led to the garage.

  What struck me most of all was the homelike atmosphere of the room. A bright yellow shag rug ran its length, stopping just short of the welcome mat at the entry. The walls had recently been painted white, and a few landscape paintings lent them color. The soft incandescent glow of the lights calmed me. It was a relaxing contrast to the fluorescent glare outside. Overall, the room felt warm, orderly, and secure.

  How could I have known that it was to be a place of unpredictable adventure, magic, terror, and romance? I only thought then, A fireplace would fit in nicely here.

  Soon my breathing had relaxed, and my mind, if not content, had at least stopped whirling. This white-haired man’s resemblance to the man in my dream was surely a coincidence. With a sigh, I stood, zipped up my jacket, and sallied forth in the chill air.

  He was still s
itting there. As I walked past and stole a last quick look at his face, a glimmer in his eyes caught mine. His eyes were like none I’d seen before. At first they seemed to have tears in them, ready to spill over; then the tears turned to a twinkle, like a reflection of the starlight. I was drawn deeper into his gaze until the stars themselves became only a reflection of his eyes. I was lost for a time, seeing nothing but those eyes, the unyielding and curious eyes of an infant.

  I don’t know how long I stood there; it could have been seconds or minutes — maybe longer. With a start, I became aware of where I was. Mumbling a good night, feeling off balance, I hurried toward the corner.

  When I reached the curb, I stopped. My neck tingled; I felt that he was watching me. I glanced back. No more than fifteen seconds had passed. But there he was, standing on the roof, his arms crossed, looking up at the starry sky. I gaped at the empty chair still leaning back against the wall, then up again. It was impossible! If he had been changing a wheel on a carriage made from a giant pumpkin drawn by huge mice, the effect couldn’t have been any more startling.

  In the stillness of the night, I stared up at his lean shape, an imposing presence even at a distance. I heard the stars chime like bells singing in the wind. Suddenly he snapped his head around and stared directly into my eyes. He was about sixty feet away, but I could almost feel his breath on my face. I shivered, but not from the cold. That doorway, where reality dissolved into dreams, cracked open again.

  I looked up at him. “Yes?” he said. “Can I help you?” Prophetic words!

  “Excuse me, but... ”

  “You are excused,” he smiled. I felt my face flush; this was starting to irritate me. He was playing a game with me, but I didn’t know the rules.

  “All right, how did you get up on the roof?”

  “Get up on the roof?” he queried, looking innocent and puzzled.