Way of the peaceful warrior (Version 0) a book that Changes Lives dan millman

BOOK TWO


THE WARRIOR'S
TRAINING


The Sword is Sharpened

After storing the Valiant in a rented garage, I boarded the “F” bus to San Francisco, connecting with Airport Transit, which got caught in a traffic jam; it looked as if I'd be late for my flight. Anxious thoughts began to arise; I felt my belly tense then, as soon as I noticed it, I let it all go as I'd been trained. I relaxed and enjoyed the scenery along Bayshore Freeway, reflecting on my growing mastery over stressful thoughts which had habitually plagued me in the past. And as it turned out, I caught my plan with seconds to spare.

Dad, an older version of me with thinning hair, wearing a bright blue sport shirt over his muscular chest, met me at the airport with a strong handshake and warm smile. Mom's face crinkled sweetly as she greeted me at the door of their apartment with hugs and kisses and news about my sister and nieces and nephews.
That evening I was treated to one of Mom's latest piano pieces--Bach, I think it was. The next morning at dawn, Dad and I were out on the golf course. All the while, I'd been tempted to tell them about my adventures with Socrates, but thought better of silence. Perhaps I'd explain it all in writing someday. It was good to visit home, but home seemed so long ago and far away.
When Dad and I were sitting in the sauna at Jack La Lanne's Health Spa after our golf game, he said, “Danny, college life must agree with you. You're different--more relaxed, nicer to be around--not that you weren't nice to be around before...” He was searching for the right words, but I understood.
I smiled. If he only knew.
I spent most of my time in L.A. looking for a motorcycle and finally found a 500cc Triumph. It took me a few days to get comfortable with it and I almost fell twice, each time thinking I'd seen Joy coming out of a store or disappearing around a corner.
My final day in L.A. soon arrived. Early the next morning I'd zoom up the coast to Berkeley, meet Sid that evening, and we'd take off for Yugoslavia and the World Gymnastics Championships. I relaxed around the house during the day. After dinner, I took crash helmet in hand and left the house to shop for a travelling bag. As I walked out the door, I heard Dad say, “Be careful, Dan, motorcycles are hard to see at night.” His usual caution.
“Yeah, Dad, I'll be careful,” I yelled back. Then I gunned the bike and pulled out into the traffic feeling very macho in my gymnastics T-shirt, faded Levis, and work boots. Invigorated by the cool evening air, I headed south toward Wilshire. My future was about to change, because at that moment, three blocks ahead, George Wilson was preparing to make a left turn on Western Avenue.
I roared through the dusk; the street lights flashed by as I approached Seventh and Western. I was about to cut through the intersection when I noticed a red and white Buick facing me, signaling for a left turn. I slowed down--a small precaution which probably saved my life.
Just as my bike entered the intersection the Buick suddenly accelerated, turning directly in front of me. For a few more precious seconds, the body I was born with was still in one piece.
There was time enough to think, but not to act. “Cut left,” my mind screamed. But there was oncoming traffic. “Swerve right!” I'd never clear the fender. “Lay it down!” I'd slide under the wheels. My options were gone. I slammed on the brakes and waited. It was unreal, like a dream, until I saw a flashing image of the driver's horrified face. With a terrible thud and the musical sound of tinkling glass, my bike smashed into the car's front fender--and my right leg shattered. Then everything sped up horribly as the world turned black.
I must have lost and regained consciousness just after my body somersaulted over the car and crashed onto the concrete. A moment of blessed numbness, then the pain began, like a searing, red-hot vise, squeezing and crushing my leg tighter and tighter until it became more than I could bear and I started to scream. I wanted it to stop; I prayed for unconsciousness. Faraway voices: “… just didn't see him…” “... parents' phone number...” “... take it easy, they'll be here soon.”
Then I heard a faraway siren, and hands were removing my helmet, lifting me onto a stretcher. I looked down and saw a white bone sticking out through the torn leather of my boot. With the slam of the ambulance door, I suddenly recalled Soc's words, “... and you'll be tested severely before you're done.”
Seconds later, it seemed, I was lying on the X-ray table in the emergency room of L.A. Orthopedic Hospital. The doctor complained of fatigue. My parents rushed into the room, looking very old and very pale. That's when reality caught up with me. Numb and in shock, I began to cry.
The doctor worked efficiently, anesthetizing me, snapping my dislocated toes back into place, and sewing up my right foot. Later, in the operating room, his scalpel sliced a long red line deep into my skin, cutting through the muscles that had worked for me so well. He removed bone from my pelvis and grafted it to the fragments of my right thigh bone. Finally, he hammered a narrow metal rod down the center of my bone, from the hip; a kind of internal cast.
I was semiconscious for three days, in a drugged sleep that barely separated me from the agonizing, unrelenting pain. Sometime in the evening of the third day I awoke in darkness when I sensed someone quiet as a shadow, sitting nearby.
Joy got up and knelt by my bedside, stroking my forehead as I turned away in shame. She whispered to me, “I came as soon as I heard.” I wished her to share my victories; she always saw me in defeat. I bit my lip and tasted tears. Joy gently turned my face to hers and looked into my eyes. “Socrates has a message for you, Danny; he asked me to tell you this story:”
I closed my eyes and listened intently.