head, it seemed to capture and intensify all the light in the room. It shone in my eyes and made me squint. I decided to shut up.
But Socrates only knelt on the floor in front of me, gently placed the sword between us, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sat perfectly still. I watched him for a while, wondering if this “sleeping tiger” would waken and leap at me if I moved. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. I figured maybe he wanted me to meditate, too, so I closed my eyes and sat for half an hour. Opening my eyes, I watched him still sitting there like a Buddha. I started to fidget and got up quietly to get a drink of water. I was filling my mug when he put his hand on my shoulder. Water sloshed over my shoes as my hand jerked.
“Socrates, I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like that. Couldn't you make some noise?”
He smiled, and spoke. “Silence is the warrior's art--and meditation is his sword. It is the central weapon you'll use to cut through your illusions. But understand this: the sword's usefulness depends upon the swordsman. You don't yet know how to use the weapon, so it can become a dangerous, deluding, or useless tool in your hands.
“Meditation may initially help you to relax. You put your 'sword' on display; you proudly show it to friends. The gleam of this sword distracts many meditators into further illusion until they ultimately abandon it to seek yet another 'inner alternative'.
“The warrior, on the other hand, uses the sword with skill and deep understanding. With it, he cuts the mind to ribbons, slashing through thoughts to reveal their lack of substance. Listen and learn:
Alexander the Great, marching with his armies through the desert, came upon two thick ropes tied in the massive, convoluted Gordian knot. No one had been able to untie it until the challenge was given to Alexander. Without a moment's hesitation he drew his sword and in one powerful blow he cut the knot in two. He was a warrior!
“That is how you must learn to attack the knots of your mind--with the sword of meditation. Until one day you transcend your need for any weapon at all.”
Just then an old VW bus with a new coat of white paint and a rainbow painted on its side, chugged into the station. Inside sat six people, hard to tell apart. As we approached them, we could see that there were two women and four men, all dressed from head to toe in the same blue outfits. I recognized them as members of one of the many new spiritual groups in the Bay area. These particular people self-righteously avoided acknowledging our presence, as if our worldliness might contaminate them.
Socrates, of course, rose to the challenge, immediately affecting a combination limp and lisp persona. Scratching himself profusely, he was the perfect Quasimodo. “Hey, Jack,” he said to the driver, who had the longest beard I'd ever seen, “Ya want gas, or what?”
“Yes, we want gas,” the man said, his voice as smooth as salad oil.
Socrates leered at the two women in the back and, sticking his head in the window, he whispered loudly, “Hey do you meditate?” He said it as if he were referring to a solitary form of sexual release.
“Yes, we do,” said the driver, cosmic superiority oozing from his voice. “Now, will you put gas in our vehicle?” Soc waved at me to fill the tank, while he proceeded to push every button the driver had. “Hey, ya know, you look kinda like a girl in that dress, guy--don't get me wrong, it's real pretty. And why don't you shave; what are ya hiding under that fuzz?”
While I cringed, he went from bad to even worse. “Hey,” he said to one of the women, “Is this guy your boyfriend? Tell me,” he said to the other man in the front seat, “Do you ever do it, or do you save it up like I read in the National Enquirer?”
That about did it. By the time Socrates counted out their change with agonizing slowness (he kept losing count and starting over)
But Socrates only knelt on the floor in front of me, gently placed the sword between us, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sat perfectly still. I watched him for a while, wondering if this “sleeping tiger” would waken and leap at me if I moved. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. I figured maybe he wanted me to meditate, too, so I closed my eyes and sat for half an hour. Opening my eyes, I watched him still sitting there like a Buddha. I started to fidget and got up quietly to get a drink of water. I was filling my mug when he put his hand on my shoulder. Water sloshed over my shoes as my hand jerked.
“Socrates, I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me like that. Couldn't you make some noise?”
He smiled, and spoke. “Silence is the warrior's art--and meditation is his sword. It is the central weapon you'll use to cut through your illusions. But understand this: the sword's usefulness depends upon the swordsman. You don't yet know how to use the weapon, so it can become a dangerous, deluding, or useless tool in your hands.
“Meditation may initially help you to relax. You put your 'sword' on display; you proudly show it to friends. The gleam of this sword distracts many meditators into further illusion until they ultimately abandon it to seek yet another 'inner alternative'.
“The warrior, on the other hand, uses the sword with skill and deep understanding. With it, he cuts the mind to ribbons, slashing through thoughts to reveal their lack of substance. Listen and learn:
Alexander the Great, marching with his armies through the desert, came upon two thick ropes tied in the massive, convoluted Gordian knot. No one had been able to untie it until the challenge was given to Alexander. Without a moment's hesitation he drew his sword and in one powerful blow he cut the knot in two. He was a warrior!
“That is how you must learn to attack the knots of your mind--with the sword of meditation. Until one day you transcend your need for any weapon at all.”
Just then an old VW bus with a new coat of white paint and a rainbow painted on its side, chugged into the station. Inside sat six people, hard to tell apart. As we approached them, we could see that there were two women and four men, all dressed from head to toe in the same blue outfits. I recognized them as members of one of the many new spiritual groups in the Bay area. These particular people self-righteously avoided acknowledging our presence, as if our worldliness might contaminate them.
Socrates, of course, rose to the challenge, immediately affecting a combination limp and lisp persona. Scratching himself profusely, he was the perfect Quasimodo. “Hey, Jack,” he said to the driver, who had the longest beard I'd ever seen, “Ya want gas, or what?”
“Yes, we want gas,” the man said, his voice as smooth as salad oil.
Socrates leered at the two women in the back and, sticking his head in the window, he whispered loudly, “Hey do you meditate?” He said it as if he were referring to a solitary form of sexual release.
“Yes, we do,” said the driver, cosmic superiority oozing from his voice. “Now, will you put gas in our vehicle?” Soc waved at me to fill the tank, while he proceeded to push every button the driver had. “Hey, ya know, you look kinda like a girl in that dress, guy--don't get me wrong, it's real pretty. And why don't you shave; what are ya hiding under that fuzz?”
While I cringed, he went from bad to even worse. “Hey,” he said to one of the women, “Is this guy your boyfriend? Tell me,” he said to the other man in the front seat, “Do you ever do it, or do you save it up like I read in the National Enquirer?”
That about did it. By the time Socrates counted out their change with agonizing slowness (he kept losing count and starting over)
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