By Denise Linn
I was on a flight into San Francisco and I surreptitiously noticed the young man sitting next to me in the middle seat. He radiated a calm centeredness. He didn't seem to be squirming in the struggle for "personal boundaries" that so often accompanies those who are stuffed into tight middle seats. As I'm always intrigued to find out what beliefs are held by those who seem at peace amidst the chaos of everyday life, I engaged him in conversation.
He explained he was a Marine and had been stationed four different times in Iraq. He said his life was often in peril and there were many times when buddies, on either side of him, had been killed or seriously wounded. I couldn't understand how someone-who had been in that much constant danger and who had seen so many violent deaths and carried shrapnel in his arms-could be so at peace.
When I asked him what sustained his spirit, he pulled out a dog-eared, well-worn book. He said, "As a warrior, I know that death is always a possibility. I have found my peace through studying the way of ancient samurais." The book he held in his hand was called,
Bushido: The Way of the Samurai.
He said, "In Iraq I woke up every morning accepting my death. I know this sounds strange, but it gave me a kind of peace. I wasn't afraid of dying in battle, because I had already accepted my death. This allowed a kind of peace to fill me and maybe it also helped keep me safe because on the battlefield I wasn't always reacting out of fear."
I told him I was of Cherokee heritage, and Native American warriors had a similar code. My ancestors would wake up in the morning and say, "It's a good day to die." This didn't mean they wanted to die, but it meant that in every moment there was a feeling of completion and a satisfaction. In a way, this is totally being in the present moment. It is a powerful stand to take in life. Accepting. Open. Present. Aware.
As we were leaving the plane, he put something in my hands. I looked down and saw his tattered book. He said, "I'm grateful for our conversation and I want to give you my book as a gift." I proclaimed that I couldn't take his beloved copy. But he insisted saying, "I really want you to have this." As I saw him turn the corner in the airport, my heart was so open.
Because of this chance encounter I started thinking about the power of releasing the past, being in the present with acceptance of "what is" even if it means facing death, and what it means to be a "hero." (For me this young man was a kind of hero. Putting politics aside, he was willing to put his life on the line to be of service to others.)
I have written about this before, but it's worth repeating. I think we all want to be heroes. (I know that I do.) I believe we all have an extraordinary, courageous being inside of us. It's just a matter of letting her/him out. So I started to think about what code of honor I would need to accept for myself if I were to start becoming even more of "a hero." (You might find you have a different creed for yourself, but this is what I came up with for myself.)
To me, being a hero means: