PROLOGUE

I sat on the edge of my bed in the darkness. Another restless

night. Try as I might to avoid it, I could feel my old friend anxi-
ety moving in. And as it did, my heart felt as if it was about to
pound through my chest.
Hoping to control it, I slowly walked over to where my sleep-
ing wife lay and kissed her as softly as I could, hoping neither
the touch of my lips on her smooth, warm cheek nor the sound
of my heart pounding would wake her. After I started to walk
toward the deck adjoining the bedroom my cairn terrier, who
I named Little Rōnin, hopped off the bed to join me.
It was a cool summer morning in the Colorado Mountains.
A light breeze touched my face as I sat on my meditation mat.
The soft sound of aspen leaves f lowing through the air swirled
into my ears. I was hoping, as I did every day, that today the
peaceful views, feelings, and sounds would somehow soothe my
soul. But once again, no such luck.
So I sat, enveloped by the dark stillness of the morning, and
wondered why and why not. I had sat there almost every day
for five years searching for inner peace. I was not going to give

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 10 TU LAM

up. I never had before, and I wasn’t about to start now—not

after what I had already been through.
I focused on my deep breathing, trying, as I was taught, to
put my agitated mind into a state of trance. But, just like the
other mornings, it didn’t quite work.
Little Rōnin sat quietly and waited. I was grateful that the
terrier did not share my anxieties. Thankfully she seemed to
take after my wife. As I attempted again to meditate, I could
feel her warm little body push up against mine.
When I finally opened my eyes, she kissed my hand, seem-
ingly knowing that I had been in a very dark place for a very
long time. But she, like my wife, also seemed to know that all
along I had been searching for the light.
It was ironic because during this search, which had brought
me all over the world, I had taken on the mantle and responsi-
bilities of a Rōnin—the famed, and infamous, Masterless Samu-
rais of one of the most noble and turbulent eras in Asian history.
And it was by traveling down that path that I became, I’m told,
the light for so many others seeking their escape from pain.
I looked at my watch. It was 3:05 a.m. The hour of the tiger
had arrived and, with it, the memory of my mother’s continual
admonition.
“Smile,” she always told me, “and be brave.”
My mother was born in the Year of the Tiger. I, too, was
born in the Year of the Tiger. According to the Chinese zodiac,
one of the main attributes of those born under this auspicious,
powerful sign is bravery. I couldn’t disagree, especially when
it came to my mother. She had survived things that had killed
many others, and she had carried me with her.
I left the deck and went inside. If I couldn’t find inner warmth
this cool morning, I could at least find some outer warmth. I lit
the fireplace, and soon felt its comforting heat stroke my skin.
It was the fourth day of the eighth month during the hour of
the tiger. I should have been able to harness and direct its power

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 – NIN
THE WAY OF RO 11

to find a path through my unease. But like the thousands of pre-

vious days, the way was obscured by memories that f lashed past
my mind’s eye like shrieking wraiths.
First the horror of war and the torment of escape. Then bul-
lying and racism that continued all the way through military
training, followed by years of terror and tragedy that exploded
all around me as I tried to set things right.
I saw glimpses of attacks, assaults, and gunfights that went on
for days, continuing for years. There were f lashes from special
reconnaissance, special operations, and special missions, as well
as memories of battles in Africa, Asia, America, Arabia, and even
mano a mano no-holds-barred fights.
And through it all: “Smile and be brave.” But even that wasn’t
enough to completely soothe my soul.
Yes, I had survived it all, but the shrapnel it had implanted in
my mind was deep, sharp, and ample. And the worst irony was
that, even after I seemingly had left it all behind, I found the
aftermath and recovery could be just as bad, if not worse—no
matter how many accolades, awards, accomplishments, and ac-
claim I accrued in what some might call my peacetime.
I knew that it had already taken years for me to even start
to defuse all the landmines in my brain, but, as ever, I was not
going to stop when the going got tough. So in this hour of the
tiger, by the glow of a warm fire, I finally reached out—not for
what I knew but for what I didn’t know.
I reached out for my very first memory. It was the five-year-
old me looking out onto a refugee camp. At that time, I really
hadn’t known what had happened to me previously. What were
the character-defining and personality-shaping experiences that
led to that first memory? What made me who I was, am, and
would be? What was the first step in my journey of a thousand
miles or more?
It was within that hour of the spirit of the tiger—the time
when the brave can travel from the physical to the spiritual

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 12 TU LAM

world—that I truly began to face and explore the darkness that

came before my transformation into a Rōnin. But what had
started it all was a terrifying story my mother told me to get
my mind off what had been, up until then, my very worst day.

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