Aaron searched the Yard for Ronin. He wasn’t merely curious. Since the conversation at the table he had been unable to think about anything else.
It’s what you are—not what you have. The words would not leave him.
Long before Harvard, Aaron had felt himself at odds with the world around him. Everyone seemed to be chasing the same prizes—status, money, credentials, approval—and he had never been certain those prizes were worth winning. Harvard had only magnified that feeling. Here, achievement was everything. Resumes were identities. Success was measured in internships, fellowships, publications, and offers from prestigious firms.
He admired excellence, and distrusted ambition. That was why he had wandered into Ronin’s dojo two years earlier. Karate was more than learning to fight. It was an act of quiet defiance.
Somewhere inside himself Aaron believed a man should be able to stand alone, to stand and deliver if necessary. But deliver what? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that Ronin seemed to possess something no professor at Harvard possessed—a kind of inner certainty that could not be borrowed from grades, titles, or applause.
Ronin’s lectures after class had always affected him more than the karate itself.
Today had been different. Today Aaron had the unmistakable feeling that a door had opened. He only hoped he could find the man holding the key.
At last he saw him beneath one of the old trees at the edge of Harvard Yard. He sat alone on a weathered bench, quietly watching the students stream past. Almost as though he had been waiting.
Aaron felt a surprising sense of relief. He walked over and stood beside him. “What you said back there…”
Ronin looked up.
“‘It’s what you are, not what you have.'” Aaron shook his head. “I can’t get it out of my mind.”
Ronin smiled. “Good.”
Aaron waited.
“Live with it for a while.”
“Why?”
“Because it is probably the most important thing I will ever tell you. And it takes work before it becomes yours.”
Aaron frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“In the dojo I show you a front kick.” Ronin looked at him. “Have you mastered it?”
Aaron laughed. “Not even close.”
“Why not?” “I’ve done it… maybe a few hundred times.”
“And how many will it take?”
Aaron smiled. “Thousands.”
Ronin nodded. “Exactly. Truth is no different.”
He leaned back against the bench.
“The first time you hear an important idea, you understand only the words. After living with it, wrestling with it, failing because of it, succeeding because of it, eventually it becomes part of you.” He looked toward the students crossing the Yard. “As that happens, something else begins to occur.”
“What?”
“You slowly become free.”
“Free from what?”
“Other people’s definitions of success.”
Aaron sat beside him.
Neither spoke. Harvard flowed around them like a river. Students hurried toward laboratories and lecture halls. A young man strode past arguing into his phone. Two women compared internship offers. Someone behind them complained about an exam. A tour guide led anxious parents beneath the ancient elms while cameras clicked in every direction.
Everyone was hurrying like in an animated cartoon.
After several minutes Ronin stood. “Walk with me.”
“Where?”
“The new art exhibit.”
As they crossed the Yard Aaron suddenly remembered something. “That thing you did…”
Ronin looked over.
“Plugging your ears and nose.”
“Oh?”
“Was that some kind of karate technique?”
Ronin laughed.
“No.”
“You and your friends were asking about the meaning of life. I wasn’t answering the question.”
“You weren’t?”
“I was showing you that the question itself was poorly drivel.”
Aaron frowned.
“How?”
“I gave you an operational definition.”
“Operational definition?”
“If you truly understand something, you should know what operation allows you to experience it.”
Ronin picked up a small stone.
“If I wanted to explain gravity, I could lecture for an hour…”
He released the stone.
It struck the path.
“…or I could simply let go.”
Aaron watched it fall.
“When your professors discuss justice… equality… freedom… intelligence… consciousness…” Ronin paused. “…always ask yourself one question.”
“What?”
“How would I experience it?”
Aaron waited.
“What observation would convince me it exists?”
He was silent.
“And if no one can answer?”
Ronin smiled.
“Then perhaps they’re arguing about words instead of reality.”
Aaron’s face brightened.
“I could use that in class.”
“You certainly could.” He smiled.
“Is there a book about it?”
“Operational Philosophy. Anatol Rapoport.”
Aaron nodded, eyes already alive with possibilities.
Ronin laughed.
“You’re planning to start a war in the classroom.”
“Maybe.”
Ronin’s expression became serious.
“If you do… understand the cost.”
“The cost?”
“You’ll often stand alone.”
They continued walking.
“You’ll be questioning assumptions upon which other people have built their identities.”
He stopped.
“Can you do that?”
Aaron met his eyes.
“You’ll become a stranger in a strange land.”
Aaron looked around the Yard. “I’m already beginning to feel like one.”
Ronin smiled. “Good.”
He opened the museum door. “Then let me show you something.”
They entered one of Harvard’s older buildings and climbed a broad stone staircase.
The sounds of the Yard slowly disappeared behind them.
Aaron glanced at Ronin.
“I still don’t understand operational definitions.”
“You will.”
“Can you give me an example?”
Ronin smiled.
“Have you ever heard the parable of The Emperor’s New Clothes?”
Aaron nodded.
“Sure. Two swindlers convince the emperor they’re making him magical clothes that can only be seen by intelligent people. Everyone pretends to see them until a little boy says he’s naked.”
Ronin stopped walking.
“Why the little boy?”
Aaron shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“There were hundreds of people in that crowd.”
“I suppose.”
“So why him?”
Aaron laughed.
“Maybe he was just… different.”
Ronin raised an eyebrow. “Weird?”
Aaron smiled. “Yeah.”
Ronin looked directly at him. “And you’re beginning to suspect you’re weird too.”
Aaron laughed, but only for a moment. “Maybe.”
Ronin opened a large wooden door.
“Come.”
The room was silent. White walls and soft lighting. People wandered slowly from painting to painting, speaking in quiet voices.
Aaron stopped before the first work which was a blank white canvas.
Only the brass plaque beneath it contained anything to see.
“An artistic statement concerning absence, perception, authorship, and the institutional boundaries of art.”
Aaron looked at the canvas. Then back at the plaque. He walked to the next painting which was another blank canvas. This one carried faint water stains, as though it had been left outdoors in the rain. The description read: “A commentary on what counts as art.”
Aaron frowned, and then softly chucked to himself.
A young couple beside him nodded thoughtfully. “It’s brilliant,” one whispered, and looked at Aaron with a faint look of superiority.
Aaron wasn’t so sure. He continued. The third canvas was entirely crimson.
Nothing had been painted upon it. The description asked: “Must painting depict something? Is color alone sufficient?”
Aaron stood silently, and slowly turned. Across the room several visitors studied the canvases with expressions of admiration. No one appeared puzzled or laughed.
No one questioned.
His eyes found Ronin and he wasn’t looking at the paintings. He was watching Aaron. For the first time Aaron felt strangely uncomfortable. Because he suddenly realized he was being tested. He looked once more around the room at the solemn expressions and whispered praise as they looked at the blank canvases.
Then he laughed to himself as the realization struck him.” The Emperor’s new clothes.”
Ronin said nothing.
Aaron laughed softly to himself. “They’re all pretending.”
“Are they?”
Aaron hesitated. “…they have to be. How could they call this art?”
“So what would you call that?”
Aaron looked once more around the gallery.
Then back at the empty canvas.
“Operationally?”
“Yes.”
Aaron thought for several seconds, then it hit him with a flash of intuition. “Operationally……that is nihilism.”
For the first time Ronin smiled broadly, “Then let us see its opposite.”
He turned and disappeared into a small alcove.
Aaron hurried after him. The room beyond was scarcely larger than a study.
The lighting was subdued except for the light on the room’s only painting.
It’s impact on Aaron was so powerful he stopped walking.
It depicted an ancient sculpture studio. In the center stood a powerful young man emerging from an immense block of white marble. From the waist upward he had become flesh. His shoulders were broad and his forearms strained with effort as one hand gripped a mallet and the other held a chisel against the stone from which he was still emerging. The lower half of his body remained imprisoned within the marble. Around him stood unfinished sculptures fading into shadow while dust floated through shafts of moonlight.
The room seemed almost alive. Aaron stared and his breathing slowed. “My God…” He stepped closer, and scarcely noticed Ronin beside him.
“This…” His voice caught. “…this is extraordinary.”
He moved until he stood only inches from the painting. He studied every detail. The stone, the muscles, and the expression of relentless determination. Most of all……the impossible idea. The man was not sculpting another statue.
He was sculpting himself.
Aaron felt something tighten in his chest. He swallowed hard. For reasons he couldn’t explain, his eyes began to sting. He looked away; took a slow breath, and composed himself. When he finally turned toward Ronin…he was alone.
Ronin had quietly slipped away leaving him alone with his enlightenment.
Aaron faced the painting again. This time he was no longer studying it. He was letting it study him. Minutes passed. Finally he noticed the small bronze plaque mounted beneath the frame. He leaned forward and read.
“Every day you either carve away the stone… or become part of it.”
Aaron remained motionless. For the first time since coming to Harvard…he knew exactly what kind of man he wanted to become.
