Robin Sharma - The Monk Who Sold his Ferrari

Perhaps he had settled down in India, a place so diverse that even a restless soul like his could have made it his home. Or maybe he was trekking through Nepal? Scuba diving off the Caymans? One thing was certain: he had not returned to the legal profession. No one had received even a postcard from him since he left for his self-imposed exile from the Law.

A knock on my door about two months ago offered the first answers to some of my questions. I had just met with my last client on a gruelling day when Genevieve, my brainy legal assistant, popped her head into my small, elegantly furnished office.

“There’s someone here to see you, John. He says it’s urgent and that he will not leave until he speaks with you.”

“I’m on my way out the door, Genevieve,” I replied impatiently. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat before finishing off the Hamilton brief. I don’t have time to see anyone right now. Tell him to make an appointment like everyone else, and call security if he gives you any more trouble.”

“But he says he really needs to see you. He refuses to take no for an answer!”

For an instant I considered calling security myself, but, realizing that this might be someone in need, I assumed a more forgiving posture.

“Okay, send him in,” I retreated. “I probably could use the business anyway.”

The door to my office opened slowly. At last it swung fully open, revealing a smiling man in his mid-thirties. He was tall, lean and muscular, radiating an abundance of vitality and energy. He reminded me of those perfect kids I went to law school with, from perfect families, with perfect houses, perfect cars and perfect skin. But there was more to my visitor than his youthful good looks. An underlying peacefulness gave him an almost divine presence. And his eyes. Piercing blue eyes that sliced clear through me like a razor meeting the supple flesh of a fresh-faced adolescent anxious about his first shave.

‘Another hotshot lawyer gunning for my job,’ I thought to myself. ‘Good grief, why is he just standing there looking at me? I hope that wasn’t his wife I represented on that big divorce case I won last week. Maybe calling security wasn’t such a silly idea after all.’

The young man continued to look at me, much as the smiling Buddha might have looked upon a favored pupil. After a long moment of uncomfortable silence he spoke in a surprisingly commanding tone.

“Is this how you treat all of your visitors, John, even those who taught you everything you know about the science of success in a courtroom? I should have kept my trade secrets to myself,” he said, his full lips curving into a mighty grin.

A strange sensation tickled the pit of my stomach. I immediately recognized that raspy, honey-smooth voice. My heart started to pound.

“Julian? Is that you? I can’t believe it! Is that really you?”

The loud laugh of the visitor confirmed my suspicions. The young man standing before me was none other than that long-lost yogi of India: Julian Mantle. I was dazzled by his incredible transformation. Gone was the ghostlike complexion, the sickly cough and the lifeless eyes of my former colleague. Gone was the elderly appearance and the morbid expression that had become his personal trademark. Instead, the man in front of me appeared to be in peak health, his lineless face glowing radiantly. His eyes were bright, offering a window into his extraordinary vitality. Perhaps even more astounding was the serenity that Julian exuded. I felt entirely peaceful just sitting there, staring at him. He was no longer the anxious “type-A” senior partner of a leading law firm. Instead, the man before me was a youthful, vital — and smiling — model of change.

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