The Weekend

One was crushed by betrayal. One, lost in a world of women, had never known the friendship of men. A young one had the courage to show himself in front of his girlfriend’s father, and the father had the wisdom to invite him in. Another one brought his wounded soul that had sent him to the company of prostitutes where he could hide from relationships. Two were brothers, with rage and resentment stacked up like so much cordwood till they could no longer see each other on the other side.

So off I went to a BetterMen Retreat.

One was funny. He knew how to tell a joke, but had lost his joy in a fog of endless regrets.

Backing up a minute, you should know that I recently joined a men’s group. I did it when I realized that after a lifetime enjoying the company of men, I no longer had any men friends left. We had grown separate and otherwise occupied with families, work, and geographic challenges -- the too infrequent poker games unable to fill the gaps.

One had a small penis, or so he thought, even without the internet telling him so, insecure in the extreme, and yet he had the balls to speak his fear. Who feels the same? All raised their hands.

On the surface the group is a small bunch of men (but certainly not a bunch of small men), starting out as strangers, who meet once a week under the guidance of a facilitator to give each other support, advice, counsel, and straight talk. Along the way, some camaraderie and friendship develop. The weekend was just like the group, only a whole lot more. I mean A WHOLE LOT MORE. For one thing, instead of eight men, there would be thirty-five or so, spending the better part of three days in a camp in the woods.

Architect, lawyer, caterer, cab driver, executive, teacher, builder, filmmaker, writer, actor, computer geek, fitness instructor and more. Men of the arts, men of business, men who worked with their minds, and men who worked with their hands. Men.

I couldn’t believe I was going to do this. Of the first-timers there, at 61, I was the oldest. The youngest was 19. We would all spend the weekend together doing . . . uh, I had no idea what we would be doing, but I knew I would be sleeping in a sleeping bag on a bunk bed. Terrific. The 22 year old kid who was my “buddy” for the duration asked if I wanted the bottom or the top bunk. “Are you kidding me?” He gave me the bottom.

A father and son, separated by generations, and separated by the silence that grows between too many fathers and sons. Fathers and sons. My father, my sons.

The first night we arrived, we began by walking to a lodge for a sort of orientation and introduction. We were instructed to walk in silence. As we were walking, I realized that, not having been in the army, and not being a hunter, and having been in the Boy Scouts in Miami Beach, where we got merit badges in such things as beach towel folding, I had never walked silently through the woods as part of a group of men. The only sound was the shuffling and crunching of our footsteps (any animals we might have been hunting were probably falling down laughing at our stealthlessness.) But something inside me started to awaken, as I felt for the first time the feeling of being part of a group, a cadre, a tribe of men, come together for some unknown manly purpose and/or ritual. I wasn’t an old guy, I was an elder among these men, and I felt pretty cool.

One was a sage, who spoke so little and said so much.

Later, we sat in a large circle around a huge campfire. Our leader read us a most inspiring poem*, and we listened and talked and smoked . . . . . . . cigars. (I bet you thought I was going to say “a peace pipe,” didn’t you?) Yes, cigars were passed around for any and all, and no one commented on the smell or the health risks. Shit, we were men, and this is what men do. (Note to self: pick up some Febreze.)

So many husbands and fathers who couldn’t find a way to show their wives and children how much they loved them. And way too many broken marriages and open wounds that wouldn’t heal.

And so it went for three days. You want details? Here they are: we ate, we smoked, we kidded and we cried, we felt our pain, vented our rage, and we played and celebrated, but above all, we laughed -- such laughter that I have shared only in the company of men -- laughter that I haven’t known for way too many years, that primal expression of joy at being alive and secure among friends. And in this congregation I found, as did many others, a refuge from the Four Horsemen of the Lost Nuts-- Worry, Doubt, Fear and Regret.

Men. Isolated and disconnected, holding on to and hiding such anger and grief, the depths of which their women have no inkling.

I’m sorry. I won’t give you my ironic spin, my cynical eye, my perspective as an outsider looking in at life around me, as I usually do. Not this time. This time I was in the thick of it, and it felt good. Also, I won’t spill the beans on what went on in the lodge, while we walked, in our groups, and around our fires. You see, next time, and there will definitely be a next time, I hope to bring some other men, perhaps my boys, and have them discover in unknown territory, the men that they are and the better men they could become.

“You are perfect,” he said, as I poured out my grief on his shoulder. No man, or woman for that matter, has ever told me I was perfect. And so I was, and so I am.
Aho.

That was my weekend. How was yours?

(* The poem that was read on the first evening is called The Invitation, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. You can find it at http://kalimunro.com/invitation.html. If it doesn’t move you, you are either not breathing or can’t find your glasses.)