About five or six years ago Doug and I came up with an idea of starting a men’s group in our community. Then I shared with him that it would take at least three years to form a group that was self supporting with a regular contingent of participants. I’d read this, as part of my own research, in a manual that had been generated by a prison group. One of the incarcerated citizens had successfully formed the group through persistent efforts. I was impressed with his work and all of his dedication. The dedication is what inspired me to continue through the stops and starts we encountered.
Today we are five. As many as a dozen different men have joined us with some staying for just a few meetings to some staying up to a year or two and then bowing out. I never could figure what it was that kept some coming. That doesn’t matter I guess. What we have now is a good group of men who look forward to showing up twice a month. We have no rules; well maybe a few guidelines that I introduced from my work in prisons. But we play loose with our guidelines. What we certainly don’t have is ritual, or rather ritual that is manufactured or appropriated from other cultures. After all we are old white guys from mostly western European stock. No drumming or face painting or sweat lodges. No singing and hugging. All we do is show up and sit down where there is room and begin talking to each other.
I have to laugh at that last sentence. Joseph Campbell was being interviewed by Bill Moyers. The issue of ritual in men’s groups came up. “Ritual!”, said Campbell. “You don’t need ‘ritual’. Two men sitting down together to talk is ‘ritual'”. I fully agree.
Here is a poem I wrote about our men’s group. It was inspired by the arrival of several of us at Dick’s house in the middle of winter a few years back. The snow was flying and we were fairly new to each other. I was observing Robert coming in the door and shaking the snow from himself. It is a lovely scene. I notice that I wrote in on my birthday!
MEN’S GROUP
A gathering – like an assemblage of wary and watchful
Bison,
Large forms – studied movement,
An economy of motion and comment,
A language not too vague
Or too obvious,
We speak with silence – side
Looks – talk of heating oil,
Stove pellets, air leaks, and
Wind chill
So much private knowledge passes
In monosyllabic recognition,
Old men arriving like Bedouins
In from the desert – traveling forever,
Over dunes and distance,
Slowly,
Purposefully, methodically shaking garments, robes
Covered in dust of quiet grief –
“I’m here but I need
A
Moment – I need all
Of me to arrive,
(pause)
O.K… now I am here”,
One after another – like
The Presidential Range seen
From Route 2 – silent, stately,
Hulking – lining up on
Chairs and sofa – finding a
Place to settle, squat – find comfort in
A vantage point from which to
See and hear the others –
Eyes searching,
Recognizing
Greatness,
Honoring those present,
“I know you” like a code
Passed by stealthy visual salutation
They come to honor survivors of
Risks,
Escapes,
They come to give witness,
Bear witness,
To bathe in
Grief and glory – say to these men
Your truth and celebrate them as they feed
At this board piled high with tale
Upon story upon wisdom –
“Fill up, Boys!!! Fill up –“,
These heroes are building
Castles and
Palaces of
Pride and Love
Together.
G. M. Goodwin
February 19, 2013
Playing Fair and Being Kind 