I have an intimate relationship with an apricot tree. I’ve known this tree since 1995, when it was the deciding factor in my buying the house where it lives. The previous owner had “pruned” it by whacking off the two main trunks three feet from the ground and a couple of years brought a riot of branches out of the stumps. Since then I have pruned, fertilized, mulched and loved this tree, watching it grow to a sturdy beauty in front of my house. In the few years that it bears fruit in July, I’m convinced they are the best apricots in town, small, golden bursts of apricot essence. And yearly, in March as the sun climbs higher in the sky, I watch as apricot trees all over town explode in pink/white blossoms, the first to grace spring with their flowers. For a week or so, they are vulnerable to cold, after that the tiny green almonds of fruit can take a light frost. But more often than not, a late freeze nips the blossoms and litters the ground with brown wilted petals, ending my hopes for fruit that year. So I watch and pray and check weather reports as if I had a million dollars at risk on Wall Street.

            When I step back in reflection—rarely—I find that all my hopes for the abundance of Spring and all my fears of the deprivations of unstable climate are wrapped up in my prayers for my apricot tree. So when it keeps blossoms and sets fruit, I think the world may just make it through another year. And when flowers freeze, wilt and drop, I feel my shoulders sag with the weight of impending doom.

            Interestingly though, I don’t think the tree shares either my elation or despair. In years that it bears fruit, it feeds me, my neighbors, the birds, the dog and the worms, and propagates more trees. In years that little or no apricots mature, the tree grows full and green, funneling its life force into longer and stronger branches. Eventually it will slow down, dry up and die, leaving room for some other plant to turn water and sunlight into chlorophyll, fruit and seed.

            I think my dog shares this same non-attachment to the outcomes of life. The exuberant profusion of blossoms may be likened to the dog's joyful racing around the yard when we prepare to go out for a walk. And the dog may experience sadness when left at home alone, as the tree may be stressed in a dry year when the snow fails to pile up. But neither of them is capable of making judgments about their condition. They would not blame me for neglect. Most of Earth’s creatures live in acceptance of their situations. Prayer for anything else is not an option. What would they pray to or for? They appear to be unconsciously part of it all.

            A wise story comes to mind; If you want to know who loves you, lock your husband and your dog in the trunk of the car for an hour. Which one is happy to see you when you open the trunk? We humans seem to be unique in our ability to make judgments about the circumstances of our lives. The husband most likely has feelings about being locked in the trunk. He may need an explanation, a drink of water, and have a clear request about the use of the trunk of the car in the future. But all of his “should’s” and “ought to’s,” shame and blame, emerge from his judgment and will mask his ability to listen, understand and accept the fact that you had to hide him while Godzilla waltzed down the street.        

I expect that the earth experiences pain in some form when covered with concrete, drilled, bulldozed, trees cut and rivers plugged. And I trust that it will come into balance eventually. But it makes no judgment. The new age opinion that “Gaia” will get fed up and strike back is just another human projection, a judgment based on how we would respond when we perceive that we’ve been locked in the trunk. Only a human could take a hurricane or an earthquake personally. We are champions of such analysis, opinion and assumption. It has led us out of the Garden of Eden and into a world in which our comfort precedes and separates us from our membership in the community of our planet.  

            I expect my apricot tree responds positively to the mulch I spread under it and the care I take in pruning. That kind of prayer seems to be effective, though the results are still up for grabs. It has not yet responded to my prayers to bloom in April rather than March. Neither has the weather changed its fickle progression from winter to spring. It is my dog’s nature to bark at the neighbors, despite my near insanity about it. And my teenage son’s flagrant misuse of the ketchup bottle in the refrigerator is quite out of my control. So I have to ask myself, “To whom am I praying to change these things?” Or, more to the point, “What judgment underlies my prayer?” The notion that my world is not to my liking, and that somehow I have the power, even the responsibility to change it, strikes me now as the ultimate hubris. That kind of prayer goes not to a higher power, it assumes that I am the higher power, and far more than a late Spring frost, or spilled ketchup, will lead to my ultimate despair. Would I be more at peace if I were to keep doing the things that grow strong trees, happy dogs and compassionate relationships; and learn to accept that the results are not entirely up to me? The simple answer is yes of course—but as Eve discovered with Adam, simple does not imply easy.

A quick caveat. In challenging us to consider acceptance over manipulation of our environment, I’m not suggesting that we accept personal, social or political injustice. I fully endorse the passionate fight for life. I’m suggesting that too often we pursue our own comfort as if it were a fight for life, with no thought to the consequences and to our own and our planet’s detriment.

            In considering what separates me from my dog and my tree, I’ve commonly laid blame on this whole concept of judgment. No small irony in judging my judgment. So, how to approach this unique human quality of judgment from a different angle? I’ve long operated on the notion that God doesn’t make junk, no mistakes. Its all here as part of the grand experiment of life, therefore this fascinating experience of attaching value to the events of our lives must lead to opportunity for growth somewhere. One of our wise men, Marshall Rosenberg, founder of Nonviolent Communication, separates value judgment from moralistic judgment. Deciding to pursue those things that enhance my life involves values. I prefer fish to beef. It is clear that my dog values running in the woods with me. Can I even say that my apricot tree values water? (hmm maybe not) But knowing what brings us joy and pursuing it, and what brings pain and avoiding it are reasonable value judgments to make. On the other hand, making up that you are wrong and I am right involves morals and tends to separate me from you, and almost always obscures my opportunity for growth. Despite my upset, my son is not a bad person because he fails to put the top on the ketchup bottle. My moralistic judgment about it separates me from him and divorces me from owning my underlying value of tidiness and perhaps care of our resources. How many of us have been through a painful relationship breakup, or the death of a loved one? “It shouldn’t have happened. Damn you it’s your fault. I’ve been cheated. My life is ruined. If I’m good maybe she’ll come back.” Elizabeth Kubler-Ross outlines a common and healthy progression of responses to loss including all of the above statements. They suggest a normal and healthy emotional response to events that seem to go against us. It only becomes a problem when I stay attached to my judgment and find myself still angry at the SOB ten years later.

            I propose that in moments of sanity, we consider a different set of questions. Rather than deciding that I don’t deserve pain in my back, or that I’ve been wronged by my ex-wife, or any other “why me” questions; and rather than praying for a week of warm weather around apricot blossom time; or even praying that my friend gets the kidney transplant that could prolong his life—How about asking what lesson, what experience, is my higher power seeking in this situation? My prayer for my friend then becomes, “I hope he can use this ‘tragedy’ to deepen his relationship with his higher power.” The killing frost in late March now offers me the opportunity to let go of results, invite wonder into my life, and accept that I am not in charge.

            I am not in charge of my death. I’m not in charge of the price of gas. I’m not in charge of my partner, or my kids, or my dog, or the weather. I have preferences and I am in charge of how compassionately I share them. I am in charge of the environmental impact of my life, of riding my bicycle instead of driving my car, of eating my apricots, of approaching my children with compassion. I am in charge of the food I eat, my exercise level and my resulting health. I’m not in charge of earthquakes or hurricanes, global warming or the AIDS virus, and neither are you. Those things are not messages to, or judgments passed on, us by God or the Earth. They are part of life and death. It happens. Our blessed opportunity, totally different from the beasts and the plants of our planet, who seem to live in unconscious acceptance, is to seek beneath our judgments of events to find acceptance.

             Humanity’s evolution of judgment—what appears to be our unique ability to decide we don’t like the way things are going and do something about it—now shifts from separating our selves from the rest of nature, each other and ourselves through moralistic rights and wrongs, to consciously rejoining the soulful natural world in choosing acceptance. This shift includes practicing the discipline of reflection to explore the consequences of my actions, and asking the difficult questions to discover my underlying needs rather than act to satisfy my immediate comforts. It is in those choices that we are unique on this planet. It is in those reflections that we can rejoin the Garden with awareness, rediscover wonder, and pull in the reigns on our assumption of fixing it all to our liking. This is my spiritual discipline.

                                                                                    —Jeff Hood, March 28, 2011

She came to me dripping with rock and roll

when we were young.

Stripped me and climbed on board

the sand dunes of her hip and stomach,

small feathered breasts more than I could bear.

We split, drifted, never knowing what we missed,

searching the bars and pool tables,

this and that kind of therapy

trying to fill the whole Grand Canyon.

I went to sweat in the rain in northwest forests,

hitchhiking, hoping she’d pick me up.

On to India, then back to make a kid

in an unsettled home.

She wrote songs of love lost,

got famous and lonely.

Hired a body guard.

Seeking.

I’ve discovered though that soul

can’t just disappear.

She came last night, late

to the storage locker next to mine.

Seeking, she raised me up from sleep,

battered and deep, Here!

wanting me as much as I want her.

Hafiz suggests that you are waiting,

perhaps stretching the grace carrot

a little further from my reach,

but out there still.

He reminds me to keep dancing

to your imagined song.

And just in case he is right

I’ll put on those soft shoes.

What fool would turn away

from even the possibility

of such a dance partner.

and one from my work in NVC

My slight of your character

I’m afraid, grows like a weed

on my own.

Equally watered by judgment and shame.

Any opinions expressed,

please do us both the service

of returning to their owner,

with compassion I hope.

They prosper when held,

shrivel when owned.

Courage my man.

These are crops

you’ll not profit

by the harvest.

Here’s what I imagine:

Soldiers in Afghanistan and Congo

putting down their weapons,

and others forgetting how to rig an IED.

I imagine American soldiers lining up on

runways, dancing and telling poetry as they wait

for planes to bring them home.

And some are just wandering through neighborhoods

lending a hand to install a stove or fix a window.

I imagine Senators and Congressmen looking across the aisle

and breathing, letting their shoulders drop as they see a human being

with a story of how they ran for student council in high school and lost,

and later on took care of an aging parent.

I imagine bankers and corporate execs discovering a place on earth

where they belong, and finding kids in that place

who’ve dropped out of school and can’t find a job.

And I imagine an epidemic of bicyclists in our cities,

so many that auto traffic is brought to a halt

and every sidewalk is packed with them

and not one has a lock on it.

And backyard gardens come around front,

where luscious green zucchinis become ornamental beauties.

And the only reason to lock your car

is so you don’t come out of the store

to find it full of pumpkins and tomatoes.

People who make bullets suddenly find themselves

machining pliers and thermometers and solar collectors.

Doctors and hospitals give up their fear of litigation,

recall the passion in their mission,

and turn themselves into teachers of health and wellbeing.

I imagine that people who offer stress management classes

have to redesign their curriculums to become creativity coaches,

and laughter is the main ingredient.

And assertive and compassionate communication

is taught in every school in every grade.

And our consumption of alcohol and drugs gives way to

softball and soccer and needlepoint and fishing.

And next year we birth half the number of babies as last year

and the year after, half again, and again, and we honor our children

and our elders as this swarm of humans reduces itself to a manageable number.

And the trees! the trees breathe a sigh of relief

no longer choking on carbon monoxide.

Worms and frogs and salamanders are seen dancing in the evenings.

Seaweed and lobster, dolphin and tuna fish glow blue and green.

Rain falls gently in the desert, rivers run over their dams

because our electrical production goes local.

And like my Senator, I look across the street and discover

that your beliefs about god and the environment and healthcare

grow out of your life, I find the courage to ask you where you grew up

and what your family was like and listen.

And listen.

I can see it. Can you?

Jeff Hood

I opened the following article by Carolyn Baker this morning. It is a no nonsense ultimatum to us humans to wake up, grow up, and accept the inevitable pain that comes with radical change as a valid initiation into the adulthood of our species. The adolescent denial of our consumptive AWOL has reached its peak. How many times must we wake up puking in the gutter having trampled all over our garden? http://www.countercurrents.org/baker131009.htm

Not being able to sit still with it, and still being the good American that I am, I got in the car and drove to the mountains to hike with my dog. I stormed along alternately; wondering how and where to go to survive what seems an inevitable apocalypse as the planet finds balance by reducing our numbers by half, and planning/appreciating the work I’ve chosen to bring civility and humor and soulful reflection to my fellows. I returned home, somewhat burdened yet determined, to open my computer to find the following link to another dimension. http://www.newrealitytransmission.com/ Eleven minutes of eleven days in which millions of people imagine a world in harmony. I don’t know who these people are, but I found myself in tears, clicking through one slide after another and realizing that a fifth dimension is available to us. Not a dimension of escape from the awful reality of our actions, but a dimension in which we may let go of the selfish adolescent to embrace Erik Erikson’s generative adult as we accept accountability for our actions. Make no mistake, if we humans can enter/create a reality of peace, support, honesty and abundance, it will be through both prayer and the sweat of our brows. There is a lot of concrete melanoma to break off the flesh of our mother.

I don’t know the current thinking on addiction, but I expect the denial that has produced our predicament emerges from a fear of being uncomfortable. For what is AWOL but an attachment to comfort? Its comforting to find fresh raspberries on the supermarket shelf in February. Its comforting to drive up to the mountain to hike in beauty. And as long as I don’t think about what it took to bring those berries or that gasoline to my credit card, I enjoy my comfortable life. But there is something that gets in my way even once I realize that raspberries from Chile in February make no sense at all. I’m attached to my comfort, and all the more so as I read the newspaper and build a fear of losing . . . what? Raspberries??!! Let them go for crying out loud! But not the price of gasoline. Oh no! I’ll kill for that. Or better yet, get a young man to go over to the Middle East to kill for me.

Healthy adults have the capacity to look ahead and anticipate problems and to make sacrifices to ensure a positive future. I can imagine a positive future. Am I willing to do the work to create it? Forego the raspberries, ride my bike more often, make friends with the worms in my garden, teach my elected officials how to be civil in their disagreements, get a handle on my debt, say the uncomfortable-fierce-loving thing to my partner. That’s my list. What’s yours?

I have every intention of participating in eleven days of eleven minutes of imagining a world in harmony with itself. I can already see it, feel it, taste it. And that taste includes a strong back and calloused hands, willing to pick up a shovel and plant a tree. And it includes a commitment to my wild heart, beating eagerly in anticipation of the laughter that comes after, free of the fear of losing my precious AWOL.

for juniper berries,

blue grey handfuls

clustered on every branch end.

A gin drinker might celebrate

other than I do.

They reflect the sky,

draw it down to Earth,

as blue berries do in Maine.

More austere though,

tough juniper’s dry roots reaching out

of desert ground, questing far,

only occasionally quenching their thirst.

Somehow enough this year

to offer bouquets

to me and the sky.

The news from Iraq and Afganistan hurts me, the fact that young men in Santa Fe feel they have no other choice but to join a gang, hurts me. My assumption of competition, whether it be that I can ski faster, climb higher, or sing better than you, hurts me.

Its time for a New Myth for Masculinity

         From Dominance to Compassion

         I propose a shift from the symbolism of death to that of life, time to beat our swords into plowshares.

         Masculinity is not just for men, Tho I may speak about men, and as a man, I hope you women discover yourselves living in this masculine paradigm of dominance as well.

         For instance consider, the old minute mystery in which a father and son are driving down the road, they get in a horrible accident in which the father is killed and the boy is rushed to the emergency room. The doctor takes one look at the boy and says, “I can’t operate on this boy, he’s my son!” . . . Even if you’ve heard this before, it gets you for a minute. We assume that the doctor had to be the boys father. . . And if you know anything about the boot-camp atmosphere of medical school and residency, what absurdly out of balance masculine idiots decided that doctors should work 80 hour weeks and be healers? to say nothing of being fathers or mothers.

         I’m not proposing we kill all the men in the world, or that we become feminist men. I’m proposing we all consider becoming a new kind of masculinist that celebrates masculine power and creativity and passion without assuming dominance, heroics, competition, win lose, violence, and the destruction of our planet. A masculinist world includes women as doctors and none of us would ever work 80 hours a week.

         Time to change the story, with a poem:

A Journey

When he got up that morning everything was different:

He enjoyed the bright spring day

But he did not realize it exactly, he just enjoyed it.

And walking down the street to the railroad station

Past magnolia trees with dying flowers like old socks

It was a long time since he had breathed so simply.

Tears filled his eyes and it felt good

But he held them back

Because men didn’t walk around crying in that town.

Waiting on the platform at the station

The fear came over him of something terrible about to happen:

The train was late and he recited the alphabet to keep hold.

And in its time it came screeching in

And as it went on making its usual stops,

People coming and going, telephone poles passing,

He hid his head behind a newspaper

No longer able to hold back the sobs, and willed his eyes

To follow the rational weavings of the seat fabric.

He didn’t do anything violent as he had imagined.

He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down

A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,

And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:

And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on

He walked, himself at last, a man among men,

With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.

--Edward Field

Poem says it all, maybe I should just read it through again and again, but no . . . I have more to say.

Our hero wakes up one spring day and simply breathes in the world. This in itself is a radical shift from the “get it done” way I usually wake up and spend my morning. And for him, it seems so different that he is close to tears. They may be tears of joy at the blue sky, or sorrow at the wilting blossoms that remind him of his dead grandfather, we don’t know, but we know he is washed in emotion. A beautiful thing. But completely unacceptable in our “hold your chin up” world.

“Because men didn’t walk around crying in that town.”

Man or woman, we live under an oppressive assumption that to be vulnerable, express emotion, even speak the truth as we feel it to be, is dangerous, forbidden, and will negatively affect our image, bank account, promotion possibilities, how our friends respond to us. I certainly couldn’t drive down Cerrillos Rd. in tears. that requires the reflexes of a fighter.

When Rose perceives a darkness hovering around my spirit, and asks how my dreams have been, or how I’m feeling, I instantly assume criticism and put up a shield. What the hell am I guarding? What is at stake?

Where does it come from? This fear that we might “do something violent as he had imagined.” Causing us to hide our heads in the newspaper, follow the “rational weavings of the seat fabric” How many times can you trace the paisley or count the holes in the ceiling panels? Just to hold on to a composure you think others demand of you.

I propose that we’ve been living a myth that no longer serves us. Homer wrote the Illiad and the Odyssy almost 3,000 years ago and it has defined us, men and women ever since. The singular, healthy, independent, powerful hero confronts all manner of challenges and defeats every one through wit and strength and violence. Even Robert Bly, the father of the modern men’s movement promotes him as an essential symbol for masculinity. We men must learn to hold our sword high in order to be a man. In one of Odysseus’ adventures, he stops at an island where the witch, Circe, lives. He has been warned about her, so he sends some of his men ashore. Sure enough, she entices them to a banquet, seduces with drugs them and turns them into pigs. (we can assume they were pretty close to pigs already, being greek sailors) Now Odysseus has consulted with Hermes (a bit of a trickster and thief) who suggests that Odysseus draw his sword to show Circe his manhood, to get his men back. All our hero has to do is lift his sword high, Circe is cowed, returns his men, takes Odysseus to bed and they all feast on the island for a year! Sounds like heaven right men? Except that our hero has been warned that the witch will try to take his manhood in bed, so he must keep up his guard.

Thus we have learned to dominate in action and in word for the last 3,000 years. Our culture is defined by winners and losers, in sport, business and politics, if not marriages and schools. We’ve even decided that death is some kind of failure, a weakness, an unnatural occurance and try to prolong life past its reasonable limits. I watched my parents unwillingly become invalids in their old age. Sometimes wishing the doctors would just let them die.

Culture is revealed through language , anyone who has studied Spanish knows that a group of men and women are addressed in the masculine. And with all due respect, our Spanish culture is pretty damn macho. Of course our language follows (or does it lead?) our actions. I’ve heard all of the following phrases come out of my mouth:

•We express dominance through judgment; “He’s a worthless poet, so shallow” (you should read my stuff)

•through praise “I really like your light flaky pie crust” (as if I were the expert)

•Through shame and blame; “Son you are so lazy, you never do the dishes” (you’re not worthy of my good name)

•through labels; “my step daughter is a triathlete” (I must have been a terrific father)

•through comparisons; ““Oh, I see you bought a new Buick. Looks kind of like a Jaguar” (Unlike my Mercedes)

•through diagnoses; “Well, if you knew about her childhood, you’d understand why she dresses like that!”

•through advise; “Hove you considered seeing a therapist about this?”

Some subtle, some not, all express a hierarchy in which I know and you don’t and I may shed some of my wisdom on you, you poor sot.

And all contribute to waking up one “bright spring day” to find tears at hand, but not allow ourselves to express them. “Because men didn’t walk around crying in that town.” We walk around being sarcastic, competitive, drones, spending more energy protecting ourselves from heart attacks than learning to express our tears.

The assumption with Odysseus is that he couldn’t afford to cry. And the soldier in Afganistan can’t afford it when he’s on patrol. But I propose that wars are started by men who are afraid to cry, who stifle their grief and therefore find a way to express their impotence in power from afar.

So we must give ourselves the train ride in tears, grieve for lost authenticity, allow ourselves an appropriate expression of depression, for god’s sake. I want to learn to cry out loud rather than hide my tears behind my newspaper! Through my grief for my own desperate youth, for our beautiful and beleaguered planet, I want to stand with others, with men and women, to find authentic expression for our sadness.

He didn’t do anything violent as he had imagined.

He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down

A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,

he found freedom where he’d been terrified of his vulnerability!

And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:

And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on

He walked, himself at last, a man among men,

  With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.

And finding his freedom, he stood up, himself at last. No longer subject to the constraints of Heroism. I make up that he followed some new myth.

So I propose a new myth to express our masculinity.  Our survival depends on our finding something other than lifting our sword, pistol, missile, skyscraper, penis to express our masculinity. I’ve introduced my Silverback Gorilla Syndrome here. and I love the Grimms story of Iron John, and I think Marshal Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication is elegant. Whatever we choose, we need to practice it in our language and our actions. Remember we have 3,000 years of dominance hypnosis to sort through.

And we’ve already experienced an effective challenge to the sword. In the 70’s and 80’s the women’s movement announced “enough!” and began to empower women. Those of us men who were paying attention celebrated and tried to jump on the band wagon by eschewing our masculinity. There was even a popular book out titled “Refusing to be a Man.” We softened up, started expressing our vulnerable sides and in the process, denied something essentially masculine in ourselves. We became wimpy 80’s guys reminiscent of the dreaded “mama’s boy” of our childhoods. Wrong image, wrong myth guys!

In rejecting the old dominance image, we rejected our healthy masculine power. Odysseus held his sword high. I reject the sword, the weapon, as an image I should live by. But I honor masculine power, creativity, work, sweat, muscle, blue sky and green earth. So I choose the shovel to be my standard. This humble tool, this one in particular, I’ve had for thirty years. I’ve oiled its handle, worn down the point, sharpened it again. I’ve cleaned ditches, dug foundations, turned gardens, buried dogs with it. The handle is scarred from a day years ago when a friend with a titanium hand shoveled sand and gravel into my cement mixer all day. Unlike a backhoe, dozer, jet plane, chain saw, there’s not too much power in a shovel. It is very difficult to do too much damage to the earth when digging by hand. You have time to stop and reflect and find the minimum necessary effort, You have time to stop and mourn the worm cut in half. This shovel has taught me the difference between the terms “work-out” and “work.” The latter results in strong back, powerful arms, and something actually getting accomplished; which is a masculine trait I admire. To be honest, the former has never made sense to me, a waste of time when the compost needs turning.

Back to the poem: I make up that the man who woke up that bright spring day, walked past magnolia trees and breathed so simply, the man who got off the train having allowed himself to grieve, found his authentic self. His soul called and he had the courage to respond. And courage it takes to stand up and be vulnerable in a world expecting and rewarding our dominance. He put away Odysseus’ sword and picked up a shovel, paintbrush, pen, hammer, whatever his wild heart called to him, and allowed

“himself at last, a man among men,”

  to show  “such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.”

Thank you for listening to my rant.  and I invite you to find the wild heart beating in your chest, to discover your shovel and lift it high. I invite you to join me this fall in a quest to reconnect with soul. Men’s retreat in Colorado in October with friend Coy Theobalt and a retreat for men and women here in Santa Fe in November that I’m co-facilitating with our friend Jeannine La Fontaine. Join us in living a new myth.

            And I speak that salutation with some passion. For it is my firm belief that if we human men cannot learn to walk gently, then our lives and the lives of most of the earth’s creatures will in the near future evolve into a science fiction nightmare.

             We have been living a violent myth of competition, for thousands of years. In our distant past it may have been necessary to our survival to be the biggest gorilla on the block. More recently we’ve learned to compete with intelligence to establish our dominance. It has charged us with the power to be the most successful species in the history of our planet, as far as we know.

             What’s wrong with that? you might ask. Didn’t the Bible give us dominion over the Earth? Aren’t all our heroes strong and independent, dominant figures? And in an ever increasing population of humans, haven’t we had to shift our focus from the sabre toothed tiger to the hostile take over in the boardroom? I suggest that the hostile takeover, the vicious divorce and square miles of pavement are all terrible symptoms of, rather than justifications for, our assumption of dominance. And even if we were to ignore the fact that our beautiful green planet tilts on a knife edge with thousands of species disappearing forever every year, even if we could convince ourselves that we are the only ones living with the consequences of our consumptive dominance, I propose that the myth we’ve been living by for most of our history is “old and in the way.”

             One of our western civilization’s heroes is a character named Odysseus. His myth emerged close to ten thousand years ago, authored by the Greek poet, Homer. In one of his adventures, Odysseus encounters a witch named Circe, who has turned a number his men into pigs. Odysseus wants them back and confronts Circe by drawing his sword in threat. She quickly submits, returning his men to him and then taking him to bed. Thus we western men are taught that the solution to our problems is to draw our sword, our penis, our power, thrust our spear in the ground, make a million bucks, sell a million books. Fill in the blank with your own definition of western masculine success. We learn to dominate, not only women and witches, but every other challenge we face. Now, whether on the football field or the board room, our use of power to dominate perceived rivals is the myth we live by.

             Poet Robert Bly, by many considered the father of the modern Men’s Movement, suggests in his treatise on another myth, Iron John, that a man can not stand among men until he raises his sword. And no matter how Bly tries to define “healthy” masculine power, the image of the sword, a weapon, remains in our psyches as the defining symbol of masculine power. The image of masculinity that Bly would have us aspire to, the generative male who serves his community, stands firm, and guides young men with integrity, somehow must grow out of holding our sword high in threat. I don’t buy it. We need another myth.

             As good as the sword feels in my hand, I’m reluctant to pick it up. I spent an afternoon with an old friend recently. We had a couple of hours to kill before I had to catch a plane. Much to my dismay, he suggested going to a shooting range. We rented automatic pistols, bought our ammunition and targets and he filled me in on the rules. I shot through my first box of ammo in an increasing excitement if not skill, and he bought me another box. As our time ended I looked up in a bit of a daze to hear a man in a booth nearby loudly praising his 7 year old son’s accomplishment of accurately hitting a human shaped target with an automatic rifle. The sword no longer felt good in my hand. Even as a transitional stage for a young man cutting his teeth, defining himself among men, we need to replace the sword/pistol/WMD with another image.

  As we search our copies of Grimms Fairy Tales for another masculine myth, each of us must search his own depths, his dreams, for an image worthy of the generative male we would be. At the moment mine is a shovel. Not a backhoe, or a front end loader, its too easy to get carried away with that much power. I have a beloved wooden handled shovel I’ve been related to for thirty years now. I’ve oiled the wood, cleaned cement from the blade, watched the point wear slowly down. I’ve even filed it to keep it sharp. With it I have turned gardens and harvested them, dug footings and buried dogs. The handle, half way up is full of dents where a good friend’s titanium mechanical hand tossed shovels of sand and gravel into the cement mixer one whole day. My back is a different kind of strong from this relationship and I know that the origins of the term “work-out” actually result in things getting done.

  I imagine walking into the next conference I attend, not with my latest power-point program, but with my shovel, holding it high, extolling its virtues, allowing it to define my masculinity. How many men in the second half of our lives remain acquainted with, to say nothing of intimate with physical labor? If we want to feel youthful, consider working like a youth. You’ll be surprised. Then, think of sweating through a morning with a young man you’ve hired to help build a fence around the yard. What an opportunity for passing the torch, talking about girls, the police, integrity, the pleasure of a dollar earned. Wendell Berry would celebrate this myth, he knows it is difficult to do too much damage to the earth when digging by hand. I expect he too has grieved over the worm cut in half in the garden.

  Competition is not lost in this new/old myth. Would you care to count shovel-fulls with me? There is plenty of opportunity to test each other as we push and shove, sweat together as the drainage ditch slowly grows across the lawn. My father was not proud of his callused workman’s hands, but I am.  I look around at my neighbors, who would rather hire their work done and feel a certain loss in my guts. Our new myth needs to include the pride of getting our hands dirty, whether we choose the shovel, paintbrush, hammer or sewing machine. Our new myth needs to include cooperative creation with others in our clan.

             Somewhere in Grimms there must be a tale of men working, creating, cooperating to benefit their community. Or perhaps we follow Johnny Appleseed. While you look for it, I need to stop writing and get to work.

 And consider this little challenge from Muriel Rukeyser

Islands

O for God's sake

they are connected underneath

They look at each other
across the glittering sea
some keep a low profile

Some are cliffs
The bathers think 
islands are separate like them

Odysseus drew his sword to threaten Circe,

challenged her, demanded that she return his men

to human form. He stood as a warrior firm,

she cowered then became his ally.

And now, poet Bly challenges me to lift the sword

to claim my manhood with a weapon

I cringe, though it fits my hand,

balances and swings. Haven’t we had enough

of the sword spilled on earth?

I’ll lift my shovel, hammer, pen, voice.

No mother’s boy here Bly.

Would you care to sweat with me?

count shovels of gravel into the cement mixer.

Shout across the mountain tops,

growl in the night as bear comes prowling our food.

Opportunity enough outside of the boardroom

or the battlefield to claim our manhood.

I remember digging a ditch with my dad

to drain water from in front of the garage.

He was not proud of the calluses on his hands.

But I learned to hold my shovel high

a man come young to Circe’s place.

water rushes down both sides

give up my angst.

For Li Po

We sit together

the river and me

until only the river remains

The anomaly has become the moments

of sanity, far away from the sound of traffic.

Rising in the morning, taking time to greet

the sun, before turning on the computer.