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April 2006In this Issue: |
The next two issues of Be the Change will focus on men. I do this for two reasons: to acknowledge men who journey, often without much support, into a deeper sense of intimacy and honesty with themselves and others; and, to draw attention to the Honoring Father: A Gathering of Whole-Hearted Men weekend which I will facilitate at Kripalu Center in Lenox, MA, June 16-18. If you are a man whose heart is opening and you desire genuine intimacy with other men, I invite you to join us in June. And bring a friend! The story below, in the essay entitled MensWork, has been excerpted from a book I am working on about deep change and learning with a life coach.Blessings of peace, Sean Casey LeClaire If you'd like to share this issue with a friend, they can view the newsletter online at http://www.seanleclaire.com/ezine/. If you'd prefer not to receive future issues of Be The Change, click the Unsubscribe link at the bottom of this message. MENS WORKThe most powerful way for men to heal is through honest and vulnerable sharing with other men. Then they are able to fully embody and ground the vulnerability that they cultivate with other men and bring this quality of intimacy to those they love. Most men don’t even know the extent that they have been hurt by the lies of our western, warrior culture. Male betrayal by men runs deep—in the bones and blood and bodies of men. Many men I have coached do not know one man who they can turn to for deep and honest conversation. When I invited one fellow to a men’s workshop, he half joking said, “will there be any women there?” Having spent some time kneeling at the foot of women’s skirts, asking for the blessing that my father never gave, I understood his joke. I’m so grateful that despite our hyper-kinetic, permanent war-economy that promotes speed, violence, heightened competitive pressure and an overarching sense of fear and, at best, frantic serenity and terrific consumption addiction; I have been blessed with a number of places where I am able and encouraged to meet men in honest and open sharing. I’m an active member of a men’s group that is both a provocative and deeply healing experience in my life. Men have gathered for this meeting every Saturday morning, appropriately in a grade one classroom of a local elementary school, for the last 20 years. The power of the group is in the depth and quality of listening and the diverse range of men that the group attracts. Dickheads are welcome. And so are CADS… controlling, angry, demanding men. The only requirement for attendance is a desire to be honest. Much of the time the honesty in the room is so palpable that the windows and walls sweat and heave. Oh, sure, we can still go to bravado, locker banter, one-upmanship, pit-bull problem solving, razor wit, and other classic male behavior just before the meeting begins. But once it starts, a deep listening and compassion enters the room. I’ve heard men come in the room and say… I couldn’t take this kind of honesty when I first got here so I had to leave… just had to leave the damn room. I’m always glad when one of these fellows makes it back to the room. I’ve learned and continue to learn, how to be a conscious man by sharing with the like-minded men. I feel safe within myself when I am with them. I wish I could capture, in writing, what happens in a room when men gather and leave their broad swords at the door. I’ve had the thought of producing a television show called Men Talking. But I have my doubts whether the medium can convey the essence of what happens. I’d like to share a story…it’s the kind of story you hear about in our men’s group. Several years back, I met a fabulous candidate for our men’s group but I was having a tough-being-Sean-kind-of-day, and the memory of my failure to offer genuine compassion toward the man remains a strong lesson to me. The following writing is excerpted from a chapter in my upcoming book about deep change and learning with a life coach.
…His belly is a large bowl of grief, things swallowed and half-eaten. He’s seated in an aisle seat in first class, on the morning shuttle from Boston to New York . I’ve been bumped up, for some reason. He is a bear of a man—talking baseball, booze, broads—a real sales guy, hopped up about these people on television, Surviving on an island, and a ratings miracle. Since I left the business world, I no longer watch television, or read mainstream media, so I don’t understand what he’s talking about. For the longest time, I sit and listen quietly, nodding, aahhummming, and thinking about why I am going to New York . Thinking about my meeting with a literary agent, and the possibility of getting a book published—a book about my travels, and transformation from a hard-driving advertising executive to poet and life & executive coach. The last time I was in the Big Apple, I stayed at The Plaza. I was attending a conference of crack-shot, upwardly mobile executives, whose companies had paid a fortune to send them to an intensive week-long seminar called the Marketing Warfare College. Back then, like the big guy beside me, I was a salesman on a mission, slaving for corporate America. I sell, therefore, I am. That was my identity! Over the last fourteen years, I had come to understand that much of corporate business is run by rabid men with no eyes—and that many of the men and women who follow these leaders are good-hearted but confused people struggling to survive in a modern feudal system that promotes only the most fierce and powerful competitors. It has taken a long time for me to come to terms with, and understand, why I had been so driven to become one of the corporate top dogs, a world-beater. The sales guy beside me stops his bark and takes a breath. I open a book written by the Dali Lama. “Are you a Buddhist?” he asks accusingly. “Nope, just bald,” I answer. He rubs his fingers through his own receding hairline. “I saw Richard Gere leading some march up 5th Avenue; THAT Buddhist thing is hot; we’re trying to get an angle on it for the Network.” I think about how I used to see every person, every place, every thing as an angle, as a possible hook for some deal I was working. Seeing the pain in his face, as he chomps his way through dinner, I feel a mixture of compassion, disgust and anger toward this man. “Don’t you eat? You’re so skinny; what kind of work do you do, anyway?” (My mother used to call me skinny, and I didn’t like it then, either!!) “I write, teach yoga and meditation. And I work as a life coach.” “WRITE! One of my sons wanted to be a painter—a PAINTER—he repeats, rolling his eyes. I got him straightened out on that! Finished him up at Cornell! He’s an attorney at Disney now. YOGA! That’s hot too! Mostly for broads and little brown guys dressed in diapers.” The sales guy's laughter fills the cabin. It’s been a while since I have been confronted with the bravado of big business. It is clear to me that if this guy keeps up his act, I’m gonna slam him. I’m trying but my compassion begins to float out the window. My mentor has told me, repeatedly, that I must only give advice or “teachings” to people when they ask. Not when I think they need it! But I’m having a spiritually immature moment and this guy’s a dickhead! I close my eyes, activate ujjiya breathing—a narrowing of the throat muscles and esophagus—which creates a sound like you are in the ocean. The breathing technique withdraws the senses and brings a person to the inner bliss of being. It does ease the growing anger that I feel sitting beside the sales guy. A pretty flight attendant asks the big guy (whom I now have heard works for CBS), and I, if we can use another drink, I order bottled water and Frank (that is his name) gets his third glass of red wine. As the young woman pushes her trolley away, he turns and whispers, “Bet she’d look good with ole Henry in her mouth.” Frank shuffles his belly and groin. I wonder if he has any daughters and open a book of poems entitled The Gift by Hafiz. “God, I love good-looking pussy,” he mumbles under his breath. I agree, shaking my head the way you do when you would like to punch someone in the face but manage to contain yourself. That’s it! I face Frank. I’m gonna wake this guy up with a poem! “YOU, WANT TO HEAR A POEM?” Frank bristles in his seat. I begin to read. Where does the real poetry come from? From the amorous sighs Where does poetry live? In the eye that says, “Wow Wee,” From the heart saying, Shouting, “I’M SO DAMN ALIVE!!!!” I thunder the last four words in his face—like I am screaming that the plane is going down. Spittle drips from the corner of my mouth. Frank begins to shake. He lowers his head. People turn their heads toward us, then quickly away. Frank’s large frame waggles like a once proud flag. His chest caves—a bully’s collapse. Frank starts to look like a chubby schoolboy. I squirm in my seat. Take a sip of water. The sadness in Frank’s face is deep, focused. I look out the window. I wasn’t ready to listen, to hear what Frank was really saying—still too much of his worst in me. My behavior that day seems crazy now, abusive—blasting a guy with a Hafiz poem about the love of poetry, the love of life. But that’s what I did. I was ignorant and, like a lot of men I know, back then I was still afraid of men. Both Frank and I had good reason to be afraid of men. I didn’t get to hear his pain, his story; but now, after hearing many men’s stories, I can only imagine. Remember guys? Fat boys in the schoolyard, uncoordinated kids, spectacled bookworms waiting to be picked for the team, anxious fragile kids in the showers—brutal, that’s what they got, brutal attacks from other kids. I was the dickhead that day! I am grateful to say that I’ve had the privilege of coaching a few Franks since that flight to New York. And I’ve got to know many fine men. Men well-aware of the healing journey they have engaged. These men have taught me that disgust and anger with another person is unresolved shame and fear in my self.POEMLiving With Others Yesterday, I discovered my wife Al Zolynas INQUIRYHow do you fight with life? SHARED WISDOMAn eye for an eye will blind the world. Gandhi LIFE-AFFIRMING PRACTICE (LAP)Meditate! (Even when you don’t want to)EVENTS AND WORKSHOPSMen's Meditation and Mindfulness Group Embodying Your Values Honoring Father: A Gathering of Whole-Hearted Men Call Sean at 978-369-8286 or email sean@seanleclaire.com with any program content questions. |
Luminosity Studio,
© 2006 Sean Casey LeClaire, all rights reserved. |
