Pushing the comfort zone

A cartoon's rendition of me attending the weekend

Intro

This feature piece about a testing weekend I spent with a men's support group, which I wrote for my old paper in Christchurch, New Zealand,  was accompanied by moody pics of candles, incense and blokes around a campfire in a forest-like setting. It also came with the cartoon you see above.

The organisers were a secretive lot. They wouldn't let the photographer get too close and in fact didn't tell the other participants that I was taking part as a reporter, observing and recording them. 

We agreed that I was to pretend to be just another man on the weekend course, without disclosing my real identity. Needless to say, they were shocked to read the story when it appeared. 

When I turned up at a follow-up meeting a few days later, I came under heavy attack from partipants and organisers alike. The men who ran the workshop — the hairy-chested courage they exhibited during the weekend's bonding rituals having suddenly deserted them — minimised their own role in inviting me and suggested I strayed beyond my brief. 

No doubt they wanted an air-brushed look at the often grueling rituals and self-abasing routines which made up men's encounter groups in those days. Too bad!

A new-age bloke in no-man's land

Published 29/9/98

Christchurch Press

Michael R takes a deep breath and ventures out on a 'men's weekend' for a serious, soul-baring encounter with his inner self.

Taking part in a men's weekend sorts the tough guys from the pretenders. Were it not for the wellspring of emotion trapped within, just bursting to get out, no right-minded bloke would take part. At its worst, this is an emotional self-flagellation which pushes the boundaries of the personal "comfort zone'' to stretching point.

It's that sly awareness that most of us have so much more to offer to the world — we just need help getting to the good bits, deeply suppressed as they are — that keeps us going. Inhibitions such as shyness have no place. Things can turn boisterous at any time. That's a very blokey thing, of course, but in this context vigorous activity takes the scary form of anger workshops and rebirthing techniques, rather than hairy-chested physical exertion.

Rituals set apart this type of manly endeavour from the sweaty, muscle-bound sort: from symbols of one's manhood (taking pride of place on a makeshift "altar'') to hand-holding, group hugs, and chanting. Women are part of the problem, of course — all that nitpicking and nagging can get a man down. 

Slagging women is not the purpose of this exercise, however: it is to reclaim one's masculinity, from whatever dark place it has been consigned. Some men lost that essential something in early childhood trauma; others in bad marriages or career hassles.

On this weekend, run by the Men's Trust of Christchurch, 34 blokes come together. No alcohol is allowed. Watches are left at the gate. If a bomb went off we'd be the last to know.

The staple diet of men's talk — safe and familiar ground such as sport, work, the weather — will no longer do. That, we are told derisively, typifies a "level one'' conversation — the merely functional. We are to aspire to level three — that's where we get to hug each other and feel good about it.

We'll have to invent a new language to explore that no-man's land of social interaction — feelings. There is much talk of "pushing the buttons'' (anger), and getting in your head space.

A silent trek through the bush to the meeting house at Bellbird Heights, on Banks Peninsula at Living Springs, is foreboding. The night-time march takes place to the primitive thump of jungle drums. 

Living Springs, where the weekend was held

Candle flames waver. Incense lies thick. New Age music creeps about.

Something begins to stir, and it's fear. I appear to be entering the clammy embrace of a cult. What have I done? How do I get out of here?

Form a circle, we are told. Join hands. Breathe deeply, connect. Now, get up in front of everyone and introduce yourself. Do a silly dance.

To those of us who express emotions through physical gestures, this comes easily, like play antics at a football game. For the wordsmiths among us who take shelter behind intellect, it is not so simple. I'm Michael, I say, stepping into the circle. Modesty forbids anything more extravagant.

Guided by members of the "core group'' (the people in charge), men reply loudly and in unison: 

"Welcome Michael, Michael, Michael!'' Some have done this before. "Ho!'' one says, with emphatic closed fist. To the uninitiated, he is showing approval — a kind of Freemason's handshake. Men are invited to say why they came along. Some have horrible stories. Before the night ends men are dancing and singing together in a fetid, heaving circle. We start to chant. This religious-style droning is magnificent: with so many powerful voices our sounds take on a life of their own.

Another shot of Living Springs

Men do not shrink from touching each other, I note, although ideally this is in "approved'', non-threatening ways. We are shown positions in which we may safely hold one another, such as the cradling position.

Then there are the group hugs — little clusters that pop up spontaneously, like spawning sealife. Stumbling upon one of these can be a shock. Early on, I discover that some eager types will pounce panther-like, with arms outstretched, so keen are they to bond. One of these guys is ticked off before the group for being too "intense'', too keen to flash his credentials. The ones who get in your face, your personal space, invariably have bad breath. One cannot help turning away. A little voice criticises me: the point, Michael, is to open up.

Sleeping quarters

We wake to the maddening drums, a kind of Boy Scout reveille. The cubicle showers contain unspeakable horrors: black hairs in the soap; men honking their noses, animal-like. Men are surprisingly modest: a queue forms outside the showers, each of which is firmly locked shut.

Later, we present the symbols of what it means to be a man. I choose Shakespeare: plenty of Boy's Own stuff, I say, married with beautiful language. 

This hardly gets a second glance. One guy, a builder by trade, brings an enormous nail gun: to him, it represents power and strength, and something about fertility. Later, conversation turns to sex. Interestingly, the issue of orientation hardly comes up. Most talk is about performance and how considerate we should be (message: think of yourself, not just your partner).

That afternoon, the group splits into two for a rebirthing workshop and exercises in anger management. For the latter, three techniques are on offer. One can kneel down and pummel a mattress; tackle an upturned mattress; or lie on one's back and throw a tantrum. I try the first and second. I attack with vigour but say little. A quiet one, onlookers think . . . obviously too inhibited.

One of my colleagues is much more adventurous: he tries all techniques, in a spectacular display of aggression that goes on for half an hour. By its end the man is physically exhausted, sweating, and with bleeding hands. Next door, someone is revisiting painful childhood memories in deep, convulsing sobs. Both are trying to rid themselves of demons, and probably need an audience to do so.

Is it uplifting, or merely embarrassing? Fidgeting in the sunlight of a new day, it is easy to dismiss such behaviour as extravagant, self-indulgent. Deep down, I know I witnessed something moving: the ghastly things that lurk within, and the heroic lengths some will go to exorcise them.

Still, most of us have wobbly knees. Our newly found manhood is emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis. As New Age blokes we are sensitive about our tender manhood. Humour helps relieve the tension. The exercise gives one man a headache: an avowedly gay guy, ever the wag, quips: "But I haven't asked you yet!''

So potentially life-changing is the bonding and sharing thing that, before leaving, men are warned not to make any big decisions for at least a month. At a follow-up meeting on Wednesday, men say they had a tough time keeping the car on the road. Some had trouble getting on with family and friends. Most were distracted, head-achy, bewildered.

Don't forget to bond

As ever, there are moments when a serious exercise slides into farce. Some say they had noticed a richer timbre to their voice; and, sure enough, they appear to be speaking with deeper, more resonant tones (Timberrrr!). One says he is more aware of how his wife smells, and the different smells that hang around men.

God help us. As for me, one guy says he is still wondering how to get through my brick wall. Most agree, however, that I am more relaxed.

Having stretched myself admirably over the weekend, I make further inroads against shyness by going dancing for the first time.