Saturday Morning Mens' Group: We're All Old and Pondering Death

Mens Group. Saturday morning at David's house. His landlord is trimming or cutting down some evergreen trees. I can see that he's stopped for our 9am-12pm meeting. Mark, his landlord, is quite industrious.
This is Sunday morning that I'm writing; the event was yesterday but the memory is still strong.
About seven older men show up. At 54, I'm the youngest. I'm not going to betray our oath of discretion and confidentiality. I won't mention specific names or who said what. I can't reveal much except the tone, the poetry that was or wasn't spoken (that was our task yesterday).
People are speaking, sometimes abstractly, "one does this, one feels that." I'm spoiled by Community Building where we learn to speak personally. "I did this. I feel that." Changes the feel of communications. Quite powerful. So, I continue to be frustrated in this group because there are no conventions like that nor is there the training to go with it. I'm grateful that in my marriage, we practice those methods.
It's raining pretty hard today; I really wanted to go kayaking but I don't know how to do it without getting soaked. The Laguna just to my east is swollen and allows for put in almost anywhere as the water heads to the Russian River and promises the chance of a flood over there.
So, I'm in the group and I can't help but think about all the things I've got to do for work. Which is, right now, finding some work. Consulting work. Coaching work. I'm giving it away and it's still not enough; I know these are strange times. Stressful and challenging; at least we're not yet selling apples on the streets for a quarter. Organic apples, of course.
So, I'm sitting in the circle, with David's Tivo behind me on an entertainment shelf. It's humming; I don't know if it's recording anything. David likes to watch the local news; I can't stand that stuff; feels like pandering and dribble to me. The hum of the unit is a gentle distraction from my thoughts and my shame that I'm not able to be present with the group.
I'm on one of those "floor chairs" and I'm thinking about an NPR interview I heard the day before. It was about the use of robotics in the military; the guy being interviewed talked about the "three D's" that motivate the use of robots and machines. In the circle, I rack my brain: I can only remember two of the D's. Dangerous. Dull.
Yes, I would not be a good candidate to lie on a hilltop in the remote provinces of Afghanistan with a pair of binoculars mounted to my eyes and watch for shit happening. Dull.
I would prefer not to be asked to dismantle a roadside bomb. Dangerous.
I listen to what's going on in the circle. One guy admits that he's got his brain in overdrive too. And, if he would open his mouth, he would occupy the entire three hours dumping out the contents of his brain's activity. He's smiling. So, he knows he's not completely serious. I keep my mouth shut.
What's the other "D?" Dribble? Dank? Drifting? I'm putting together letters like I do when I can't remember a word but I think I have the first letter: da, db, dc, dd, de....I'm not getting it.
I'm thankful that the landlord, who is diligent about the maintenance of his property, is not using his chainsaw and giving me one more distraction. I move away from the Tivo box.
We're talking about living enough. Dying. Being sort of dead and still being alive -- Alzheimers is what's being brought up in my mind. I admit that I feel fully alive but I don't feel like I need to go on; I don't feel the need to live another 30 years (I blogged on this the day before). And, I don't want to be bullied, yes bullied, by the medical data that suggests I should take all kinds of precautions so that I can live longer and healthier. 81 mg of aspirin a day. Ha!
I know I've sparked some concern among my men friends. I think I'm the youngest by about 6 years. They're wondering if I'm thinking about suicide. I'm not. Not this day anyway; my self esteem is up. What is that other "D?" Damn, I hate when my memory fails me like that. And, when I die, it will all be shut down: and it's not going to reboot. Why do I cram all this stuff in my head, day in day out, when it will disappear when I die? A very curious question to me that is somewhat freeing: I don't need to cram. I can keep what I want in there.
I go outside to move cars around. DIRTY. That's the third "D." I'm so pleased, I write it down on a piece of paper in my car. Dull, Dirty, Dangerous. Oh, I'm so relieved.
Some people leave early for medical and other appointments. The landlord thinks we're done and the chainsaw starts up. I have a sense of what he's doing out there. My mind is occupied and I am unable to hear the poetry that is being spoken in the circle; I am far away from the Tivo machine so the chainsaw is dominating the innards of my brain right now.
I've gotten my three "D's." My brain is working for now. For how long will that go on?


George Moskoff, a 54 year old guy who wants to be like the Dalai Lama.
www.theapgconsulting.com