Christopher suggested to his soon-to-be-married housemate, Steve, “We should have a bachelor party for you. At Edmond’s house.”

Curiously enough, this was done with my full knowledge and encouragement. I say ‘curiously,’ because I don’t consider myself much of a party person. So whenever there’s a party at my house, I have a confusing reaction of being delighted there is cause to celebrate and also a conflicting instinct to say, ‘Thank you for coming. Now, go home.’

I blame genetics.

Mom used to have great parties (well, she still does) at 32 N. Myrtle St. where I grew up. But I know she lay awake in bed the night before fretting over the quantity of ham, the quantity of buns for said ham, then back to the quantity of ham and what if people take buns but not ham because people will do that to you sometimes. And when she had sufficiently exhausted the ham and buns and they were paired up to her satisfaction, she would turn her worry towards supplemental dishes, because not everyone likes those little marshmellows in their fruit salad.

Weary-eyed the next morning, she’d tell of a previous night’s dreams involving burned mastacolli while party attendees complained for lack of ice. She blamed herself for falling sleep; she wouldn’t have disturbing dreams like that if she worried herself awake all night.

I would roll my eyes and think, ‘Sheeeesh, get over it. It’s a party.’ That is, until I found myself hosting parties myself and I would lie awake in bed pondering forks. What if I run out? Sometimes people take more than one fork you know. Maybe I should buy more dinner forks, just in case.

Mom understands.

Imagine my surprise to ‘trust’ the party. Trust it.

Christopher, my co-planner, radiated this quiet strength, this understanding that everything was going to turn out fine. He didn’t have to verbally remind me to trust that the men coming and the dishes they brought would be ‘enough.’ Just what was needed. He didn’t have to say this aloud because he simply radiated it. He just trusted. So I trusted.

The other pleasing element regarding this party was the post-meal entertainment: meditation.

Steve and his lovely bride-to-be met at a most excellent meditation retreat titled Warrior Monk.

The almost-week of Warrior Monk is both soft and strong, like Grandma Hemmer. And if you have had a Grandma Hemmer in your life, you know of which I speak. Warrior Monk is like being held in a soft lap with warm hands soothing your back. At the same time, just because of her soft eyes behind sagging skin you would not mistake Grandma Hemmer for being a pushover.

When Grandma Hemmer said, “Now, it’s bedtime” there was really no point in fighting it, not really, because her strength wasn’t in yelling or arguing, her fierceness was in truth. She said it and therefore it was so. Warrior Monk’s fierceness is in gentle, unapologetic truth.

Steve and Carole Anne met on a Warrior Monk retreat two years ago and so the bachelor party would honor their first meeting.

(Aside: the only downside to a post-meal meditation is that I always wanted to be at a bachelor party with an enormous bigger-than-a-life-sized cake. The cake is for the stripper, of course. Quite frankly, I had very little interest in the stripper, but I could definitely see yelling, cheering, and cat-calling for a colossal white-frosted cake with pink frosting roses. I have had naughty fantasies of running my fingers through the sugary frosting while the stripper did her arousing dance for the other men. Yeah, have fun with that. Just leave me the giant cake. However, I have recently been informed that this ‘cake’ is never a real cake and not even decorated with real frosting roses. It’s merely a vehicle to hold a stripper. So all-in-all, my disappointment in not having a stripper cake was minimal.)

Small miracles happened at last Friday night’s bachelor party.

Enough potluck dishes appeared in the arms of Steve’s men friends. Delicious pink salmon on a steaming bed of warm rice, frosted carrot cake cupcakes, a perfect green salad and fruits. Soda and beer came through the front door, just what was needed. Everything provided. Yes, I ran out of dinner plates and silverware. True, I was one guest away from using outdoor, green plastic chairs at the dinner table. And it turns out that every-

thing

was

all

okay.

All of it.

Perhaps because of Christopher’s calmness. Perhaps because of Steve’s intention. Maybe a little Warrior Monk energy infused the night with Grandma Hemmer energy stating, “Everything is fine. Enjoy.” Maybe because we weren’t gathering to impress each other with miracle drinking feats or recounting crazy exploits.

We ate together, laughed together.

And then the twelve of us marched upstairs to my bedroom.

Christopher and I had arranged a circle of tea-light candles with cushions behind them.

Sit where you like.

One candle, a thick maroon pillar sat in the center, unlit on a golden platter.

When we were all seated, I blessed the candle and lit it. I reminded Steve that all of us had gathered to witness his love for Carole Anne. That instead of getting completely trashed on watermelon shots and vomiting in public alleys to show our support, we were trying a new tradition: showing our support through silence. Through loving him quietly. Loving the two of them with quiet intention. This pillar candle was our strength as men. And we would pour our love into this sold maroon candle, strength for him whenever he wanted it by just lighting the wick.

So we sat.

In silence.

At one point during our sit, gentle rain began to fall, splattering the newly unfolded leaves in Minneapolis. The screened windows carried twilight’s soft and breezy goodnight kiss.

After the soft peal of the Tibetian singing bowl had faded, signifying the end of our silence, we went around the circle and in soft and manly voices, blessed what we saw in Steve, what each of us saw in his growth, his power, his love.

Steve’s older brother spoke last. And while I wish to preserve the sanctity of his blessing by not revealing what he said, suffice to say it was rich and loving and I remember thinking everyone should have an older brother like Steve’s to say loving and calm words two weeks before your marriage.

Shortly thereafter, the gathering ended.

Christopher stayed behind and we washed dishes and chatted about the evening.

“Finally, a party designed for introverts.” I told him while we washed and dried his lasagna pans.

But the truly curious thing about this party to me was that we ran out of forks (and plates and chairs). And it was alright with me.

I know why Mom has parties now.To gather those she loves and be able to see them all in one room. And maybe she also does it to test herself, to see if she can let more go, to be okay with who shows up and who doesn’t. Maybe to find peace of mind in having leftover ham or running out of buns.

Can I celebrate life and let it not be perfect? Can I create new traditions with my friends that ignore what-has-always-been-done?

Because sometimes people take buns without ham, you know. They do. And then what are you going to do?

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 18th, 2008 at 7:14 pm and is filed under Warrior. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.