Today, I showed a group of men I trust my plastic baggie of 10+year-old M&Ms. (Plain, in case you’re wondering.)

It was a special moment.

And they were special men.

My buddy Snake and I hosted a warrior workshop out of my house this weekend, 13 men sitting around together to learn from each other:  what we know about ourselves, what we know as men? How do I heal a relationship with my son? My wife? How do I believe in myself again? Is it possible I could change the world for the better? We all wondered together. Snake and I shared some answers accrued over the years by other men, and said, “If this works for you, use this. And if it doesn’t, well, ignore it.”

In this short time, we learned to trust one another, listen each others’ griefs and joy in a very deep way. I allowed them to see me, and though we didn’t know each other very well at the onset, each of them softened so that I could see them as well. We were cautious at times. Learning to trust other men is a new thing, an unfamiliar, uncharted pleasure.

We sometimes chewed bagels and munched, and sometimes we strained ourselves, listening in rapt attention. We took luxurious breaks on my back porch today, eating watermelon amidts a golden Minnesota day, ocean-like breezes and a sun wearing a damn smiley-face up there. A glorious, victory for Minnesotians everywhere, this miracle day!

Our breaks lasted as long as they lasted, a big difference from my more structured corporate trainings, where I give ten minute breaks and then stick to it. No, our breaks today just kinda ended when the smokers had smoked, the rest of us stretched, and everyone got a chance to nibble from the dining table feast of fruits or coffeecake from Wuollets.Then we ambled towards our chairs and said, “Hey, let’s start up again.” I love that kind of break.

I took an odd pleasure in announcing right away Saturday morning, “My hosting responsibilities are kinda over. If you want something to drink, get it yourself from the fridge.” It pleased me to see guys go to my fridge all weekend, peer around inside, pulling out what they wanted. Mostly they grabbed sodas, but late yesterday afternoon, one guy pulled out lunch’s leftover deep-dish pizza and asked me with his eyes, “This is cool, right?”

Yeah, it was cool.

I feel loved by this odd gesture, men friends in my home who go to my fridge and get what they need. Men got their own plates, cups from the cupboards, and a buddy I haven’t seen in eight months, Hunter, washed my used dishes after today ended. It’s a special kind of intimacy when guys go into your kitchen and just start taking what they need. Means that we’re way beyond being that kind of polite.

Call it Fridge Intimacy.

So, I had Fridge Intimacy this weekend while men showed me their inner faces, the ones that bear grief, and hurt, fear for their own behaviors, sometimes ashamed and sometimes wearing proud, triumphant smiles because these men have already done fucking hard work and realized amazing things about themselves. We met as equals. We all had something to teach, something to learn.

At the end of our time together, I showed these awesome men my baggie of M&Ms, told them the story, why I keep these in my King’s Treasure Box and why I could never eat them (however with the possible exception being Zombie Attack, and I’m trapped in the house, and the M&Ms are the only food remaining).

When I was a kid, our family went to Church every Sunday. If the four of us kids were good (and we were almost always good), Mom and Dad bought us two bags of M&Ms, the original packaging, so, not super-sized. We squirmed in the backseat of the Oldsmobile, worried about Dad leaving them on the dashboard, and sometime after breakfast, Eileen or I might casually ask if we might make ourselves useful to Dad and get those M&Ms out of his suit pocket jacket for him because surely they were bulky and uncomfortable for him. We were willing to help him out with that task.

We counted out the M&Ms on the kitchen table every Sunday morning, separating them first by color, then by quantities, little groupings of 10, until the piles could be merged and The Great Dividing could begin. We worked as diamond distributors must, carefully cataloging each little gem, watching our fellow counters nervously to make sure an orange M&M didn’t suddenly slip off the table and into someone’s hand.

And who are we kidding? If anyone were going to swipe a M&M and pretend nothing happened, that would have been me.

Andrea, our elder sis, could be trusted to be fair in her distribution, so we watched carefully as she administered the treasure. Each pile had the same number of oranges, greens, tans, and dark browns, depending on what you traded. Somedays I craved more orange M&Ms, so I’d trade with Eileen who liked green because her eyes were green. Eileen and I, the middle kids, were good traders.

I day-dreamed fantasies of eating my M&M pile slowly, luxuriously, savoring each one, remembering which ones were especially tasty. That fantasy lasted a half hour before I gobbled them all down, and then went traipsing to find my sisters to see if they wanted any assistance consuming theirs. You never knew, they might want help.

Matt, the youngest, would outlast us all, appearing suddenly in the TV room Sunday night with a plastic bowl containing 14-17 M&Ms, an impressive display of day-long will power. We wondered how he could do it, how he could endure the chocolate temptation so much better than the rest of us. Enjoying Walt Disney each Sunday night was sometimes especially difficult with Matt gingerly crunching M&Ms nearby and a person had devoured his (or her) M&Ms a half hour after the distribution.

About ten years ago, as part of a Christmas gift to my siblings, I bought two bags of M&Ms, original packaging, and divided them into four piles on my kitchen table. We all got the same number, the same color, and if that meant I had to eat two orange ones to even out the piles, so be it.

I wrote a note about how we are these M&Ms, we four Manning children, and we will always be linked by our shared past, our M&Ms, our amazement at Matt’s willpower, and how our big sister did right by us on Sunday mornings, respectful counting on the kitchen table. I have learned in intervening years that not every big sister is fair and kind. I have learned that not everyone likes their siblings, miss them, wish it were sometimes possible to live in the same house again and this time figure out how not to drive each other crazy.

I have met amazing people in my life, and none of them will understand the Sunday morning M&M ritual, not like these three other people in my life. Eileen will always get me in a way the rest of the world cannot.

As part of today’s Warrior Show-N-Tell, I pulled out the my 1/4 of the booty I gave as Christmas presents 10 years ago. I explained about my family and how much I love my siblings.

Other men shared their treasures, their trinkets, photos and rings, feathers and one man showed art made by his son. We listened to each other with loving curiosity, acknowledging that we may know a lot about each other, yet there’s much we do not understand. We men remain mysteries to each other. In fact, those words might go together naturally, Men & Mystery.

After our warrior gathering had ended, I wandered around the neighborhood with my iPod, sucking in ocean-breezy air and watching the sunlight dance out of the sky. I thought about my siblings and how I miss them. They’re having lives and adventures in another state. By living here in Minnesota, I’m missing out on these day-to-day adventures, though we still manage a few hilarious adventures as adults. I chose to live here. I love Minnesota. But there are consequences that go with this choice, and I miss them.

On my iPod journey, I kept thinking, why the M&Ms?

I have all kinds of cool stuff in my King’s Treasure Box, a finger-puppet named Franco, a wishbone from Thanksgiving, my pocketwatch with one side scarred and damaged, which I’m keeping in case I ever want to become a Batman villain. Precious rocks I acquired somewhere, a gold coin from a friend, my bank deposit key, a symbol that even banks recognize what I still find hard to believe:  I Am An Adult.

With so many cool treasures, why did I share the M&Ms?

Suddenly, I remembered that I moved to Minneapolis 13 years ago this weekend. This very weekend!

Oh.

And then it was clear:  I wanted my warrior family to meet my M&M family.

I’ve been blessed with a couple different families in this lifetime, and I can scarcely believe my good fortune, to have Fridge Intimacy with new warrior buddies, and an extended Minnesota family that I couldn’t imagine when I showed up thirteen years ago. I have goddaughters here, and decade-old friendships. I have men who love me, women who love me, and a list of people to call back. I go into other friends’ house sometimes and grab a Diet Coke. In fact, Mary and Heather keep Diet Coke in their fridge for times when I come over.

I have Fridge Intimacy.

And I have another family, I am blessed to own a bag of magic M&Ms which I will never eat (unless under Zombie Attack).

Ha. Take that, little bro.

It’s Sunday night, more than 10 years after I distributed our four baggies, and I’ve still got my M&Ms.

How’s that for will power?

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 28th, 2009 at 10:42 pm and is filed under Gratitude. 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.