Today, a man was so happy to see me, he grabbed me by the arm, spun me around, and collapsed into me so damn hard, I thought I might burst a lung.

I like hugging, you know, in general.

I’m not in the mood for it all the time. But to be squeezed as if your very presence is oxygen for another person, well, damn. Who doesn’t like a hug that makes you feel like a king?

Thanks for the hug, Turtle.

Stephen texted me today to ask if I wanted to go with him to Costco. I had to work, so I declined. He offered to pick up anything I needed, and while I already have 200 rolls of toilet paper on hand, I did request he pick up one of their giant chicken pot pies. I love those damn things.

I had thought to express gratitude for the inventor of chicken pot pie, that unsung hero, but then I thought about how Stephen drove to my house in a snow storm, delivered the seven pounds of pot pie, and didn’t ask for any money.

Twenty minutes before he showed up at my house, he asked about the slurping sound he heard on the phone and I explained I was cleaning out a straw for reuse.

“Why would you reuse it?” he said.

“Oh, you know,” I said, “people reuse straws over and over. You just blow it clean and then put it in a drawer to use again and again.”

He was quiet for a moment and then said, “People don’t do that.”

We debated plastic straws for 10 minutes, him trying to get me to see how wildly disgusting this habit is, as well as a tubular germ factory, and me trying to get him to see that if the average straw costs .0001 cents to make and you get 15 uses from that straw, why that’s a savings of…well…of…

Fine. I’ll start throwing out my plastic straws.

Thank you, Stephen, for saving me from my own bad habits.

You are my unsung hero.

During Breakfast with Jesus this morning, Brett and I decided we both need to express more gratitude in our lives. For the rest of January, we’re each expressing gratitude every day for something we might normally overlook.

I worked in my living room today and in the afternoon built a fire. I sipped my cold water, stretched my toeses (not a typo – they’re toeses) toward the fireplace and typed away, computer in my lap. Wow…what a luxurious working life.

Today, I am grateful to have work and to work from home. And for Pizza Luce, who delivered this amazing extra roasted garlic and pesto pizza (sprinkled with fresh garlic and sausage) to my front door.

Some days, I worry about money. And on a day like today, I think I must be the wealthiest man in the world.

The first postcard arrived in May, and I wondered if it was sent to me by mistake.

The picture featured the ‘new’ post office, Santa Monica, California. Based on the postcard’s retro, almost cardboard texture, and the art deco colors, new meant 70 years ago. The backside read:

“Having a blast at the post office! Best vacation ever! Wish you were here!”

Unsigned.

Blurry letters indicated a St. Paul postmark. The card was addressed to the single name, Edmond, so I believed the post card reached it’s intended destination. I wondered who sent this little joke, and assumed the sender would soon reveal himself. Or herself.

Made me smile.

A week or two later, another postcard arrived.

A decrepit Bella Vista Motel in Colorado Springs boasted “wall to wall carpeting…tiled baths with a tub & shower…panel Ray Heat…” All the modern luxuries one might dream of in a 1950s roadside motel. (I know it’s a roadside motel because the photo prominently features a large chunk of gray road.) The back read:

“And the TV is color, too! What a great trip! How are things at home? Greet sister for me.”

Unsigned.

The next postcard featured the General Electric’s Appliance Park in Louisville, Kentucky, a bird’s eye view of colorless concrete buildings and gray parking lots. 60′s postcard printing press technology colored the surrounding Kentucky farm fields an unappetizing green. The back read:

“Dear Cousin – I’m so glad you recommended Louisville over San Francisco or Madrid. This is the best vacation ever! The lawns and shrubs were amazing.”

I was hooked. Who sent these?

Throughout the summer, well wishes from far away places showed up in my mailbox, two or three per month. Comments varied significantly, but no clues to identify the sender.

“How come you never write me back? Still stewing over Aunt Estelle’s funeral? I said I was sorry. Loved Gary, Indiana, BTW. Next time come with?”

“Sleepy Hollow Motel is the last stay before home! Loved the pool – even though Sissy cracked her head on the diving board. hope you’ve been feeding the cats.”

I grilled friends who lived in St. Paul and accused those who lived in Minneapolis of driving to St. Paul to mail them. Nobody owned up. After showing them off, a few friends accused me of sending them to myself, a implausible prospect but if absurdly true, frightened the hell out of me. I try to check for multiple personalities every now and then, but I think it’s just me in here. It’s a little unsettling to imagine an emerging personality mailing me unsigned postcards from St. Paul.

One evening before a dinner expedition, while I tied my boots, a patient friend rifled through my mail on the dining room table. He looked at me with quizzical eyes and held up my latest postcard from the Exit 3 Motel in Wauseon, Ohio, a self-styled swiss chalet, naming Orville Richer as owner.

“Dear Edmond – I must’ve taken a wrong turn because I intended to be home by now. But Orville is such a sweet man. And who can resist a chalet?”

He said, “Who sent you this?”

“Uh huh,” I said, menace in my voice, “That’s exactly what the true sender would ask to deflect attention.”

But it was not him.

My main suspect was Brett, a St. Paul friend who refused to break over many accusatory breakfasts. I laid down the postcards with great deliberation in front of him as I’d seen Stabler and Benson do on countless Law & Orders. Some mornings I’d read the latest postcard aloud while studying his face the slightest tell.

“Weird,” he might say while stirring his tea, “And you have no idea who is sending these?”

He refused to confess. Apparently he watched Law & Order, too.

Brett and I often have breakfast together, so I should imagine him with a fork of eggs or coffee cup in front of his smirk, but that’s not what comes up when I picture this friend. No, I see him on the hood of my car.

A few years ago, just before staffing a New Warrior Training Adventure, I impulsively bought a bag of candy from Fleet Farm, a candy so heinous the makers refused to name it. (You can see the attraction.) Easily, it could have passed for sidewalk chalk dipped in an oily, chocolate film. You have to work pretty hard to make chocolate taste disgusting.

After eating a full piece Friday night, I was so revolted, I offered it to a dozen friends so we could enjoy the disgust together. When that novelty diminished, I snuck the remaining candy into Brett’s bag and chuckled, imagining his face as he discovered it Sunday night back at home. In fact, I was probably chuckling about that imagined scene as I unpacked Sunday night and discovered the candy at the bottom of my duffel bag.

As a matter of pride, the next time we staffed together, I hid the candy very well in his belongings. Oh yes, I preserved that rot in my basement for six months, same plastic bag, ready for revenge. And for my efforts, I found the candy stuffed in a side pocket of my car door moments after Brett and I had hugged goodbye, a strong hug. After the hug, we both looked at each other and said, “I love you.”

I love having straight male friends to whom I can say, “I love you.”

Of course, an hour prior he had infiltrated my car and thwarted my revenge.

That BASTARD.

So, you can see how two years later, following a number of displacements and candy drive-bys, after I had once again hid the candy in his belongings (but this time had locked my car, and my own gear inside it, refusing to unpack anything but what was needed at that moment), how that year Brett would end up spread eagle across the hood of my car, a maniacal gleam in his eyes, attempting to jam the bag of disintegrated candy chunks under my windshield wipers while I spun doughnuts in the dirt parking lot, attempting to throw him off.
I honked non-stop, swearing out the driver side window to GET THE FUCK OFF MY CAR. Brett’s grip knew a relentless determination would make Captain Ahab nod appreciatively and say, “I wonder if that guy’s into whaling.”

Naturally, Brett seemed like a prime candidate for the postcard hijinx.

Over morning oatmeal and bacon, we discuss love, God, the idea of salvation, and submission to spirit in our lives. We call our get-togethers, “Breakfast With Jesus.” It’s ironic, but not really, because Brett has great faith, great love for Christ. We talk about Jesus, what he might have truly meant, what it means to live with compassion and forgiveness. Brett studied to become a minister, and he quotes me beautiful poetry about opening your heart.

He’s the father of two and he loves them eagerly: father/daughter weekends, father/son camp outs. Brett took a metalworking class because he envisioned a piece of art for his daughter and wanted to make it for her birthday. Brett and his wife raised great kids, and I would know: I tried to seduce his son Henry to plot with me in the ongoing Candy War. But Henry refused; his first-choice for co-conspirator is his dad. Brett tells me Henry is excited to be on the team. He tells his father, “We have to get Edmond!”

I shared my favorite Achewood cartoon with Brett, and he knows exactly what it means to me, because it means that to him. When evaluating life’s capricious gifts or reflecting on our ability to be humbled by our own shadowy behaviors, we will sometimes look at each other and say, “Welcome to the only game in town.”

I found a goofy holiday link before Christmas 2010, which made me cry in joy and sadness: an exuberant penguin, a melancholy tune, a reminder for joy and dancing. Which kind of penguin am I? Am I in the middle-aged, indifferent crowd watching from the side, or am I the one screaming and wahooooooing, sending postcards that read:  WISH YOU WERE HERE! WISH YOU WERE HERE!

I sent the link to several friends, but first to Brett. I knew he would get it. Welcome to the only game in town.

After summer, the frequency of the postcards diminished. I relished each new one. By that point, I loved that I couldn’t figure out who had sent them. I loved that the sender never revealed himself. (Or herself.)

“Hey, weren’t you going to mow my lawn while I was away? Ma says it’s a jungle. What gives?”

“I had hoped to be home by Thanksgiving. Wanted more of your yummy cranberry Jello salad, but I turned right on I-35 instead of left. Darn.”

I need friends like this, mysterious, long-term pranksters who fuck with me and make me believe in mysteries. And I steeled myself to accept that I may never know who sent these. I just might never know.

In December, a postcard arrived unlike any previous. Instead of a roadside motel or 1950s government building (a popular postcard theme), this image was merely a brown, ribbon border and cream-colored interior with seven words: I Possess The Key To Your Secrets.

Before I turned it over, I knew this one was different. The back read:

“Home at last. That certainly was a long trip. But worth it. Will stop over soon to drop off the key. Watch for me.”

Watch for me? I possess your secrets?

The postcard arrived about five days before Christmas and I swear to Breakfasts with Jesus that I felt the thrill of a kid awaiting Santa Claus.

He’s coming! The sender! He’s going to reveal himself! Herself! Whatever! Soon!

Some days, I am an exuberant penguin.

This morning at Breakfasts with Jesus, I ordered steak and eggs. Brett ordered a standard, the American, and he snarfed down his sausage before I could ask for a bite. We skipped the ‘how were your holidays’ chit chat and instead dove straight into sad wonderings, small joys, and our fears around keeping new year’s resolutions.

“Get any more postcards?” he said.

I looked at him sharply. He tried to play cool, but he broke a grin and everything was laid bare.

Some days, Brett is an exuberant penguin.

My eyes got wet. All I could choke out were the words, “Thank you.”

But in my heart, I was saying, ‘I’m glad you’re right here.’

.

Earlier this morning, before the arrival of most tourists, I sat under a 1400 year-old tree in Armstrong Woods, Guerneville, Califorina, and read a bunch of chapters from Mary Ann in Autumn. Prior to that, I spent my first hour wandering in silence, gawking, delighting, breathing. The refreshing drizzle eventually surrendered to sunshine.

Favorite author. Favorite location. Yup. This is a great day.

(Possibly improved only by the inexplicable appearance of a cheese fry vendor wandering the trails, but hey, that’s nitpicking. Still pretty good day without the cheese fries.)

I’d like to be clear:  I am the non-consenting party.

Also for the record, I like cows, I do. (They’re delicious!)

But you know, I don’t like like them, a message I could not communicate to Ananda, the enormous pregnant cow on the farm where I’m spending a little time.

I spent most of today felling scrub trees and battling invasive buck thorn as we prepare to fence in a giant field. Two other workers spent the day digging post-holes. In the half-shade, I worked near a babbling stream and I regularly stopped to stare at the distant mountains. Oregon looks a lot like Minnesota except for, well, mountains. I’d estimate 3/4 of every hill seems to be dotted in regimented pine trees. Scrub trees here look pretty much the same as scrub trees back home.

Ananda doesn’t seem care about the mountains; she spends every day chewing cud in this field. She is roped to a heavy tire which doesn’t stop her from dragging herself to wherever she wanted to go. Today, she found herself inordinately fascinated by my sweaty endeavors and thought that perhaps the best place to observe me was two inches from my face.

Regularly she pushed her head into my chest and then stopped moving, as if to say, “So, now what?”

I would rub her skull, coo her name, and brush my hands over her sides, then lead her away from my work, which never did any good. I enticed her away from me with tree branches rich with juicy, green leaves. I rolled her tire further away. But within five minutes of my sawing or raising the tommyhawk, she trotted back to me and stood with her head cocked, close enough for me to smell her breath.

If you’ve never seen a cow trot, it’s damn frightening.

Actually, my mind remains terrified by the image from the previous day: Ananda running. One of my fellow WWOOFers ran her back to the barn at the end of the day yelling things like, “YEEEEAH, YEEEAH,” until she and the giant sheep run like mad uphill towards the barn. You may not enjoy seeing a pregnant cow running for food. It’s like watching a Volkswagon Beetle mounted on birch trees, careening wildly to the nearest gas station. Watching Ananda trot toward me was unsettling enough that I kept an eye on her every move, particularly where she planted her tree-trunk legs.

Until yesterday, I did not know that cows are essentially enormous puppies. 894 puppies, specifically, rolled into one. Ananda wanted to play. After a while, I had to ignore her, push her head away, and get to work. With my back to her, I started butting her head away with my ass.

This was a mistake, because apparently, I initiated foreplay.

She spent the next ten minutes rubbing my ass hard with her skull. Let me rephrase that:  rubbing my ass with her hard skull. She butted me forward, almost lifting me off the ground. I pushed back. And I decided after a few heavy more of her heavy pushes that as long as I could cut scrub trees – and she was in no danger of my flying wood chips or the wild stroke of the tommyhawk – maybe there was no harm.

Ananda continued to caress my butt.

After fifteen minutes of this, I began to worry about our relationship. What if this is a thing, a marriage proposal of sorts from a cow concerned about the prospect of single parenthood? I’m no bull, but baby’s gotta have a Daddy.

I butted her back.

She butted me.

I verbally expressed a few “Hey, now…” and “That’s enough, Ananda…” type comments, but to no avail. I began to worry about her sandpaper tongue or what might happen if she actually succeeded in lifting me. She’s a beautiful creature and the puppy energy is pretty hilarious in a 500 lb. creature. But I didn’t want to encourage her thinking we’re an item, just because I let her play with my butt for a half-hour. Play coy and let her flirt this way? Discourage her advances? What will my post-digging buddies say when they see her licking the seat of my jeans?

Workplace romances can be so awkward.

Greetings from the HomePage Cafe in Bozeman, Montana.

I had heard of Bozeman’s beauty nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and decided to lunch here on my way to Portland, Oregon.  Yup. It’s beautiful. I parked my car a few blocks of Main street and wandered through neighborhoods, pelted by a friendly storm of fat, yellow leaves, drifting in unison. Pet a sweet, old dog who looked at me with sorrowful eyes. I texted Stephen about the leaves, who reminded me to enjoy this journey, not merely the arrival.

I called Ann, who was about to cross through the Appalachian mountains on a trip of her own. We chuckled over our ongoing parallel lives and agreed to chat after our respective safe passages. I called her last night a little panicked when I couldn’t find an available hotel in two Montana towns and we chatted until I was safely ensconced.

Called my workout partner to say, “Hey, sorry we can’t work out for the next few weeks, but I’m going to work on an organic farm outside of Portland, Oregon.” He was surprised, then curious, and later shared that he is dating someone new. He’s a good man and I was glad for his news.

Earlier this morning, I called my mom and dad in Huntley, Illinois this morning to tell them the fairly unsurprising news:  I did it again.

I don’t know why I can’t seem to learn this lesson:  keep checking your gas tank on long trips. Check your freakin’ gas tank. Nevertheless, I have a history of looking down and seeing the little gas pump blink on and saying, “Oh. Shit.”

Over a year ago, I ran out of gas in rural Minnesota. I panicked for the next five miles, feeling the gas drain out of the car like the color in my face, but started laughing when I saw a sign for “Hope, Minnesota….1 mile.” I knew then that everything would work out. It did.

About 8:30 this morning, I looked down at the miniature gas pump in the dashboard, which suddenly flickered on and thought, “Oh. Shit.” Yup. I hadn’t seen an exit in 20 miles and was still 50 miles away from Billings. How do I keep managing to get myself here?

I told the universe that I needed a little luck, another Hope, Minnesota. I know, I know:  I don’t deserve it. I have stolen more than my fair share of car karma. But sure enough, within two miles a sign appeared on the right which read:  “Huntley, Montana, 1 mile.”

Huntley came though!

Really, for being an idiot, I have amazing luck.

Dad founds the story amusing. I’m not sure Mom finds my hilarious out-of-gas-in-deserted-parts-of-a-state stories quite so hilarious.

I’m almost finished with my chicken curry croissant (with mango chutney and cranberries). Soon, I head through the Rocky Mountains. Strangers around me chat away, click their respective keyboards, and I am struck by how at home I feel. I have friends to talk me through scary nights, family to call with funny stories, and people who will notice when I’m not in town. I have Montana leaves in my lovely Subaru on the passenger seat, and the sun promises to guide my trek through the mountains.

All through North Dakota and Montana, I’ve been reflecting periodically that someone originally passed through this land and said, “Let’s keep going.” Despite seeing the same damn thing on horizon after horizon, the same barren hills, the same hundred miles of flatness, they kept saying, “What the fuck…let’s keep going.” Those folks are long gone; their names are mostly forgotten.

In 60 years, I’ll be long gone, my name forgotten.

Will someone 60 years from now wonder about me and how I lived? Who I loved? In that future, I’m sure my out-of-gas stories won’t even have a context, probably as amusing as someone from the 1800s trying to explain how those wacky oxen got unyoked, creating chaos.

I suppose we are all autumn leaves, drifting earthwards, somewhat forgotten once in that big pile on the earth. But for a few glorious seconds, we all drift in unison, sun shining through us, illuminating our beauty.

That will have to be enough.

If you’ve ever been involved in a 20+ person conference call, you understand the sentiment. It’s hard to speak, hard to hear. Someone is in their car, someone thinks their mute button is on and it is not. And the non-mute someone is most likely chewing gum.

I approached such a conference call last week with that dread.

I’m staffing a New Warrior Training Adventure in Portland next week and this was the chance for the out-of-town staff men to meet and talk a little. The Portland men have been planning this NWTA for months; they spend dozens of hours working together before the weekend, standing shoulder to shoulder (sometimes literally, always figuratively) holding each other accountable and learning new ways to trust. To be inside the circle of local men during those months is always a wild ride.
As an out-of-towner, I’m already getting excited to staff in Portland – I have been for a month.

But giant phone conference calls? Not so exciting.

I got the time wrong and ended up having to miss my own circle of local men to be on this conference call. Though the fault was entirely my own, I still took it out on the anonymous set of phone digits and passcode as I punched the phone. Within the first five minutes I had my fears confirmed:  it was loud, hard to hear, some men thought their mute was on but it was not.

Crap.

Luckily, it was only an hour.

And then things changed.

Our facilitator asked us a reflective question and as I thought about my own response the answer made me a little sad. I was on the phone with 20+ guys and I was invited to share a part of me that I most wanted to hide. I wanted these men to see my big smile and see joy in my eyes before they heard the other truths:  that I am afraid, and I am small sometimes, cringing and whimpering. That’s the part of me they would see first.

Each man volunteered his response while we all did our best to listen.

I listened to other men tell their sad truths, the parts of themselves that were broken or outraged, furious and filled with grief. I appreciated that I was not alone in this uncomfortable spotlight. One man gave his answer and his voice quivered. One man talked about ‘wasted years’ and his voice expressed regret. I did not catch either one of their names so I know nothing about them but this:  in a group of strange men, they did not hold back.

I love staffing with men I do not yet know!

When everybody comes together for the first time, it’s both a rowdy party and quiet grace. Men might meditate or take walks. Or play junior high pranks on each other, spending the first two hours making each other laugh. You can’t do it wrong, really, just show up as you are. It’s not always instant goofiness and easy conversation either. Men can be angular and we must learn to navigate one another. Two guys deliberately on the periphery of the big group might share to each other, “I don’t like being in large groups of men” and suddenly they can talk more freely. Then another man hears then and instead of sauntering away to snicker with pals, he sits with them and says, “I feel that way too sometimes.”

Often, this is how it goes.

By Sunday we’re genuinely crushed to see each other leave, grieving the loss of new friends who could perhaps be best friends if we all lived in the same town. I like knowing I have potential best friends in other cities. The last time I staffed in Portland, I left with joyful sorrow having met men who broke my heart with their kindness towards me. Some days it’s hard for me to meet someone new and think “We’re not going to be best buds in this lifetime. There’s just not enough time.”

On the conference call last week as we neared the conclusion, one man said, “I have to speak. I have to say this.”

Everyone grew quiet, even the guys not muting.

“I don’t want to be here. I hate this technology, I hate all the background noise. I love you men, but I hate not being able to hear your full names and having to keep wondering, ‘who the hell said that?’ I can’t wait for this call to be over.”

(I think those were his words. It was really difficult to hear.)

I laughed really hard because I felt totally exposed. He had spoken my truth! Someone in our teleconferenced room had the courage to be angry and express it. I’m sure other men laughed in strong empathy, but many of us were on mute, so he could not hear our empathetic response. Some men chimed in and thanked the speaker for saying what he did, others gave a more enthusiastic “HELL YEAH” because hey, technology is a pain in the ass sometimes.

I hung up the conference call glad, really glad actually, because I heard so much compassion and love in strangers’ voices. Another group of potential best friends. And guys who say actually announce when they’re pissed off? Hell, I can trust a man like that. He will show me his true face. I will show up next Thursday in Portland all screwed up and not-perfect and they’re going to put their arms around me anyway and say, ‘Glad you’re here.’

Minneapolis is having a snow day today, so I burned a wood fire tonight, and watched the orange flames. I chatted on the phone with people I love. The phone can be a lovely way to connect on a cold February night. As the fire peaks slowly turn into red embers, I think about all the times I have thought, ‘I don’t want to be here’ and how often it’s exactly where I need to be.

Years ago my first boyfriend, my first great love, had an unusual reaction when I relayed sad news:  I had lost my favorite shirt in a tragic river tubing accident. The blue and yellow striped one had drifted away.

He snarled and said, “GOOD. I hated that shirt.”

I discovered that he (I already said it I guess) hated the shirt and had for more than a year. But not at first, he confessed. Only after I kept wearing it over and over and over and over. Apparently it bugged him. Once he saw how bummed I was to lose that beloved lucky shirt, he tried to buy me a similar shirt in consolation, but it was no good. Ironically, his replacement shirt became a lucky shirt itself because the shirt reminded me of him and our happy years together.

I have about eight favorite shirts at anyone time. Well, ten. Maybe eleven.

There’s my Lucky Saturday shirt, which I wear when I staff New Warrior Training Adventures. I have a Lazy Day shirt, and I always have a favorite navy blue shirt, I just always do. My favorite Go For Walks flannel shirt. I have three favorite dress shirts. All Lucky Shirts eventually cycle out of use because even I have fashion limits in wearing favorite clothes. However, my shoulder has to pretty-much be poking through the threadbare material before I retire a Lucky Shirt or cannibalize it into rags. Even as rags, I still get to visit a Lucky Shirt and remember when I used to wear this particular shirt daily.

I thought my first boyfriend was a little kooky but over the years, it has been confirmed by friends and total strangers that I have ‘a thing’ with my shirts. Earlier this year, the beautiful serving girl at my favorite cafe said, “Hey what’s wrong with you? You changed your shirt.”

“What?”

She turned around and called the restaurant’s owner from the kitchen.

“Hey Bess, he changed his shirt. It’s not the striped one today with the long sleeves. He’s wearing something different.”

Bess came out from the back to check out the novelty.

“What’s wrong?” Bess asked sharply.

I can’t believe people notice those little details, like how many days you wear your shirt in a row. Or, you know, whether you shower or not. Once, Stephen tried to present the unreasonable argument that people shower every day and I kept saying, “Not if they don’t feel like it,” while avoiding eye contact.

We all have our odd quirks and strange habits, even if we’re reluctant to admit it. I actually like people with odd habits. This is different from people who WORK HARD to convince us all their life is exotic and strange; that’s usually quite boring to me. I prefer people who have odd Saturday morning rituals, or play goofy games with their spouses, or hide things on their kids. I knew someone who loved $2 bills and insisted on using them to pay for everything. He almost never used an ATM; he had to go to a bank every time.

You really have to know someone, watch them, to discover their odd quirks and habits. To notice what clothes they favor, expressions they use, how they rub their face when anxious, or how defensive they get when you ask about their car. Quirks. And in our fast-paced lives as adults, it’s harder to find time to notice all these quirks in everyone you meet.

I staff the New Warrior Training Adventures (NWTA) because it’s a time when I slow down and pay attention to the looks on mens’ faces. I give myself time to see their strange quirks, their oddball habits, and we laugh together about how good it is to be seen, even when being seen reveals you’ve got issues.

On our most recent NWTA weekend, it snowed. Some of the Minnesota guys (ahem…I may have been involved) grabbed out-of-state staffers for a special “Minnesota greeting” which meant rubbing snow in their faces. We attacked a man from Texas, two from California, and finally gave up and started throwing snow at anyone, in-state or not. I got beaned with a snowball which exploded upside my head.

Minutes later as we all were breathing heavily in our staff meeting and swearing at the snow melting down our shirts, one man said, “I haven’t played like that since I was a kid.”

His face held joy and grief as he volunteered that quirk about his life, and his eyes held the recognition that he could speak in this vulnerable way to the 30 listening men and not one of us would laugh. He trusted. So the 30 men listened and nodded and I bet we all thought of the last time we laughed and played hard.

Men who I staff with are my Lucky Shirts.

We are each our own unique colors, striped and solid, old and young, gay, straight. We have been roughed up by life and show that in various degrees of wear and tear. Some shirts are loud, and some are quiet. Some men have been doing this work for 5 months and others for 30 years. I see these men only a few times a year, wear them on special occasions. We laugh and play together but it’s not always hilarious.

This past weekend, I spoke quietly with a staff man whose heart was consumed by grief, and he cried a lot with me, which I think he hates to do. But he cried because it was better to be seen crying than to carry this misery alone. He’s also a Lucky Shirt and when I see him again next time, I will throw my arms around him, joyful to be reunited.

When staffing is over, I inevitably feel this sense of loss, like I have lost my favorite blue and yellow striped shirt in a river tubing accident. I miss my Lucky Shirts, even if I just met them three days ago. Sure, I will see some of them more than twice a year. But we all have careers and families and emails to answer, leaves to rake, laundry to do, etc. so it’s hard to stay connected in that intense, familiar way.

When I staff a NWTA, I slow down for a weekend and peer into other mens’ faces, look quietly, and see whatever is there. It’s damn good to be seen, too. On Saturday morning of this past NWTA, I was strolling towards the main building for an afternoon activity when my friend Stephen yelled at me from 20 feet away.

“EDMOND! YOU’RE NOT WEARING YOUR LUCKY SATURDAY SHIRT!”

He was right!

I flipped around, raced back to my bunkhouse to get it.

I only get to wear that shirt a few times a year and I was damned sure not to miss out on that opportunity.

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?