Men’s Work
We had only been back a few days, and the jetlag had barely passed when I found myself packing my bags once again – but this adventure was one I would be having alone.
My good friend Stefan is the one of the most remarkable people I know. Centred, strong and wise, he embodies a certain stoicism, representing the very best that the masculine has to offer. He has been involved in the mental health space for many years, teaching mindfulness and breathwork through multiple avenues; offering his insights to others in podcasts, weekly events and regular classes. Some time back, a synchronous series of events led him to team up with one of the founders of Cold Nips – a weekly beach meetup, focused on connection and mindfulness in the early hours of the morning. On the very day the pair happened to meet and get talking at a local coffee shop, they began planning a wellness retreat for men and, unlike many other ideas conceived in this manner, they actually followed through. I knew Stefan to be a master facilitator and an excellent guide, so when he mentioned a few months back that the fourth retreat was coming up, I signed up immediately.
This was all well before Alessandra and I had decided to go to Peru, and it was only after booking flights that I realised how close our return date was to the beginning of the men's retreat. I knew the latter would help me to integrate the revelations and discoveries made in the Amazon, but that knowledge did little to ease my post-travel fatigue. So it was that, with some reluctance, I said goodbye to Alessandra, pulled myself together and set off for the Orana Homestead in Bridgetown, carpooling with one of the other men attending the retreat.
The man I hitched a ride with introduced himself as Rob – a friendly, cheery sort, in the prime of his life. We had a three hour drive ahead of us, and we passed it in conversation, speaking broadly about work, values and sacrifice. I enjoyed his company, and was impressed by the level of discipline and dedication he seemed to maintain in every element of his life, from his business to his physical health.
Upon arrival, we met with Stefan and some of the other attendees, and jumped onto quad bikes, making our way down the grassy bank to the canvas tents that would serve as our accommodation. The tents bordered a man-made lake, with an idyllic view of the rolling green hills that stretched out far as the eye could see. We were truly isolated – and even moreso by the request to turn off our phones and set them aside for the duration of the retreat.
The only picture I managed to take of the beautiful Orana Homestead
When we had all arrived and settled, Stefan called the group together and ran us through some getting-to-know-you games, quickly establishing a rapport and ensuring we all knew something about one another. There was nine of us in total, plus Stefan; our other facilitator, Lewy; and our cook, Joel. A delicious lunch followed the general introductions, and a conversation with Joel during washing up revealed him as a man of deep spirituality and inner knowledge. Seeing this jolly, heavyset man, with his long beard and myriad tattoos, the last thing you might expect to discuss is psychology and the unconscious – yet there we were, scrubbing the plates as we held a lengthy discourse on Jungian psychology, and the relevance of symbols and rituals in daily life.
Fed and happy, we walked down to a circle of stumps that had been set up between the tents and the lake. Stefan guided us through a grounding meditation, then led us into our first groupshare, in which we were each given the floor to express, uninterrupted, our reasons for attending the retreat. It was quite emotional to hear the raw experiences of a group of men, all striving to be better in the midst of pain, grief and hardship. Everyone was there for a reason. When my turn came, I went deeper than I had expected to, beginning my story with the heartache of my dad's death to cancer in 2012; moving through my subsequent rage and the damage that did to my life and relationships; and ending with my own cancer journey and the spectre of death that now looms over me, forcing upon Alessandra and I impossible decisions – such as whether to risk having children, with the possibility that I will not be there to raise them. It tore at me to bare all this to the group before me, silent and attentive as they were, but it is the pain I felt in the telling that lets me know I was speaking from the heart.
Our souls unburdened, we moved to a flat field amidst the grassy hills, playing a series of competitive games and warming up our muscles, stiff from sitting. Having limbered up, Lewy – who is a professional yoga instructor – had us move through a flow that set our bodies shaking and sweating with exertion. Then it was time for dinner, and several of us sat together, discussing the power of the mind over the body, and the question of the upper limits of both. The evening ended with a writing exercise, in which we scribbled down all we hoped to achieve over the course of the retreat, before walking down to the lakeside bonfire and throwing our notes into the crackling flames in offering.
...
Our first morning together began with Stefan’s call to yoga. In ones and twos, we made our way to the house at the top of the slope. The building had a large, open space to accommodate us, and we unfurled our mats in preparation. I'd slept poorly the night before, with my jetlag still jump-starting my body through the night, and yoga was the last thing I wanted to do. Fortunately, we were eased into it; before beginning, we had time to sit on the benches outside with a cup of honeyed tea, sharing a peaceful silence as we watched the sky wash out the grey of the pre-dawn twilight with pinks and reds. Then Lewy beckoned us, and we obediently filed indoors.
Yoga was hard, but at least we knew what we were in for this time. We came from the session both shaky and strengthened, and a brief break allowed us a moment of rest before the intensity of the day returned with the next activity.
We mustered in the shala once more, loaded up with pillows after being advised that we would be laying down, and to ensure our comfort as much as possible. It was to be a breathwork session, and whilst I was not a complete stranger to breathwork, it turned out to be quite unlike anything I had ever done before. We were each given a set of headphones and a blindfold, which we duly put on after a quick grounding meditation. We lay ourselves down on our yoga mats and arranged our pillows about us, positioning ourselves to be relaxed and comfortable on our backs, arms and legs loose at our sides. Then, it began. Music thrummed and circled, curling about my mind, seeming to come from above and around me, joined by a voice that guided us through the session. I was astonished at the quality of the audio, for I had never heard anything recorded in the spatial, expansive manner I was experiencing. The voice was layered, with a dominant voice instructing and encouraging us through the process; and a secondary voice, whispering so softly as to be almost subliminal, delivering affirmations directly to the subconscious mind.
The breathwork itself was difficult and demanding. The session involved an hour of holotropic breathing, in which we breathed with effort and intensity, pulling full breaths into our bodies through the nose and exhaling powerfully out the mouth, forcing all the air from our lungs. This pattern of breathing hyper-oxygenates the blood and electrifies the brain, setting the face, fingers and toes tingling. More than this – it induces an experience psychedelic in character, producing an altered state of consciousness and releasing latent emotion.
The hour passed by in a flash. It was strikingly similar to my sapo ceremony – the self-as-space experience and dissolution of ego – yet, somehow, I, as an entity, remained at the centre of it all. Once again, I became the space in which all things were occurring. When the guide in my ears told me to imagine a time where I felt truly loved, I conjured up the image of laying with Alessandra in my arms, and the feeling of deep love flooded my body. When it asked for a memory of feeling inspired, I recalled writing my book, and tasted that inspiration, that focused passion, again. Then we were told to let out a scream and I did so, the sound fierce and desperate and unashamed, reverberating in the centre of my chest and the pit of my throat. After the scream, my body shook uncontrollably and, somewhere far away, Stefan laid his hands on my torso to calm the shuddering. I could feel the two-stage inhalations flow fluidly, first into the belly, then the chest and out again, filling and emptying without pause. It was some time before I realised that the hands I could still feel on my chest had lifted away long beforehand.
As the journey ended, I saw two strange images in my mind's eye, vivid and unplaceable: first, two satyr, looking down and away to show the curled horns that emerged from their tangled locks; second, a lion, lips curled in a snarl or roar. Representations of revelry and courage? Or of irresponsible pleasure and aggression? I still do not know.
When the session ended and we had all returned to Earth, we had a proper break, taking things slow and coming together to share our experiences. As with sapo, there were as many unique journeys as there were people, with some crying with grief; others slipping into deep relaxation; still others overcome with guilt and shame. For myself, I experienced nothing less than total surrender and wonder.
The remainder of the day was more relaxed. After an exceptional burrito bowl lunch, our group took a long walk along a bush trail that led out from the homestead, swapping walking partners as we went, taking turns in asking and answering poignant questions that Stefan provided throughout. The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time we'd wandered back; and dinner and excellent conversation awaited us. The quality of the discussions in our group was truly a treat, and I loved the explorations of philosophy, spirituality and life that continually unfolded in the pockets of rest scattered across the day.
...
The capacity for a retreat that does not employ the use of psychedelics to tap into the spiritual realm is astonishing to me. The morning began before sunrise, with each of us throwing a tree stump over our shoulders and hauling it to the top of the steepest hill in the homestead. We looked out over the valley and our small semicircle of tents down below, breathless and mindfully still as we watched colour seep slowly back into the world. We meditated for a moment, letting internal chatter subside to accommodate the expansive scene unfolding before us, then rolled our logs (some successfully, others less so) down the hill and back to their place in a circle by the lake.
After a short break to ease aching muscles, we took pillows and blankets up to the communal space, settling ourselves on our mats with a brief meditation. Then Joel took over, guiding us through a cacao ceremony. He had brewed the thick, chocolatey drinks while we were out, and we each took a mug. It turned out that Joel had been trained by shamans in the facilitation of several sacred plant ceremonies, and cacao was one of these. Much as it was with Arkana's ceremonies, Joel sang the spirit of the cacao into the room with an icaro, prompting us to visualise and feel ourselves taking each sip into the various chakras of the body, working our way up from the base of the body to the top of the head. The ceremony was part body-scan, part gratitude practice, part healing process, and it was both touching and – since Joel had made the drink with the highest quality Peruvian cacao – delicious.
Things got increasingly wild after that. Stefan took the lead in returning us to an inwardly-focused meditative state, and instructed us to walk around in the large, open room. Walk at random, he said – the moment we felt we were following a direction or pattern, change it. We attuned to the feeling of walking and, at Stefan's direction, kept our eyes downcast, shoulders slumped forward, cultivating a state of depressed submission. When we stopped and closed our eyes to observe the feelings that arose from this practice, I was surprised at the strength of the emotions in me. I could feel my sadness and grief just below the surface as a tension in my chest; a lump in my throat. Next, we were instructed to change our posture, consciously pulling our shoulders back, chest out, chin up and eyes forward, moving with a fluid confidence as we strode about the space. The change in emotion was both immediate and dramatic. We were told to begin making eye contact with the men we passed, holding it until it broke off naturally, allowing for any feelings of discomfort without letting them affect the process itself.
Eventually, we were told to stop, face to face with the person nearest to us, and to hold eye contact with this person until we were told otherwise. I came to a stop in front of Lewy, the retreat's co-facilitator. A chill, surfy type, Lewy had the adonis figure of a man with a history of professional-level sport – which he had, having spent his youth in competitive big-wave surfing, until an accident and its rehabilitation shifted his trajectory and fostered a passion and love of yoga. His face was kind and open as I gazed upon it, and it was a face used to smiling. As we looked upon one another, Stefan had us monitor our internal experience. I noticed conflicting emotions – both a fear of vulnerability, and a deep strength and capacity to hold the space. While the former came and went, I found that the latter remained as an undercurrent throughout the process; an anchor I could rely on to keep me still and grounded.
Following Stefan's ongoing guidance, Lewy and I unified and intensified our breathing, moving into one another's personal space, gaze locked. As the background music surged and swelled in intensity, so too did our connection. The next step was to begin experimenting with our expressions, scrunching up eyes and furrowing brows and widening mouths. We began to move our bodies, too, letting arms and legs move intuitively to the music, leading and following the rhythms. As the crescendo of this tribal ceremony built, we leapt up as one, gripping forearms, yelling and breathing as two primates locked in some ritual combat, eyes aflame and wild. At Stefan's call, we broke away and leapt about the room once more, whipped into a frenzy of primal emotion, hugging and pushing and pulling and yelling. It was a remarkable release of the insane, slathering beast that is in all men, otherwise constrained by a shared social sensibility and locked up tight. It was a joy to reconnect with its animal strength, without fear of reprimand or judgement.
As the energy subsided, we took a moment to close our eyes, returning once more to our centre and feeling the love and gratitude that bubbled up for our fellow men and for ourselves. Returning to the mats, we faced our original partners and locked eyes once more. We were instructed to will some of the love and gratitude we felt to our partners, as the experience moved away from the primal and towards a kind of shared metta meditation. As I looked into Lewy's eyes, I felt a supreme groundedness and solidity; a calm, deep well of love and understanding. This was not the first time I had encountered this force within me – during my 2019 ayahuasca retreat, I had journeyed to my centre, discovering a font of infinite love. It flowed through me once more, and I gave of it freely. I could see his understanding and receipt of my energy in the softening of his brow and moistening of his eyes, and I spoke to him in the wordless language of our shared gaze. 'It's going to be okay,' I told him; and I have never felt it with such depth and certainty in waking experience.
All at once, it ended, and we broke away, eating lunch in a state of quiet reverence before returning to the space for an opportunity to share our experiences. Throughout the retreat, I noticed a remarkable clarity in my speech. Perhaps it was because we had the space and time to truly be heard, and were being listened to fully, but I had found an effortless flow when I spoke; an ability to weave complex ideas with my words. My mind felt like a mountain lake, clear and still enough that you could see right down to the bottom; every feature sharp, every detail easily discerned. The groupshare was no different, and I took pleasure in describing the depth and profundity of what had just occurred. Lewy then shared his own experience of our connection, and shed light on the flickers of aggression that he saw as a fundamental truth in me, emerging when my guard was down; and noted the divine presence that he felt when I looked upon him with love and compassion. I was deeply moved by his words, and by the strange, wonderful discoveries of the activity itself.
There was a longer break when groupshare was over, and I spent this free time dozing in my yurt, relaxing until I heard Stefan call out two words – words that I'd been both expecting and dreading all retreat. Ice bath.
It was raining as we climbed the hill to the shala, where the ice bath had been set up. We stripped down to our bathers and stepped out into the rain, eyeing the chunks of ice that floated atop the frigid water. It was hard enough when the weather was warm, and here we were, teeth chattering in the wet and the cold, aware only that our present discomfort would feel warm and inviting by the time we stepped back out of the icy water.
Two by two, we jumped into the bath, sinking down into the ice until only our faces poked out. For two minutes, our bodies forced us into the rawness of the present moment, where all we could attend to was the breath, surrendering control. I have repeatedly discovered that there is some part of me that is adept at total surrender, when a situation demands it, and I quickly managed to slow my breathing and relax my muscles as the water numbed my body, setting my bones aching with the intensity of the cold. This, too, I let go of, attending only to the quality of my breath. It was over in no time, and the rain felt warm against my skin as I stepped out and walked with sluggish determination to the nearby bonfire.
The rest of the evening was tame by comparison. When we had all thawed, we returned to the shala with pillows and blankets, and spent fifteen minutes laying in stillness. Stefan then began to explain more about the intention and structure of the retreat and its activities: the mirroring of the archetypal Hero's Journey, the idea of non-duality, and a focus on embodiment. Lewy took over shortly after, running us through a yin yoga session, where we moved our bodies into passive stretches in the dim light of the crackling fireplace, the calm music and soft poses coaxing our bodies into unravelling.
Dinner followed yoga, and then we crowded around the outside tables, undertaking to write out our impressions of the strengths we saw in each of the men with whom we had shared our retreat. By the end, we each received a pile of notes from our fellow men, to be opened and read after we arrived home. We continued to chat into the night, until fatigue overcame us and carried us off to bed.
…
The final day of the retreat left little more to be done. The morning began in the shala, where Lewy walked us through a breath-tabling exercise – periods of intense breathing, followed by a series of breath holds – that had us holding our breath comfortably for over three minutes by the end! Relaxed and buzzing with energy, we returned to our yurts and changed into our bathers, meeting out by the lake. The owner of the homestead had arranged a scan of her land after purchase and, when a patch of high-quality clay was identified, had a small pond dug out there. It was into this pond that we waded, up to our waists in the freezing water as we slathered ourselves with the stinking black clay from the bottom. When we were all unrecognisable, we walked to the lake and dove in, washing ourselves off again. We took turns taking hot showers to get rid of the rest of the muck, then returned to the shala for a hearty breakfast of caramelised banana and oats. Fully refreshed, it was time to pack up.
Returning to our yurts for the last time, I shoved my gear back into my rucksack and heaved it out onto a waiting trailer. We stripped the tents bare, stacking beds, baskets and dustpans out the front of each yurt for the second round of collections. As a group, we hitched rides back and forth on the trailer, loading and unloading until the nearby storehouse was full, the yurts empty. Collecting together for a final circle, each man informed the group of the insights he had taken from the retreat as a whole, as well as steps he would take to act on this learning. Then, one by one, each man entered the centre of the circle, to be honoured by the group for the qualities and character they possess. It was a profound and beautiful moment, to be seen and acknowledged for the best parts of yourself by a group of your peers.
Just like that, it was over. We said our goodbyes and people left in ones and twos, until it was only Rob and I left. We stayed a while longer, climbing the lookout point with Stefan for one last look at the breathtaking view of the valley; and returning to talk with Lewy and Joel at the tables by the shala. Then Rob and I said farewell and got in Rob’s car, carrying on talking right up to my front door.
…
This week was a unique and powerful experience. It had many elements in common with the ayahuasca retreat in Peru — deepened connection to self; opportunities for uninterrupted self-expression; shared activity mixed with time for reflection — but it differed in its focus. What this retreat did so well was to support us in building a deeper connection with the inner masculine; an unashamed embracing of the strength and courage within us all. It opened a window into the primal parts of us, giving them a safe space to be seen and heard. Most of all, it showed us how to navigate honest, courageous relationships with our fellow men, in a way that can support and heal the fractures and divisions that keep us separate, disconnected and alone.
Here are some of the lessons I took from this week away:
Meaningful work, quality time with others, physical activity and physical attunement (meditation and mindfulness) maintain and replenish our strength.
To be honest and courageous in speech is to open the heart. To be listened to and heard by others while doing so is to heal the heart.
Reflection is necessary for change to occur. Without knowing what has happened and why, we cannot chart a course forward, or change our trajectory.
Discomfort is the gatekeeper to many things of great value. Faced voluntarily and surrendered to, its effects are blunted.
There are many paths to the inner world.
