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Mountain Magic

Published May 16, 2010

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(for the men of Work-Weekend, May 7-9, 2010)

I've had a wonderful lesson in opening up to the world of gay men, again, at Easton. The morning mists rise half-way up the mountain, as I sit alone Saturday morning in the sun- room gazing at the nascent, green leaves and slowly sipping my coffee.  It is 7:00 a.m.; no one else has appeared.  In my dreamy state a question slowly forms in my mind, as if appearing in the mist:  "am I hard-wired for this mystical meltdown within my human DNA or does God's Grace......in this magical place crystalize in me, as I open my heart to men, mud and mountain?"

A little later Greg appears and lights the gas fire to warm us on this very cold May morning.  Grandfather Oak stands sentinel over the joyous rites of renewal ; Grandmother Birch is nearby on the perimeter trail which circles the beaver ponds on 175 hidden acres in the middle of rolling hills and forest.  More sleepy men amble in to the sunroom facing the mountain. No one speaks as we respect the request for silence so as not to disturb the yoga session in progress with Tim next door in the great room of the lodge.

Each man sits like a wordless poem in time taking in the disappearing and reappearing trees or like a painter gazing in wonder at a misty, blank canvas. In this Holy of Holies the curtain of mist parts, a flash of orange on Baltimore Oriole wings flies by and the Temple appears. Honking, horny Canadian geese chase others in a crescendo of take-offs and splashy landings below us. Each man deep in reverie could be remembering the joys of childhood, when nurturing love in the arms of Mother Earth once gave us such tactile joy in our young bodies stored forever in our muscles and fibers.  A little later some of us curl up and cradle in our brothers laps and arms around the fire, as we connect with each other. 

As if needing comfort and healing, I open up and do the same in Dave's arms, after we both scramble for the single, free arm chair.  He wins; I drop into his lap and lay my head on his chest under his full, black beard.  My heart opens with alacrity to the primal joy that my body remembers in the arms of my mother and father before I was five years old.  I feel a sudden rush of healing, nurturing love suffuse my back muscles and surround me, as Dave strokes my tummy.  My legs distend ; I lean back into his ample chest ; I nuzzle his beard ; hear his deep words with my ear pressed to his throat.  With Dave's gift of touch and God's Grace I feel my body let go, fully releasing, clearing and cleansing the tension of childhood emotional trauma. That deeper sense of physical and emotional well-being and joy stored in my muscle memories from infancy moves into my stomach and legs.  I'm suspended in a cocoon, awaiting rebirth.  The breakfast bell rings.

Thank you from the bottom of my being and soul.

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Francis E. Crowley is a proud member and supporter of the New Haven Pride Center.

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