Men's Rites of Passage — Aravaipa Canyon Ranch, Arizona
April 28 - May 2, 2010

Dear Friends,

In the time since the April issue of The Drumbeat, I've had the opportunity to experience the Men's Rites of Passage (MROP) at Aravaipa Canyon Ranch in Arizona. It was a deeply moving and transformative experience for me and so many of the men gathered there. Congratulations to all the Initiated Men — welcome to the MALEs fellowship of spiritual journeymen! I've included below one of the memories from my time at Aravaipa, which will appear in the upcoming men's spirituality issue of Radical Grace, the CAC's quarterly publication.

Our next MROPs will take place on August 11-15 at the Pilgrim Park Retreat Center in Princeton, Illinois, and on November 10-14 at the CYO Camp and Retreat Center in Occidental, California. Download an application today.

In other exciting news, The Drumbeat's readership continues to grow. Since our inaugural issue in February, our community of subscribers has doubled in size, to almost 1,200. Despite this growth, however, we still lag in donations that help allow things like the MROP to happen. If you haven't already, please consider making a monthly donation to MALEs.

Also take a moment to look through our "On the Horizon" section, which features upcoming events like our June 19 webcast on Father's Day weekend, The Odyssey: The Further Journey, and the CAC summer conference July 16-18, which includes an afternoon of wilderness wandering at Red Mesa on Thursday, July 15.

Peace and Fire,

Matt

 

My Day in the Desert:
A Memory from the
Men’s Rites of Passage

“The apophatic way, familiarly known as the via negativa, is a tradition in spirituality that rejects all analogies of God as ultimately inadequate. God is greater than any language we might ever use to speak of God.”
—Belden Lane, The Solace of Fierce Landscapes

 

“Keep to the left, Matt."

Damien Faughnan, one of the Men’s Rites of Passage (MROP) coordinators, waves me on as I start up a wide dirt path that slopes into the cliffs and dry washes of the 19,700-acre Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness. It is mid-morning on the fourth day of the Arizona MROP. Our day of solitude in the desert.

The sky has few clouds, if any at all, and I feel excitement and anxiety as I trudge up the path and away from our site. I was born and raised in a city, and recently capped off seven years in the Big Apple. No serious wilderness experience under my belt, but with a lot of hard moments already lived in my 35 years, I have a real hunger now for the peace that time in nature can bring. This week I am also coming to realize, in a different kind of way, that as a man I am not alone in having gone through periods of suffering. For the last few days, I have listened to the stories of the five other men in my “home group” for the Rites. Their willingness to share pain and shed tears within our group has humbled me.

Earlier this morning I foraged along the riverbank next to the ranch, searching for a walking stick among the dead tree limbs. I carry one now in my right hand and its weight and sturdiness give me added security as I move over the loose terrain. This canyon land has been carved out again and again by the flow of water, leaving an unending series of bends in the path that make it difficult to see very far ahead as I climb steadily higher. I can feel the weight of the day pack slung over my shoulder, loaded with water, a journal, and some personal items I’ve brought for meditation.

45 minutes into my journey from the ranch, the path begins splitting off into narrower gorges and the cliffs close in more sharply. I have no idea where I am headed but move forward carefully, stepping from one rock pile to another and feeling the isolation and unfamiliarity of this place. There are countless dark holes and spaces among the stones and canyon walls, and I imagine fanged creatures within, watching silently as my boots, just inches away, go clomping unsteadily past their refuge. Part of a prayer-poem used during one of our rituals this week murmurs within me:

Give us courage to enter the cave of our wounds, to trust these holes within us to show us the way we know not, the way through.

Every so often I stop to eye the cliff-tops overhead and then I begin searching for a way up their faces. I have it in me to spend my day at the summit and I am reminded of how mountains have always felt like sacred spaces to me. I need to get up. I need to get up to where I can see it all at once.

I reach the base of a cliff that seems like the right one to climb and I begin picking my way up its steep slope. By trial and error, I find firm, rocky outcroppings for footholds amid the loose soil. The higher I go, every step becomes more of a calculation. The walking stick proves to be invaluable. As I reach what I think is the very top, I emerge over a lip in the cliff wall to see I still have farther to climb. This happens several more times and I have to call upon my patience as I keep going.

Finally, I make it to the summit, a flat, open area with rough grass, shrubs and clusters of large rocks. I pause to look outward before finding a place to set down my things. I am surrounded by rounded mountaintops; red mesas with sheer drop-offs, and green plains, all spilling out below me and blanketed by a wind that surges across the landscape like a rolling ocean current. The sky stretches wide overhead and shadows of clouds slip slowly over the contours of the land. The wind cools the sweat on my forehead and in the cotton of the shirt on my back.

As I slowly catch my breath, I realize I am entering a space of
soul-stillness and perspective made possible only by having gone on my
hard journey.