The details have now vanished into the mists of a former time, like folklore. We can't remember, exactly, how we first got together. But it was almost twenty-five years ago that, knowing one another separately, one of us had the idea that we might enjoy one another's company over a drink. And one of us knew just the right place, an exclusive men's club in town called The Ranchmen's.
The club was dark, wood-panelled maledom, with a formal dining room, a lounge, a fireside library, and a billiard room downstairs. Somewhere in the facility there used to be private rooms for when wealthy ranchers came to town for business and were in need of a hot meal and a made bed and a congenial place to meet with their neighbours. Until a generation ago, women, called "Escorts" on the sign that used to hang above the side door, could only enter on the arm of a male club member, and then only by way of that separate entranceway. And club members needed to be dressed right--shirt and tie and jacket, which the club would provide if you'd forgotten--and no jeans, cowboy.
None of us belonged to the club, nor could any of us have afforded to join it. We were all clergy. But by way of a fortuitous anachronism, the local Anglican bishop, according to the club’s charter, enjoyed a complimentary membership, in perpetuity. It gave him a place to entertain guests, reward staff, impress someone enough to have them accept a diocesan appointment, or in another age to rub shoulders with his equals, powerful men about town who had their social standing to think of. But one of us worked for the bishop so had access to that membership, just so long as we paid our way before the bishop saw the bill.
The setting was pure hyperbole, almost caricature. We realized this, even as we took our whiskey neat and smoked our cigars by the fire. We were too liberal in our theology and too progressive in our ideologies to take any of it seriously. That was part of the fun, as if we were enjoying the entitlement while dismissing it at the same time. And then a movie came out, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, not a very good movie, but that didn't matter because we never watched it. We only stole the name and applied it smugly to ourselves.
But beneath the hubris something magical happened. Implausibly, surrounded by the spoils of male privilege, we sank into those soft, leather armchairs, lost any pretence for being where we were, and shared our stories with one another, the real kind, the honest kind, not the braggadocio kind. We spoke of our gnawing isolation as men. We confessed our disillusionment with the church. We shared with one another the precarious states of our marriages.
Within a few short years, each of those challenges would be addressed: we would gain a new sense of ourselves as men; we would redefine our relationship with the church; and we would each leave our marriage, clambering over the ship-wrecked remains in search of a new footing. But we wouldn't be alone.
We shared with one another the books we were reading and the directions our lives were taking us. We discovered a kindred spirit in Jungian writer James Hollis and we devoured each of his new books, reflecting deeply on his themes of soulful self-discovery and the unique and "interesting” lives we are each called to live. We even bestowed upon him an honorary membership in the League, though when we told him we seemed more impressed than he did. Still, he accepted it graciously, as befits a member of the League.
Eventually, we were kicked out of the Ranchmen's Club by my ex-brother-in-law who resented our presence, using his leverage as a paying club member to have us gone. But that didn't affect our fellowship. It was time for us to move out into the world, to the bistros and cafes that could evoke our storytelling and contain our secrets. And we'd laugh, sometimes with tears running down our faces, the room turning to take in the spectacle. We recreated the sacred space we sought wherever we went.
John O'Donohue, the late Irish poet and philosopher, wrote a charming book on friendship, called by the Gaelic term Anam Cara, or, Soul Friend. Real friends are rare, and soul friends are rarer still, especially among men. To be so blessed is to know that you are seen, that you are accepted, and that you are loved. It is a sacred bond that every person in the world should know for themselves. It is also the gift that keeps on giving, infecting every other friendship, as if by example, with soulful potential. It is indeed an Extraordinary League in which to find oneself, Gentleman or not.
To enjoy my conversation with Barry Foster and Don McLeod, about soulful friendship, click on the Play button below. For some reading and other suggestions on the subject, follow the More Info button to the show notes.
Had written a long comment, but I think I lost it, damn! In short, good podcast and meaningful. Has motivated me to make a phone call to a soul friend. Thanks.