This is a long thought, but seems to me to capture quite well part of that impenetrable jungle/vacant lot known as the male psyche. It is from an undated occasional column on men from the Canadian Globe and Mail newspaper, by Terry McManus, a writer (and songwriter):

"The man who says his prayers in the evening is a captain posting his sentries. After that he can sleep. " - Charles Baudelaire.


It is sometime past 2 in the morning and I find myself in the upstairs hallway going from room to room looking in on the children. There is no special reason, such as a coughing spell or a call for water: I am just wandering. I go downstairs to check the doors and have a glass of milk. Sitting at the kitchen table, I listen to the sounds of our house: creaks and snaps as the furnace heats up, then the rush of air that rattles the basement door as the fan kicks in. Outside, there is the sound of the wind through the eaves and then the unexpected rumble of a car on our quiet street. I listen until it recedes in the distance and all is peaceful again.

My thoughts turn to the health of my family. One child in my son's kindergarten class has come down with a high fever, and tonight I read in the paper of a case of meningitis in a nearby town. I remember to add vitamins to the grocery list on the kitchen counter and make a note to buy some of the new "natural" orange juice that is being advertised. I wonder what good a glass of orange juice can do against a determined virus. Maybe a lot or maybe nothing. My children, who are in no position to judge the relative merits of various preventative therapies will get the orange juice and drink it happily. There are other decisions that they do not take as kindly to, but my intentions in all are the same: to protect them.

I remind myself that not so long ago I would have been sitting here wondering about the mortgage and deciding what bills to pay. There were many nights when my family slept and I took out the calculator and figured out repayment schedules and various methods of gerrymandering one dollar to make it cover two. With a combination of hard work and a little luck, those days have receded. Still, here I am.

These are my private thoughts. I, like many other men, keep my own counsel on many matters.. I don't mean to ruminate in the middle of the night but it happens.

Contemplation is the companion of silence. The small hours of the morning seem to lend themselves to quiet reverie.

Women are right: men don't talk. At least not about what's really on their minds. We can talk about love and feelings when the mood hits us or when we're reminded, with varying degrees of good or bad humour, of our lack of attention. That is not what I mean when I say we don't talk.

It is a lot more complicated than that. We men have a secret society that meets in the dead of night. We may be wide awake in bed, or sitting in the kitchen. We could be on the 20th floor of an apartment building staring at the streets below or standing at the window of a rural farmhouse searching the darkness for an answer.

What is it that we are keeping to ourselves? It is our feeling of responsibility. It is the belief that, in spite of all the claims to the contrary, the burden of our families' health and happiness rest solely with us. This may not be the feeling of every culture and every man in this culture, but it is my belief and many men share it. This is my family and it is my job to shepherd them through this night. Through this life.

It is so easy to become complacent sitting in my now-quiet suburban neighbourhood. I have no doubt that living in this place and in this time makes me one of the most privileged men on Earth. My family wants for nothing physically. We have our normal conflicts, but we can always reach past the angry words or gestures and touch the love that is the foundation of our lives.

Still, I am vigilant. I take nothing for granted. It can all change in the blink of an eye. I have seen it. You have seen it.

"Enjoy life, my family," we say. "Sleep well, my family," we say.

We will watch and we will keep it to ourselves.

I finish my milk and put the glass in the sink. Before I turn off the lights I check the doors once again. Upstairs, I look in on the children once more and then I slip into bed beside my wife. She stirs and I shape to her body. I post my sentries and then I close my eyes to sleep.

- from the Globe and Mail, Terry McManus.