Reflections from the Lake Rotoiti Men's Work Retreat (Winter Solstice 2026) by Ian Brown.
Smile! You old bugger! Worse things happen at sea!
— The Life of Brian
I. Anecdote: immediacy and connection
After the retreat, I jumped into my truck and glanced at my phone. A flurry of signals and beeps came through—a rush of connection, a Pavlovian squirt of endorphins. In that moment, I decided to leave a voice message for my dad. The Surf's tyres were already crunching the gravel, and I was letting go of the closeness of the brothering.
I told Dad how much I love him, and at the same time, I was reflecting on a conversation from the retreat—one of the men asked if we tell our fathers we miss them, or if they tell us. Sometimes men get stuck not expressing that missing or loving feeling.
I finished my message by thanking my Dad for buying me the Toyota Surf—my "manmobile" for six or seven years. It's a vehicle that's carried so much of my permaculture work, pony shit, chainsaws, ridiculously large loads over the Tākaka Hill, and seagrass. So much grass, I'm surprised the rust hasn't had her yet. I'm loyal, bro. I'll keep her till she carks it! I expressed gratitude for the provider and the gift.
Just as I was wrapping up the message with words about loving the kids and my excitement to get home, I reminded myself: "Excitement is good, but you don't need to race home, man. Stay cool, take your time!"
I eased off the accelerator.
Suddenly, the truck swerved, fishtailing wildly. Nausea and fear hit me in slow motion—a chaotic dance, like the Nutcracker Suite playing in swampy slow-mo. Flashes of the past, the future, hope, and grief… fuck! Fuck! How long will this skid go on for?
The truck didn't roll, thankfully, and stopped gently, smack-bang in the centre of the state highway.
I took a deep breath, reset myself, then drove off safely. I pulled over and had a moment of quiet release. Thin trickles of fear washed through me as I considered what I had to lose.
II. Reflection: life, death, and men's work
We have to leave behind a fear-based consciousness and embrace life right now—in this moment—because we could die tomorrow. Some men I met at that retreat may never finish the work they've started. They are probably going to die on the job. Maybe, I pray, it's what they love doing. That, after all, should be the way of things.
This is a loving call to those older brothers who are hurt, confused, or hiding in the shadows—to step into a ceremony of recognition, to honour their own hard work, and to begin to release the past.
An elder at the circle embodied this, showing his decades of commitment. He filled the circle with his radiance as each man had a chance to look into his eyes, to fully recognise the beauty and sincerity of his efforts. It felt like a signal: it's time to see and honour our elders, allow them to step back, and for us to step forward at the same time. Then, allow new faces to take their place.
III. Tradition: the Dog Soldiers
The Dog Soldiers were a First Nations tribe of outcasts—a mixed group ostracised by others, gathering together in times of conflict. They literally camped where dogs gathered: the scraps, the margins. They were looking for belonging, carrying honour, and a willingness to be part of a collective, but never fully fitting in.
Their creed was to tie a rope from their ankle to a stake and hammer it into the ground, fighting to the death unless relieved by a younger man stepping in, untethering them, and acknowledging their noble fight.
I offer this story as an invitation to elders and peers—to be ready to be relieved, to welcome new men stepping up, born from the intentions and sacrifices of those before them. Young men with hope in their eyes, with fire in the belly. They are coming now.
IV. Trust, faith, and immediacy
We face a time of change. Tensions threaten our personal culture, our local communities, and our men's group. I'm going to offer that it's about living boldly, with courage, in the moment, knowing we could die tomorrow. That's the way I'd have it.
Do we trust this moment? Do we have faith in it?
Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy?
— Freddie Mercury
Am I taking risks that bring me alive? Am I consciously bringing that to the table? It's my responsibility to keep myself awake in these times.
I'd say trust bursts into us as we acknowledge our mortality, genuinely look death in the eyes and say, "I'm still here." I felt plenty of that in the circle last weekend. I also felt plenty of denial, too. So there we are. A very human dilemma.
Resist the urge to stay passive. The work is here, it's now—no procrastinating or distractions, please!
Ehara! Ko koe te ringa e huti punga.
(Yours is the hand best suited to pull up the waka anchor.)
— Māori Whakataukī
Epilogue
It's a wet, cold evening in Onekaka on Ironworks Road. The Surf has a bit of shit on the back bumper that I brought back from the Rotoiti lakes.
For now, it stands still. So do I.
Shaken, and definitely stirred! Grateful to be alive? Shit yeah!!
