Not trying not to think about things

Nov. 3, 2005

Dear Pat,

I'm trying to change.

After many years of doing things one way, change can be daunting. Habits are safe, like ruts in a muddy road.

I know how to do certain things, but my way of doing them leaves me wondering if a surer, more grace-filled way might exist. With the old way I never know from one moment to the next how what I'm doing might feel. I want it to feel just right.

That's why I'm trying to change.

Old ways of doing things may seem comfortable, but when you have the feeling that something more fulfilling is possible you must pursue it.

That's why I'm trying to change my golf swing.

"Try not," Yoda said. "Do."

Trying entertains the possibility of failure.

I know you and many, many people don't care about golf swings, so I won't bother to describe the change except to say it is as if I one day decided to walk in circles instead of in a reasonably straight line.

"Zen in the Art of Archery" describes a philosophy professor's experiences learning archery from Japanese monks. Eugen Herrigel studied archery as a way of comprehending Zen Buddhism, as a way of bypassing the linear, analytical thought processes that are handy for assembling a bookcase but get in the way of ascertaining anything's true nature.

Antoine De Saint-Exupery, the sage of "The Little Prince," said this about that: "If you want to build a ship, don't drum up the men to gather wood, divide the work and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless sea."

At the driving range, those whacking away at ball after ball sometimes are people who haven't yet learned how to hold a golf club. Herrigel spent a year working on the fundamentals before the monks let him aim at a target. I don't have a monk. I have a book.

My apologies, but one thing about this new swing must be described. There is a movement that confounds and fascinates me. It is the split second when my left hip is supposed to begin turning back toward the target just as my arms and chest are reaching the end of their turn to the right. My body is supposed to be going in two directions at once at that moment. It sounds impossible when you think about it, so I try not to think about it.

Herrigel never mastered archery, but he did occasionally experience the feeling the monks wanted him to, a "purposeless and egoless" state in which the monks insisted the arrow shot itself.

Once they were able to attain this state of being readily, the monks gave up archery. After all, it wasn't the accurate shooting of arrows they were after.

When I finally master golf I will quit and DC never again will have to listen to me attempt to explain its fascination.

That is the sound of DC not holding her breath.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.