For the Love of the Life I Live

I play a very private sport.

In fact, it's so personal that my only opponent- or rather, a lack thereof, to be replaced by modesty and even more privacy- is my own self. I wrestle with the consequences of the worries and doubts my mind stains the pristine fairway with, and known truths come soaring in to smack them straight out of the land in my many loyal clubs.

Truth is, I've only played for less than half a better year. But a day is a better day when I get to thoughtlessly trot up the vast hillsides with a scratched, old metal stick in my sore right hand, clambering contentedly for purchase on the inner rim of an almost-too-steep basin, lovingly emptied of bitterness and fear by the sky-blue heavens which encompass all and is all, yet I am not drained and dreary, weary from the preposterously fair hike I promise myself to push through, instructing my determination to keep my own lethargy and indifference to the sport at knifepoint; I may pour out every last flaming droplet of hatred and blindness in the face of salvation through my harsh whispers snapping after a marred stroke- It may somewhat roughly appear that I am physically and consciously depleted from the supreme ordeal that is the journey down a lonely fairway.

But I am flourishing in a lavish session of life-changing questions and answers threading unnoticeably through the blades of grass and the leaves on the gloriously monumental trees into my silent yet still pulsating mind; little nudges from God gather sat the back of my thoughts and push them into more spiritual, critical matters, and upon the green I take quiet action to react appropriately to any setbacks that trip up my burgeoning game. Out here, I rejoice internally at the opportunities that drive by in golf carts to smile with a little more happiness each time a good smile passes me on my long walks to and from the clubhouse.

It's shockingly cold outside when the sky still hasn't awoken yet, and it's so terribly hot when the faraway sun pounds you mercilessly in the thinly clothed back, crisping your thirsty lips and turning your starry skin an awkward shade closer to that of Mars.

My glove is rudely fashioned for someone with a longer forefinger than mine; therefore, am I to suppose that manlier men play golf? When the ring finger is of equal length to the forefinger does it wholly denote a friskier, flamboyant, feminine manner? I'm speaking to you, God. How do You make invent such an awesome thing that is just a simple sport of putting a white ball in a brown hole under a yellow flag beneath a blue sky on a green ground in gray shoes and beige pants and red blood coursing through my hushed veins? Thank You, God. I'd shout Amen! at every good stroke, but it's rude to disturb the games of others…