Buddha and Three Putts

("How Golf Makes You Confront Your Mortality")

Golf is literally a four letter word. Trust me, almost six decades into this form of torture, I believe someone dyslexic first named this undertaking. 

I am my worst self in my stroll around these bucolic settings. Often cursing out the Lord, or invoking the name of his son, cranky, moody and as many other uncomplimentary adjectives as you can conjure.

And when the moments of glory surface, when the ball obeys my mental commands, when the putts do not veer off target at the last millisecond, when the sun is shining and the warm breeze gently brushes my face, even then I sense the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. 

And if I could insert one thought about Buddha in  your contemplations of a life filled with slices and three putts, it would merely be this; Buddha was not a golfer.