While I certainly don't claim to be an expert on the subject, I wrote my senior thesis on a certain Zen Master and his role in establishing Zen in Japan as something truly Japanese. . .
As an athlete my whole life, playing soccer in college and other sports more recreationally, I have always found the "zone" to be a very interesting topic. In case you don't know what I'm referring to, I am talking about those elusive moments when you really feel in touch, and in control, things around you slow down, and your level of play is raised to another level. I have always felt that this "zone" was tied to one's mind and emotional state. A sense of calm usually exists during these moments. The ability to stay calm and centered always seemed very Zen-like to me. Ok, now to my point . . .
I had a business meeting set up in Seattle last Thursday. Living in NJ, that is a pretty long flight. I decided that rather than making the trip on Wednesday and returning on Friday, I'd stretch my stay a little bit. I decided to stay with a buddy in Colorado for the weekend and return to NJ on Sunday. My friend and I were lucky enough to be invited to spend Friday night at Ballyneal. Needless to say I was beyond excited for the trip.
While in Seattle I had the pleasure of a quick trip to the SAM, Seattle Art Museum. There was an Impressionist Exhibition on display that was simply fabulous. I was struck by a few works, most notably those by Paul Cezanne. Knowing basically nothing about him, I bought a small biography on the way out.
During my flight to Denver while I was reading the book I came across the following passage:
'Cezanne once described his way of perceiving nature to author Joachim Gasquet. He used the image of spread and closed fingers to explain his manner of reproducing a motif.
"This is what one must achieve. If I reach too high or too low, everything is a mess. There must not be a single loose strand, a single gap through which the tension, the light, the truth can escape. I have all the parts of my canvas under control simultaneously. If things are tending to diverge, I use my instincts and beliefs to bring them back together again . . . Everything that we see disperses, fades away. Nature is always the same, even though its visual manifestations eventually cease to exist. Our art must shock nature into permanence, together with all the components and manifestations of change. Art must make nature eternal in our imagination. What lies beyond nature? Nothing perhaps. Perhaps everything. Everything, you understand. So I close this errant hand. I take the tones of colour I see to my right and my left, here, there, everywhere, and I fix these gradations, I bring them together. . . They form lines, and become objects, rocks, trees, without my thinking about it. They acquire volume, they have an effect. When these masses and weights on my canvas correspond to the planes, and spots which I see in my mind and which we see with our eyes, then my canvas closes its fingers. It does not waver. It does not reach too high or too low. It is true, it is dense, it is full . . . But if I have the slightest distraction or feel the slightest weakness, particularly if I start reading too much into things, if I am swept along by a theory today which contradicts yesterday's, if I think when I am painting, if I interfere, then bang, everything slips away." '
Now there is a lot in that passage, especially when you consider Cezanne's place in the world of art history and his style.
Moving towards golf and GCA . . .
That passage stuck with me after I got off the plane. During the longish drive to Ballyneal I was able to think a little bit about it. And more than anything I realized that the passage had more than a small connection to what I understand Zen to be. I don’t want to get all “Shivas Irons” and mystical right now so . . .
Fast forward to Saturday morning.
After hitting a few practice putts we made the short walk to the 1st tee . . . what a perfect location for a tee, a smile on my face. Decent contact with the driver, a pushed iron, a less than stellar chip, and a missed 12 footer later I had made bogey on #1. . . the bogey didn’t bother me in the least. I didn't have any expectations and actually enjoyed the thought of what it would have taken to get that ball up and down. . . not an impossible shot by any stretch, just a very well played, and creative one.
Enjoying the short walk to #2; looking around thinking that the flow from #1 green to #2 was pretty cool and appreciating the lack of a square incongruous tee box when we reached the 2nd tee, everything seemed to be “right”. There weren’t any noises to distract me (John Kavanaugh’s post/idea was very interesting), no groups behind or ahead to unnerve me. Every hole was interesting enough to keep my level of concentration peeked. The difficulty level was perfect. Not so hard that I got discouraged or beaten down and not so easy that I got careless. There was something to consider on just about every shot – and I don’t mean things as basic as carry yardage.
After 18 holes I had shot my personal best.
I’m 100% convinced that my mindset was the key.
The help of a great caddy also had a lot to do with it, but that could be for a different discussion. What I’m really trying to figure out is . . .
How much did the GCA help me stay in that mindset?
How does GCA differ in terms of putting people into or taking them out of certain mindsets?
Should the GCA strive to take you out of your “comfort zone”?
Maybe it should help you stay there?
Could this “flow” or ability to “guide a player through” be part of why we love certain course?
I know that this post doesn’t really “go anywhere”.
And I’m nowhere near the writer that some on this site are.
I just wanted to try to share my thoughts and experience as best as I could.
Hopefully that quote from Paul Cezanne resonates with some of you.
-Ted