The journey

One last Michael Murphy passage:

So Shivas Irons would have us learn to enjoy what is while seeking our treasure of tomorrow. And -- you might have guessed it -- a round of golf is good for that, “… because if it is a journey, it is also a round: it always leads back to the place you started from … golf is always a trip back to the first tee …”

The Fertile Void

More Michael Murphy:

He believed that somehow, by some unconscious process, the constant exercise of the sense of perspective required in golf sends a message through to our higher centers that you can never be in the same place twice in relation to the target. Every moment on the course, like every moment in life, is to some degree unique and unrepeatable. And from that realization the mind begins to grope, perhaps unconsciously, for some secure place that never requires a final standpoint in this always shifting world. The mystics have described such a place, or such a no-place, and have called it by names like the Godhead or the Brahman or the Fertile Void.

Such exercises in perspective are a good thing, he said, “for nothing seems satisfying to us short of that. And this Western world is finally getting the message -- just before the game is over.”

‘The heather and the sea’

Michael Murphy in Golf in the Kingdom:

I watched Shivas whenever I could, and slowly his example began to influence me in a peculiar way. I became more and more aware of the feeling of the game, of how it was to walk from shot to shot, how it was to feel the energy gathering as I addressed the ball, how the golf links smelled. It was not that he said anything to me, but his example. He was so physical in the way he moved and responded, like a big animal. The only thing he asked me in fact during those middle holes was whether I could smell the heather. “It’s growin’ way over there,” he said, pointing to a distant hill, “but you can smell it from heer.” I could smell it, and though I didn’t tell him, I could also smell that powerful odor of eucalyptus and baking bread.

Those middle holes were a lesson in resignation and simple sensing. No more ambitions for prodigious shots and scores, they seemed out of reach; just a decent modest game and enjoyment of the endless charms of Burningbush. It was a new way to play for me. I had always focused on the score and the mechanics of my swing. Now my focus included other things, like the heather and the sea. The holes ran along water, and you could see for miles along the sandy links land, across gently rolling hillocks lavender and yellow in the afternoon sun.