Every now and then, a concept will come along and change the way we think about a particular field, casting light on a different way of approaching our lives. Sometimes these might be an entirely new perspective; more often, it will be a case of finding a new audience for ancient wisdom, for there is “nothing new under the sun”.
We tend to like neat packages for our self-improvement snacks, and in order to gain traction amidst the constant tirade of incoming information, the theory must be simple and quick to understand, and have a catchy hook, so our muddled brains can have some hope of hanging on to it while life carries on throwing stuff at us.
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s study of what he termed “flow states” put a nice, manageable label on a fascinating field that explores a phenomenon most of us golfers have glimpsed, all too fleetingly - the moments when you can’t put a foot wrong, when it all feels so easy. This notion of flow, and a further study of the tools that can help us access it not only when standing over a four footer for the half, but in our wider, less thrilling lives, pervades sport and popular culture at this point, or at least the dark corner of it where I hang around, in the dimly lit podcast corner.
As part of an intentional break from the rigours of managing a golf club, I am actively looking to play golf both more often and more thoughtfully, looking to replenish the love for the game that saw me throw in a job in the book trade two decades ago, in search of a life intertwined with this subtlest of games. So in amongst the various, regular developmental listens are now a few golfing ones, and wonderful they are. It is good to know I am not alone in finding a deeper connection to this game, a theme which leaps out of the other creative folk that carve these half-hour chunks of content for me to cherish on my way to and from the course, or while washing up.
On one of these interviews, a fellow golfer likened us as a species to the lab rats on which behavioural experiments are carried out. If a rat is given access to a lever that delivers every time a constant dose of a certain, pleasurable compound, they will experiment with it to some degree, but in the case he was referring to, not pursue this to the point of addiction. They will lose interest fairly quickly. If, however, the rat discovers that the dose is intermittent, or occasional, they will continue to tap the lever at the expense of even food, in order to see if this time, the magical elixir will drip out and reward them.
We all know that golf does this on each and every journey we make through the course. Somewhere in that collection of missed chances, thinned pitches, sliced drives and lost balls will be at least one nugget of pure, unadulterated gold; the sporting equivalent of the rat’s opioid jackpot, calming and soothing the golfer’s troubled mind in equal measure, and bringing us back time and again for more punishment.
For we all hold on to these moments, clinging to the image of the three at the last while the shame of the nine on the fourteenth thankfully slips away. To play golf you must have at least some vestige of optimism, otherwise the game would destroy you, and in the selective memory we golf addicts exhibit, proof of some normally hidden, glass-half-full mindset is clearly visible. We are deluded after the good shot, thinking that perhaps we can play after all, but it is probably simply the law of averages at work.
This notion of flow looks at how it feels when these shots do go our way, looking to glean something of ongoing value from those moments. Some call it a “purple patch”, others refer to being “in the zone”, and it is often said that it felt as if you had, in those moments, simply got out of your own way. Stemmed the flow of self-doubt or mental chatter, or perhaps the endless checklist of instructional, theoretical nonsense that we stand over the ball with. In flow, when we hit the few shots that help us golfers sleep at night, the ones that keep us smiling as we drive out of the gate back to the rest of our lives, we are more like a simple portal through which these moments of mysterious genius manifest.
Anyone who has ever considered writing for public consumption might have also come across another concept that seems to me to tie in here. Many authors have spoken of the importance of “the muse” in their creative process, and while the original concept came from Greek mythology, where nine muses were thought to have certain areas of expertise that could bestow inspiration upon the unsuspecting mortal, it is more commonly used these days to describe a feeling whereby an idea suddenly arrives, unannounced.
To our rational minds, this feels a little edgy, but there is no doubt that some days a creative soul will find it hard to muster anything worth contemplating, and on other days the universe seems to be lit up with opportunity, and every thought has artistic merit. And the funny thing about the muse, if you haven’t already closed this thread, is that you have absolutely no control over when she will show up. Just like that high draw that you hit on seventeen, or the one liner that reduced your playing partners to gibberish wrecks. It will happen, now and then, but you can’t force it or it will not show up at all. It’s a bit like needing to be asleep before Father Christmas arrives.
I’ve been messing around with golf clubs for thirty-five years, and with writing for only a couple of those. But already, these themes of flow and the muse, and of the importance of clearing sufficient space in your mind for the decent drive and the thoughtful book idea to surface are inextricably linked for me.
I have come to accept that some mornings, my mind is as blank in respect of writing inspiration as that of the trusty dog that lies beside me while the rest of the house sleeps, her glance up never betraying that she thinks I’m fighting a losing battle here. And some other times, often not when I sit here with a pen in hand, but rather when motoring at speed, say, or showering - basically when it could barely be less convenient - the muse will visit, and my synapses will be firing, and I cannot wait to start fleshing out these notions, just in case there is something worth exploring there.
There is always surprise when the golfing or authorial muse turns up, but one factor is always present. I have to have given the thoughts some space in which to settle. This will often mean that I am in a circumstance where I cannot be subjecting myself to the dopamine hits of the incoming message cycle. And by doing that, and breathing, and slowing the heart rate, the stream of consciousness eases off, and there is space for something new to emerge, as if by magic.
When I can stem that endless flow of thoughts, and quieten the mind, I am creating an environment where inspiration could strike, if I am lucky. I’m doing what I can to facilitate it, at least - removing the barriers that will definitely prevent the muse from showing. [the auto-correct on this old iPad placed “mouse” instead of “muse” in that last sentence, but I’ve been talking about rats, not mice. Machine learning hasn’t overtaken me just yet…]
There is a place I go - or rather a number of places I go, as I’ve no home club anymore, but they all share some fairly common themes - where this sort of thing seems to happen a bit more predictably, as if the lab rat’s ratio has been bumped up a notch, and the jackpot is a little more regular. A space where I find I can cultivate a calmer state, and allow the more meaningful, occasionally articulate, sometimes borderline spiritual thoughts to emerge.
In between those funny sawn log markers, and the colourful silks that flap in the wind like Tibetan prayer flags, there is a path we golfers call the fairway, and in walking along it, or sometimes adjacent to it, there are profound moments to be found, muses waiting to be invited in, memories to be made. And regardless of the ninety shots we forget, there will be a string of one, or two, or even three shots which have come from somewhere else, a peak state arriving and departing like some alien visitation, and, when it is all over and the chemical highs of the golfer and the lab rat have worn off, the memory will remain and we will be back on the tee, hopeful and happy.
It’s something else, this golf.