Moon at Half Past Noon

My relationship with self-improvement is less a graceful arc, and more a series of awkward stumbles. Golf, for instance, consistently offers a humbling experience. It lets me connect with the earth in ways I never intended. My divots resemble small, angry graves for my shattered expectations. Each swing is a fresh opportunity to showcase my utter lack of hand-eye coordination. The little white sphere stubbornly refuses to cooperate with my grand, albeit clumsy, designs. And then there’s meditation. The serene pronouncements of inner peace feel like a cruel joke. My relentlessly chattering mind acts like a mental pinball machine. Anxieties and random jingles ricochet endlessly. “Just breathe,” they say. It’s as if my lungs aren’t already performing this involuntary function. They do so with a distinct lack of mindful elegance. Naturally, finding common ground in these two frustrating pursuits is less of a stretch. It becomes comedic fodder instead. Instead. It is a grimly accurate reflection of my ongoing battle with, well, everything! Which brings us to the glorious, and likely futile, endeavor of making fun of both golf and meditation.

Ah, meditation! The ancient art of sitting very still and pretending your brain isn’t a hyperactive hamster on a caffeine bender. They say find your center, your inner peace. I mostly find a crick in my neck and the overwhelming urge to check my phone. It’s like golf, really. You spend hours trying to hit a tiny white ball into a slightly larger hole. All this happens while using ridiculously specialized equipment. And you do it all while wearing inexplicably loud pants. The goal? Lower your score, or in meditation-speak, achieve enlightenment. Both seem equally likely after a large lunch.

Golf gurus talk about the “flow state.” It’s a magical zone where the club feels like an extension of your soul. The ball obeys your every whim. Meditation gurus call it “no-mind,” that blissful emptiness where thoughts cease to exist. In reality, the golfer’s “flow state” is usually followed by a triple bogey. The meditator’s “no-mind” is often interrupted by the sudden realization they forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer. Both activities demand intense focus. In golf, you must keep your eye on the ball. Meanwhile, you battle the urge to blame your caddy, the wind, or your terrible life choices for your errant shot. In meditation, you must resist scratching that itch on your nose. You also avoid wondering if the neighbors can hear your stomach growling. The stakes are equally high: in golf, social humiliation; in meditation, not achieving nirvana before your tea gets cold.

And the jargon! Golf has “birdies,” “eagles,” and “albatrosses,” mythical creatures rarely seen by the average weekend warrior. Meditation has “chakras,” “mantras,” and “samadhi,” equally esoteric concepts that sound like exotic cocktails. Both promise a transformative experience. Golf promises a lower handicap and bragging rights at the clubhouse. Meditation offers a vague sense of well-being. It also gives the ability to tolerate your relatives for slightly longer periods. Ultimately, both golf and meditation are exercises in frustration disguised as self-improvement. You spend a lot of time and money chasing something elusive. Occasionally, you experience fleeting moments that might resemble success. These moments are immediately followed by a crushing reminder of your inadequacy. So next time you see someone looking deeply frustrated on a golf course, remember: they’re just trying to find their damn ball. They are searching for it diligently. Or, if they’re sitting cross-legged looking equally bewildered, they’re just trying to find their damn inner peace. And neither is going particularly well.