I fore-see the sport of golf filling up chunks of time in my empty-nesting future. Which means I need to learn this absurd game in the present. So far, yes to the cute visors and chic skorts. Yes, to buzzing around in low-speed carts through waves of manicured, rolling landscapes. Yes, to phone-free hours with my teens on the greens! But currently it’s a No (not yet?), to figuring out how to swing a big stick designed to hit a little ball with a semblance of accuracy. Golf is a beautiful sport with an ugly learning curve.

Supposedly, the gazillion small tweaks that instructors suggest will eventually result in big improvements. The “pros” casually insist that if I could just consistently and minutely shift, bend, angle and twist just about every single body part, I will line it all up just right. Expensive liars they are. I think when that ball manages to fly it’s more miracle than muscle memory. 

Apparently I’ve reached the age where I’m supposed to let a lot … go. At 50, my social networks and social media gurus tell me I can justify hacking off whatever and whoever feels too heavy. Initially, the appeal is real. I remember when the book “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F***” was released. People clung to the idea of not caring so much about so much. Weary, suffocating souls were promised relief from all that physical energy and mental storage. Successfully letting things, situations, people and problems “go” was and is sold as a symbol of maturity, of an evolution, of the courage that comes from being able … care less about more. But I’m not buying.

First of all, I’m not a “Let it Go” kind of gal. Choosing to switch off how I feel and experience life feels as impossible as sinking a 20- (or 2-) foot putt. 

I have and I give a whole lot of f***s. I cannot simply sever what feels heavy or hard. I cannot strangle natural human emotions. I do want to feel, and I don’t want to give up. I do care, wonder and worry. I scream from anger and sob from sadness. I do have a nasty justice bug and want to repair relationships. I feel left out when I’m left out. I do want to predict the future and I do want to understand why things happen or what I’ve done to hurt someone or wrestle with my own struggle with forgiveness. And I cannot choose to just decide that I don’t, whether I’ve earned the wrinkles to or not. I’ve come to appreciate and honor this element of my wiring because it fuels that which I most deeply value in myself and others: depth, vulnerability, honesty, thoughtfulness, relationship, compassion and empathy. 

Second of all, I actually want to learn how to care more about more, how to tweak and strengthen the power I have in my mind and heart and hands and increase my capacity to expand how I live with love and integrity.

But. The pro has a point. And I do tend to hold on to a lot. Sometimes too much. And in many cases, especially to the things I fear or want to right, far too tight.   

So instead of all the letting go, I’m working on lightening up the hard things I’m holding in life. Opening my hands to let the blood flow and the breathing return. Sitting with someone in their problem or pain instead of trying to fix it. Divorcing my dependence on certainty and outcomes. Not letting the tension of anxiety force my white-knuckled hand to top it or shank it or just plain miss it. The practice is helping me think more clearly, widen my perspective, be brave enough to sprinkle out benefit of the doubt and trust in people or in the process and ultimately, for me, in God, who reminds me that precisely the reason I can actually give a little rest to my soul is because I am not in any sort of control.

I’m going to keep swinging. Because sometimes the thing I need to glean on the green has nothing to do with hitting that damn ball at all.