Slowing Down the Swing: Rediscovering Life's Rhythm on a Canadian Fairway
It’s a crisp morning in a city I’ve never been before. The kind of place where the air smells like pine and possibility, and the skyline peeks through a haze of autumn fog. Vancouver? Calgary? Doesn’t matter. It’s a new day. A new city. A new swing waiting to be taken. And as I lace up my shoes and head to the course. I make a quiet pact with myself: I will be open to whatever direction the round takes.
Golf has a way of stripping you bare. Out there on the course, with nothing but sky, sod, and the occasional errant slice, there’s no hiding from your own head. Today, I’m vowing patience – with the bogeys that bite, with the drives that hook left into the rough, with the me that sometimes rushes the putt like life’s scorecard is due at sundown. I’ll laugh at the squirrel that steals my ball like it’s auditioning for Caddyshack. I’ll be present, fully, in the divot and the dew. Because this? This is the adventure. My life’s wild, winding 18-hole round, and I’m all in on the process.
But here’s the real game-changer I’m chasing today: slowing down. Everything. Everything. Slow down my thoughts, those relentless hackers chopping through mental fairways. Slow down my responses, letting words land like a well-struck seven-iron – deliberate, not desperate. Slow down my swing, feeling the clubhead kiss the turf in a languid arc, the ball lifting like a sigh into the blue. Even my pace on the walk to the next tee: no brisk march, just a saunter, boots sinking into the earth, breathing in the rhythm of my own steps. Make it all slow motion. A deliberate reel of the day, frame by frame, where the world doesn’t blur past but unfolds like a secret.
We’ve been conditioned for speed, haven’t we? Life’s a hamster wheel spun by the gods of commerce – apps pinging, feeds scrolling, ads whispering more, faster, now. Go go go. Want want want. It leaves us distracted, darting from hole to hole without savoring the green. Self-absorbed, turning every fairway into a mirror of our own ego.
Uncomfortable in our skin, chasing birdies that always seem one club away. It’s exhausting. It’s everywhere. But today, I’m flipping the script. This is exploration at its rawest: willing to feel the ache in my grip, the whisper of wind through the willows. Willing to go against the grain, to buck the rush-hour culture that’s got us all revved up on fumes.
And in that rebellion? Magic. Life isn’t happening to us – it’s happening for us. When we sync up with the pulse of nature, the world dials back its tempo just a notch. Time stretches like a lazy backswing. Suddenly, you notice the blade of grass bending under your cleat, resilient and unhurried. The wildflowers nodding along the cart path, petals like tiny flags of truce. The birds – oh, the birds – wheeling overhead in effortless V’s, mocking our frantic slices. They know the secret: harmony isn’t about forcing the shot; it’s about flowing with the lie of the land.
Playing golf up here in Canada hits different. The courses carve through farmland that feel ancient, bunkers cradled by lakes that mirror the Rockies. It’s a far cry from the manicured deserts I used to play in Arizona. Today’s round? It’s a time machine. Each chip shot echoes the ones I took with Pops – my grandfather, the man who taught me that a mulligan isn’t failure; it’s forgiveness. We’d spend summers on plush links, him in his sun hats, me all elbows and ambition. He’d pause mid-swing, squint at the horizon, and say, “Slow it down, Gordie. Let the ball find its own way home.” Those rounds weren’t about the score; they were about the stories swapped walking down the fairways with the old guys. Up here, with the loons calling across the water, I feel him on every fairway. A reminder that the best pars come not from grinding harder, but from easing into the grain.
As the sun dips low and the 19th hole beckons – a club sandwich and tallying up the winnings. For the newness that nudged me open. For the slowness that sharpened every sense. Life’s adventure isn’t in the leaderboard; it’s in the quiet swings, the shared smiles, the blades of grass that whisper, You’re right where you need to be. So here’s to today, a new city, a new course, another chance to slow it all down. Who knows what birdie awaits?
What about you? When’s the last time you traded rush for rhythm? Send an email – let’s swap stories from the fairway of life.
Connect... Gordon GordonBufton@Proton.me @GordonBufton