Zen and the art of wayward golf balls

So I’m sitting by the pool in Cabo San Lucas, reading Gary Snyder’s latest collection of poems, “Danger on the Peaks.”

Snyder long has been my favorite among the Beat poets. There’s something in his sober, conifer rooted words that speaks to me. Here, he’s ruminating on Mount St. Helens, from his first ascent shortly after atom bombs bleached Nagasaki and Hiroshima in nuclear flashes, to his trip the the volcano after it blew its top, reminding us of how tiny we are as we pad along on this planet.

And pop!

Click click clickclickclick.

A wayward golf ball bounces across the patio after escaping from the $200 green fee oceanview golf course, pulling my eyes away from my book. I look at the ball, then look up to see two birds sitting at the brink of the endless pool, taking cool desert drinks in the Mexican sun’s fading fury.

I get up, toss the wayward golf ball back toward the green (so conspicuous among the desert foliage) and return to Mount St. Helens.

And again, a Zen golf ball blasts into my mind. This one much closer. Personal.

I rise in anger, spot the women whacking away on the “ladies tee” below and unleash my tiny dimpled fury in their direction.

I pause, waiting for some response to the golf ball missile I just launched, and out of the ocean breeze, just above the sound of crashing surf, comes their response.

“Thank you.”

To me, an act of retaliation. To them, a kind act of retrieval.