(From TTW) The Ultimate Goal

As we bring centered practice to the sports we choose to play, the ultimate goal isn’t actually improvement. Improvement is just a side effect. What we’re really seeking are the deeper things that emerge as we make this consistent effort to begin to meet our true potential. For those of us old or wise enough to have released whatever dreams we might ever have indulged of going pro, putting our utmost into being a really good golfer or tennis player has little value for its own sake. Winning an amateur tennis or golf tournament might be nice, but if the value of the effort comes only in meeting the goal, what happens should you not succeed? What happens when your skills decline? Can the point truly be only winning?

We say no, and our answer to that question is at the heart of why we’re doing this. We’re not interested in seeing our golf games improve only because we want to play better golf. Competition and play are wonderful, but only part of the point. What we’re really talking about is striving to use the practice to become better people. That’s why so much of our focus is on energy and feeling rather than technique. Being able to hit a 220-yard drive straight down the center of the fairway has utility in exactly one place. A feeling awareness of the body, concentration, centering–these are things you can use everywhere. These things make your life better.

Closer, But Not Complete

I have been saying This Is Not a Blog for over a year now, but I have never been able to say, “It is this.”

The impulse for this Discourse is my continued search for that answer. I still don’t have it. I asked myself, “What if it were a story (or series of stories) unfolding?” That got me closer. Yes, serializing is part of what I’m doing. But just a part. It’s incomplete.

One Irrefutable Counterargument

I very well could have quit, you know. (Though in my case it would have less been abandoning Free Refills than having never had it exist at all.)

There was every reason to think that I just didn’t have what it takes to be a writer. Year after year of barely moving forward. Except for this: an insistent voice telling me, “You have something to say.” And offering semi-intelligible mumblings about how to say it.

I did not quit. I say that with some pride: I did not quit.

Expectations. A Promise.

I mean, seriously. Of the blogs you read now, do you expect any of them to be publishing twenty years from now?

Fuck no, you just said.

That’s the thing. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Twenty years from now, I’ll still be here. (Well, unless I’m dead. But I don’t intend to be.) I’ll still be here serving up the delicious, delicious Refills you have come to know and love.

The Discourse on Not-Blogging, Part 8

The default state for any blog is: abandoned. You’ve noticed this too, yes? Everyone knows of blogs full of good writing on interesting topics to which the author dedicated a substantial amount of time, right up until either life intervened or they did a serious calculation on the effort versus the payoff, and they stopped.

Imagine, though, what twenty years of dedicated online publishing would look like. We have no models to draw on in our visioning. Twenty years ago we barely had an Internet.

(From TTW) Feeling the Center of Gravity

Over the past several weeks, I’ve argued in some depth that the only really effective path forward in learning sports is in learning to feel, that feeling is something of a missing link in instruction and learning.

A few weeks ago, I was playing around swinging a club in the backyard. I was thinking, if what I’m saying about feeling is accurate, we’re only going to get anywhere with the golf swing if we learn to feel the position of the club in the hands, feel the plane of the swing, and feel the contact between the clubhead and the ball. As I was playing with the club, it occurred to me that it’s very hard to feel the striking face of the club, that I didn’t really feel its connection to my hands. In what might have been a moment of insight, I tried to find the point on the shaft where the club balanced, that is, the club’s center of gravity. I was surprised to discover that the center of gravity isn’t somewhere in the clubhead, nor at the point where the shaft joins the head (which would have been my guess), nor even particularly close to the clubhead. On this particular club (an eight-iron), it was a good six inches or so up the shaft of the club. Wouldn’t it be easier to swing a club properly, I thought, if the part of the club that naturally should be our focus–the head–was where the club’s center of mass, and hence its feel, was?

After a little research, the reason clubs are engineered this way made a bit more sense. Because of the physics of leverage, the closer to the hands that the club’s center of gravity is, the easier it will be to accelerate the club, which will make for a faster clubhead speed, which leads to longer shots.

So it makes sense, but I nevertheless remain convinced that less experienced golfers like myself are naturally going to put our focus on the clubhead–it’s what hits the ball, after all–and we’re likely to imagine we feel the weight of the clubhead where it actually is in space, but that’s not where we feel the club’s weight. We feel the center of gravity. What we think we feel isn’t what we feel, which is going to lead to a certain kinesthetic confusion,

After a bit of practice, I found I could feel the center of mass swinging from my hands, which had to be an improvement. This led to an idea: I found the point of balance along the shaft of each of my clubs and wrapped a bit of electrical tape at that point. (The longer the club, the further up the shaft the center of gravity is.) That way I’d have a visual cue for the club’s center of gravity whenever I picked up a given club.

As I’ve practiced with it since, I’ve found that this visual cue has helped me feel the swing of the club much more accurately. It’s led to an increased smoothness. Throughout my swing, I have the sensation of the club’s weight at the club’s actual center of gravity. I rely on my eyes to guide the clubface back to the ball (as most of us should), but because the club’s weight pulls from a spot several inches up the shaft, the clubhead kind of floats in space.

I recommend finding the balance point of your clubs as well. A visual indicator at the center of gravity will help you connect with the feel of the club. Working on learning to truly feel the club as you practice your swing can lead only to positive results.

The Discourse on Not-Blogging, Part 7

I’m not going to do this forever, this not-blogging about not-blogging, I promise. I suspect it’s just not that interesting to other people. I want to entertain. On the other hand, you who are here now in the early days of Free Refills, I hope you’ll bear with me. This problem feels so critical to guiding my day-by-day work. I’m trying to build something with my writing and I’m trying to build it through writing and I’m trying to build it by writing. I’m groping forward to find my way through.

The Discourse on Not-Blogging, Part 6

I can’t control how people interact with my work. How it’s presented is up to me. How it’s met cannot be.

But consider the linearity of my lived experience as I create, the way this begets that. The way what I learned yesterday informs how I write today.

I hope that building-upon-itself survives in the reader’s experience.

(Control: Have you ever considered just how much the history of the Internet is the story of the battle between those who “own” content and the emergent actions of the users of a medium that defies certain ideas of control?)

The Discourse on Not-Blogging, Part 5

Last week in a zero-draft, I thought I’d figured it out. I’m not blogging, I wrote. I’m serializing. I’m telling a story piece by piece. So the reader should come every day, to not get behind.

But it’s not really my place to dictate exactly how someone interacts with my work. If I say, “Read my work every day, or else!” many people will comfortably choose “else.” So I’m faced with a conundrum. I wish to build pieces that travel forward in time, as writing always has. But the format I publish in moves backwards.

The Discourse on Not-Blogging, Part 4

This is not a blog, I keep insisting. But.

I needed to re-familiarize myself on the discourse so far, so I went to the site today to read the pieces in their published context. And what I saw there sure as hell looks like a blog. It reads like a blog.

At the same time, because each piece in the discourse builds on the ones that came before it, it only works properly if the reader reads the pieces in order. Otherwise things get garbled.

Thus another problem with reverse chronology gets revealed.