Saturday morning from the rough…

This week had a little weight to it.

Work was nonstop. Phones ringing. Emails multiplying like raccoons behind a Waffle House dumpster. Everybody needing something immediately while simultaneously ignoring the last three things you already did for them.

Then there’s the writing.

Lord.

I knew writing this book would stir some things up, but I didn’t realize I’d basically volunteered to become my own archaeologist. Every night I sit down meaning to write one chapter and next thing I know it’s two in the morning and I’m emotionally fistfighting ghosts from 1987 while eating yogurt and questioning every life decision I’ve ever made.

At one point this week I’m pretty sure I stared out the window for forty-five straight minutes like a Civil War widow waiting on news from the front.

And Jan being gone a couple days didn’t help.

The house gets weird when she’s gone. Too quiet. No background noise. No “hey come look at this” from the other room. Just me wandering around like a divorced dad in gym shorts opening the refrigerator every thirty minutes like some magical new food might appear if I check hard enough.

Rain all week too.

That cold steady New England rain where the sky looks depressed before you even wake up. The kind of weather that makes you want bourbon at 2:30 in the afternoon and a crockpot full of something your cardiologist would describe as “deeply concerning.”

I’m also learning something about myself through all this writing:

Apparently I spent most of my life surviving.

And now that survival ain’t the main mission anymore, my brain doesn’t really know what to do with peace yet. So instead of resting like a healthy adult human being, I start overthinking text messages from 2009 and wondering if that one guy at work secretly hates me because he replied “K” instead of “Sounds good.”

Healthy stuff.

Real grounded emotional maturity over here.

But this morning feels different.

The rain finally stopped.

Coffee tastes right again.

The air smells like wet grass and spring.

And for the first time all week I don’t feel trapped inside my own head.

Today I’m going to the golf course.

Now let’s be clear…

When I say “golf” what I really mean is:

paying money to emotionally humble myself outdoors while dressed like an assistant manager at a tractor dealership.

I already know how this day’s gonna go.

First tee shot?

Probably majestic.

Second hole?

Confidence.

By hole six?

Knee hurting.

Talking to the ball in public.

Threatening to quit the sport forever.

Somewhere around hole nine I’ll convince myself I need a new putter, new shoes, and possibly professional therapy.

And then…

for one hole…

maybe one swing…

I’ll absolutely stripe a shot pure.

That sound.

Man.

If you golf, you know.

For one split second the whole world gets quiet and the ball just takes off into the morning like God himself put a little extra air under it.

That one shot will keep a man coming back for twenty more years of disappointment.

Honestly, that may be the best metaphor for hope I’ve got these days.

Anyway.

Long week.

Heavy thoughts.

Little tired.

Little sore.

But this morning?

I’m alive.

The grass is green.

And somewhere out there is a golf cart waiting for me to drive it like a drunk campground uncle.

That’s enough for today.