Tom Watson lost the Open Championship today. So what, you may be saying. Well, it’s not just any golf tournament—it’s the Open Championship, sometimes referred to as the British Open, one of the four major tournaments in the annual professional golf calendar, the oldest of the four, and usually played in Scotland where the ancient game originated—it’s the golf equivalent of Wimbledon. You still may not care.
Well, this wasn’t just any Open Championship, and it wasn’t just any old professional golfer. Although it was in fact an old golfer, at least by professional golf standards—a 59 year old competing against a field of twenty and thirty somethings. And, had he won, it would have been historical—the oldest golfer ever to win one of the four major championships and the sixth Open Championship for Watson which would have tied him for the lead of the most Open Championships.
And this opportunity at victory wasn’t a long-shot (well, it was on Thursday when the tournament started, but not by Sunday when Watson was still in the lead). Watson lead on Thursday and everyone was nostalgic about the brief flash of brilliance reminding everyone of the fine champion he was in the 70s and 80s, but you knew it was just a moment in the sun. He was still the leader on Friday and we were all amazed at his stamina, for an old guy anyway. He was still the leader on Saturday and suddenly we all realized he could do it—he could make sports history.
On Sunday, he was at the top all day, going in and out of the lead at various times but always the constant contender. As other players fell in and out of the lead, Watson was constant, and constantly at the top of the leader board. Going into the 18th and final hole he was the sole leader and victory and history were his. I was very emotional—truly on the verge of tears of happiness for this Gentleman of Golf, already a champion in the history books and poised on the precipice of even greater sports fame.
And then he lost. And I was still on the verge of tears, but now of heartbreak. How, in a matter of a few minutes, moments really—just two strokes of a golf club, the third and forth strokes on the 18th hole—did he go from eternal fame to nothing? (Not to mention the fact of why is a 44-year old man crying over a 59-year old golfer—crying whether he won and crying whether he lost.)
Such is the nature of impermanence. Today we’re a prince, tomorrow a pauper. Yesterday we had robust retirement accounts, today we’ve postponed retirement and are working into our 70s. Today we’re healthy, and tomorrow we are succumbing to death by cancer. Someone lost a job. Someone lost a spouse. It can all be quite devastating. But why focus on the negative? Impermanence also means that tomorrow my business venture could take off, my cancer may be cured miraculously, and my soul mate might wander into my life. Certainly, this is true. But the point is not to get caught up in the misery of the bad times or the glory of the good. Either way it will pass—nothing is permanent.
Golf (and especially today’s final round) is a good metaphor for impermanence. You can be on the precipice of greatness, and nothing may come of it. A great shot is followed by a terrible shot. A triple bogey is succeeded by a birdie. A three hundred yard drive counts as one stroke, as does a 3-inch putt. Today, six different persons held the lead at various times during the day. It was a veritable feast of change on the shifting sands of change.
Impermanence and change are central to Buddhist belief. Buddhism states that there are certain matters over which no human being has control—certain matters that will constantly be in a state of flux, an inexorable movement forward, for good or ill, that cannot be stopped: you will grow old, you will get sick, you will die, things that are perishable will perish, and that which is liable to pass away will pass away. The more cynical (and succinct) American paraphrase of this primordial truth is that only two things are certain: death and taxes.
Just so you don’t think that Buddha (or the East) had the lock on ancient wisdom, at about the same (c. 500 BCE) Heraclitus, a pre-Socratic Greek philosopher, was also proclaiming change and impermanence as bedrock truth of reality: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” (The river is a classic metaphor for constant change; see below).
And the Judeo-Christian tradition is not silent about impermanence either. Let’s start with Psalm 90.
We fade away suddenly like the grass
In the morning it is green and flourishes
In the evening it is dried up and withered
The span of our years is seventy
Perhaps in strength even eighty
Yet the sum of them is but labor and sorrow
For they pass away quickly and we are gone.
The entire psalm is about impermanence. So what’s the answer to this? Eternal misery over constant change that we’ll never be able to control? Well, no. The psalmist has an answer: “So teach us to number our days/That we may apply our hearts to wisdom.”
What is numbering our days? I think it’s nothing other than the concept I have discussed already in this blog—living in the present moment, good or bad, and graciously accepting it for what it is without trying to change it—the knowledge that the present bad moment will eventually turn pleasant, and the current pleasant moment will eventually turn bad, just as a river is constantly flowing downstream with ever changing currents.
Jesus also addresses this issue.
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6:19-21).
Life is impermanent, moth and rust destroy, we grow old and we die. If the present moment is pleasant, you become attached to it and when it’s gone you despair. If the present moment is bad, we pine for another time and we despair. Either way, we despair. But if we store up treasure in heaven, that is, lead a life of wisdom, of graciously accepting the present moment as neither good nor bad, but as just the present moment that we can learn from, then we can break this constant cycle of attachment to good and aversion to bad, both of which only lead to misery.
I leave you with two prayers. The first has become sort of trite because it’s on so many bumper stickers, note pads, coffee mugs, and other paraphernalia, but it still speaks fundamental truth:
"Lord, grant me patience to bear the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
The second is from the Episcopal Church Book of Common Prayer and it’s one of the collects (prayers) for Compline, the ancient monastic prayer service said immediately before retiring to bed.
Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the hours
of this night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and
chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Everything changes. Don’t get caught up in it. Relax. Breathe. Experience the moment and learn from it.
Postscript: After the Open Championship, at the press conference, the reporters filed in somber and quiet while Tom Watson sat stoically at the dais. “Come on fellas,” he said, “this isn’t a funeral.” That’s the attitude, Tom! You’re already a champion. It would have been great one more time. And I would have cried tears of joy for you. But if you really want to make a difference in this world, go home and love your wife, love your kids, be gentle and kind to strangers, a mentor to young golfers—continue being the Gentleman of Golf.
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