“Longing is the sweet pain of belonging to something.” Rumi
The snow lay thick on the ground, a relentless white quilt smothering the rolling greens that he loved more than life itself. The golf course was not just a place for Ahsan, it was his cathedral, his sanctuary, a place where the whispering grass and crisp clinks of iron on the ball made a symphony only he could truly hear. But now, winter reigned supreme, and the fairways were buried beneath ice-crusted drifts.
“Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.” Andy Goldsworthy.
Ahsan from the window of his study, stared out over the frozen landscape. The adjacent river lay still and lazy, its surface cloaked in a frigid glaze that mirrored the icy grip of winter. The usual herds of deer were nowhere to be seen, their graceful silhouettes absent from the frost-covered banks. Neither turkeys nor squirrels darted about the barren woods, their lively chatter replaced by an eerie quiet. Even the birds had vanished from the scene, leaving the landscape bereft of song, as though the cold had silenced the very voice of nature. The world was silent, save for the occasional moan of the wind weaving through the pines. The clubs in his bag, polished and gleaming, seemed to mock him, standing in a corner like a soldier awaiting orders that would never come.
He turned away from the window and settled into his worn leather armchair, the seat molded to his body by years of devotion to the same spot. A steaming mug of coffee sat beside him, its tendrils of heat curling up like ghostly fingers. The television flickered before him, tuned, as always, to the Golf Channel. He watched as the pros strode across fairways in some far-off land where the sun still danced upon green blades of grass. He envied them, not for their skill, but for the simple joy of playing while he remained exiled in winter’s grip. The match unfolded like poetry: drives arcing like comets, putts kissed by precision, and bunkers turned to canvases of resilience. Ahsan leaned forward, gripping his mug as if it were a talisman, and felt a pang of longing so sharp it seemed to slice through the air. The game was not just a pastime; it was a language, and he was fluent in its every nuance. As the match ended, leaving him with both satisfaction and yearning, Ahsan reached for his laptop. If he could not play, he could write. He could capture the essence of golf in words, a way to channel the ache in his heart.
His fingers danced across the keyboard with the urgency of a man trying to bottle lightning. He wrote not just about the sport, but about the spirit of it, the humility of missed putts, the triumph of a perfect drive, the camaraderie born of shared struggles on the course. He described the way the sun felt on his neck during a summer round, the coolness of early morning dew beneath his shoes, and the serenity of watching a ball arc against a blue sky. He wrote of dreams deferred, of fairways buried under snow, of waiting for spring as a lover waits for a letter. His words were a hymn to the game, a love letter to the greens that slumbered beneath the frost.
The blog was finally complete, leaving him with a sense of fulfillment almost akin to sinking the final putt of a perfect round. Now, the anticipation began. Would it resonate with readers? Would his words soothe their longing for the game, offering a brief respite from the ache of unplayed rounds and snowbound greens? Only time would tell if his passion had quenched their thirst as deep as it had his own.
“Advice is like snow, the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and deeper it sinks into the mind.” Samual Taylor Coleridge.
Credits
Google. Quotes. Golf Channel. ChatGPT. Google Docs. AdobeExpress.
By
Ahsan Jamil
Golfer, Blogger, Entrepreneur, Author, Poet, Wanderer, YouTuber, AI Enthusiasts, Conservationist.
Email: Golfaij@gmail.com
Website: Golfaij.com
YouTube: Morning with Golf
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