cmcnaught

I don’t like the HUGE font of whatever story is posted last.

I’ve visited a lot of places through cheers given to other people’s travels: 203 different places to be exact. Here is the list:
Akihabara, al Qahira, Åland, Alaska, Alderley Edge, Angkor Wat, Antarctica, Antigua, Aquaba, Arran Island, Arthur’s Seat, Asturias, Athens, Australia, Autobahn, Aysgarth Falls, Azerbaijan, Banff, Barcelona, Beijing, Benidorm, Benin, Bermuda Triangle, Bhutan, Black Hole, Blackwells, Bodleian Library, Bora Bora, Borobudur Stupa, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Botswana, Brazil, Busan, Butedale, Canterbury, Carcassonne, Carlisle, Cathedrale Notre Dame De Paris, Chateau De Chenonceau, Cheddar Gorge, Chicago, China, Chinatown, Cote dIvoire, Crater Lake National Park, Cuba, Dakar, Decorah, Democratic Republic of the Congo, District of Columbia, Dublin, Egypt, Elba, England, Falling Water, Falls Of Glomach, Fes, Galapagos Islands, Galicia, Georgia Aquarium, Ghibli Museum, Granada, Great Barrier Reef, Great Pyramids, Great Wall, Greece, Hadrian’s Wall, Harajuku, Hearst Castle, Heilongjiang, Helsinki, Hiroshima, Ho Chi Minh City, Hogwarts, Holy See, Hong Kong, Iceland, Iguazu Falls, India, Iran, Ireland, Isla de Pascua, Islas Baleares, Israel, Italy, Jamaica, Japan, Jerusalem, John Hancock Building, Kastelorizo, Kazakstan, Kenya, Kingston, Kolner Dom, Kuala Lumpur, Lake Louise, Lan Kwai Fong, Lappi, Legoland, Leipzig, Liechtenstein, Lisdoonvarna, Lithuania, Lombok, Machu Picchu, Madagascar, Manchester, Maroon Bells, Marra Kech, Marrakech, Marshall Islands, Medjugorje, Mexico, Midi-Pyrenees, Monteray Bay Aquarium, Moon, Moskua, Mount Everest, Mount Fuji, Musee du Louvre, Naboo, Narnia, Navajo Indian Reservation, Nepal, Neuschwanstein, New York State, New Zealand, Niagara Falls, Niue, Nunavut Territory, Oregon, Outer Space, Pangong Tso, Papua New Guinea, Paris, Parthenon, Patagonia, Perth, Pervouralsk, Pondicherry, Port Moresby, Portland, Potala Palace, Powell’s City of Books, Prince Edward Island, Puebla, Qinghai, Reykjavik, Rio de Janeiro, Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame And Museum, Rotorua, Russia, Sankt Peterburg, Santiago de Compostela, Scotland, Scottish Highlands, Seattle, Serbia & Montenegro, Seychelles, Silk Road, Sistine Chapel, Soloman Islands, Somerville, South Africa, St. Helena, St. Kilda, Stockholm, Stonehenge, St-Pierre Et Miquelon, Super Secret Good Alien Headquarters, Swarovski Kristallwelten, Sweden, Sydney, Tanzania, Texel, The Cupcake Store, Throne Hall of Persepolis, Tibet, Tierra del Fuego, Timbuktu, Tir Na Nog, Tojo’s, Tokyo, Tortuguero National Park, Transylvania, Trivandrum, Ulaanbaatar, United Kingdom, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, Uusimaa, Uzbekistan, Van Gogh Museum, Vatican City, Victoria Falls, Vietnam, Wales, Washington D.C., Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, World’s Largest Ball of Twine, Wyoming, Yemen,

I’m going to Puebla, Puebla, Mexico at the end of May, to become a bilingual person.

http://pueblabound.blogspot.com

Great, my ball is half buried against the back lip of the bunker. Not only do I have to get the ball up over the four-foot face of the bunker, but I also have only eight feet of U.S. Open slick, ski slope down hill green to work with. And, I have to make sure I do not clip the back edge of the bunker on my back swing.

My mind races with every piece of golf advice I have ever received from every armchair pro and wannabe teacher.
I think I am supposed to open my stance and clubface. Do I blast behind the ball and follow through high? Should the ball be forward or back in my stance? How do I drop the club on the ball and still hit it high enough to stop it? I’ll be lucky if this ball stops within twenty feet of the green. OK, settle down. Open stance, open face, swing along my shoulders, hit behind the ball, follow through, stay down, do not dive after it, keep it smooth.

I take the club away from the ball, being mindful of the back lip of the bunker. Taking my hands back to nine o’clock, I splash the club through the sand, sending the ball toward the flag. Still my mind races, my golf life flashing before my eyes.
I should have listened to my playing partners. They said, “Whatever you do, do not go in the bunker.” I could have aimed for the center of the green, taken a two putt, and been very happy. But no, I had to pretend I was Phil Mickelson and aim straight at the flag tucked right behind the bunker. Maybe if I had hit an easy six from the tee instead of trying to hit a hard seven. Did I take enough sand? Maybe I took too much sand. Please God, just let me get out of the sand. I do not care where. You know what they say, “Any out is a good out.” Joe took three to get out of the last bunker. What if I hit it too hard and it ends up in the bunker on the other side of the green? I should not have played today. I could be home watching Fred Couples play out of the sand, convincing myself that I could be that good with a little more practice.

I watch as the ball lands in the two feet of fringe between the bunker and the green. It takes one bounce, lands on the green, and rolls toward the hole.

“One time, get in the hole baby.”

“Great shot Chris. Nice birdie.”

“Bunker play really isn’t that hard. You just can’t let it psyche you out.”

Metaphor for My Life
July 26, 2005

He walked down the trail, leaving no trace, no clue or hint that he had passed. At least that was his perception, and possibly intent. If he turned to look back on the rocky path behind, he could not see his footsteps; a sure sign that he had been careful to not damage anything in passing. He did not realize his impact however. That flower he had stopped to smell, grew more vigorously because he had cared enough to pay attention, if only for a moment. The bird he whistled at, the squirrel he chirped at, the ants he watched working so hard – all were changed because he spent a moment or two noticing them. They in turn would affect others. He left an invisible, powerful mark wherever he went.
As he journeys, he is torn; he wants to leave some sign, some legacy, but he does not want to harm or damage in the process. A sign would lend credence to his journey. Having others notice his presence would mean his path had meaning, truth. But to leave a sign is to risk damaging the natural beauty around him. If he steps off the beaten path, he might crush a seedling, he might injure or kill a small life, albeit unintentionally.
How can he risk such damage for the vain pursuit of remembrance?
So he walks carefully, believing it is possible to pass without leaving any indication he had been there. He does not realize that lack of attention can be worse than no attention. The flower he ignored, afraid to damage it, does not grow quite so well; the bird he ignored, the squirrel he avoided, were looking for a small moment of kindness, of contact, not for avoidance in the guise of protection.