Freedom, cut me loose.

I was recently part of a conversation in which someone characterized people as either a "chaos muppet" or an "order muppet." For example, Animal is a chaos muppet, as his fundamental orientation is toward drumming wildly; Kermit is an order muppet, as his job is to make sure that everyone is in their place in order for the show to start.

I am an order muppet.

I am in my fourth year of using a Passion Planner to structure my work (my employment and my self-work). I am a six on the enneagram. I am an ESFJ. I am a Hufflepuff. These may mean something to you, these may mean nothing to you. That's fine.

Mostly, what they have meant to me, is that structure is where I find freedom. When there are no rules, I freeze. When there are unclear expectations, I freeze. I rarely go with the flow. I just tried to think of a good example of a time when I have relinquished full logistical control to someone else and, truly, could not think of a good one—until recently. This year has been full of unexpected blessings and not-so-blessed-things. (I feel the need to acknowledge the absolute dumpster fire state of the world as part of this, but we're all here, we all know.) 

Since this is the big, wide, internet, I'm not about to walk you through every moment of what's been happening, but suffice it to say that from mid-December 2017 until now, approximately nothing has gone according to plan for me or some of my dearest loved ones. There has been death, and near-death, and sickness, and surgery. And there has been new life, and new cities, and new houses. Some of our unexpectedness has been positive, but even with those changes comes grief about what had been. Throughout these months, I have handed over—or admitted I had no control over, if we're being really real—the lives and livelihoods of my dearest ones to the God we love and who loves us. Throughout these months, I have reviewed the vows my husband and I made to each other last October, trusted that he meant what he said, and trusted that we are in this together. I, most terrifyingly, placed deep trust in doctors and nurses and other medical professionals.

There was nothing I could do. I had to let go of any semblance of control, and trust everyone else. While I identify these last several months as tumultuous, they have brought deep clarity to my sense of self: I have begun to consider perhaps occasionally going with the flow on purpose.

I have begun to notice that I may have placed too rigid of structures on my own self. There is a difference between keeping my calendar together—so that my colleagues and I are on the same page about what time we're meeting—and setting rules for myself that make it harder to enjoy my life. 

[I re-wrote a few versions of a sentence and stared at the cursor for a while before getting to the sentence that follows this parenthetical.]

I am going to abandon my reading list. 

I know what you're thinking: who cares? Me. And that's why I'm letting it go. I love to read, and I needed a way to structure my reading after a lifetime of syllabi. I floundered for the first year after seminary, unsure how to access all the leisure reading (and learning) I wanted to do, now that I was free. So I set myself some structure for 2016—Book Riot's #ReadHarder challenge and Rachel Syme's Women's Lives Club—and I read. And last year, I did it again. And this year, I set out to do it again. Due to the aforementioned absolute mess of a Q1, I am "behind" in my progress, and—most importantly—not excited about the books I have lined up. There are categories of books that I agonized over, and yet somehow convinced myself that this was going to be good? Even limits have their limits.

It's baseball season, so we're spending our evenings watching game after game. It's awesome. I'm listening to my usual podcasts, including one about baseball, on which a writer whose book I'd been eyeing (but not buying! Because it isn't on the list!) was interviewed so well that I cried. And then ordered her book. I have read more pages in the last week than in the month before that.

I do not believe I will ever abandon my life goal to #ReadFewerWhiteDudes. Rest assured, dear reader. And I will keep posting my reading on social media as I complete books, but I will also stop reading the two books I'm stuck in the middle of because I truly DGAF about them. And will not regard this as "failure" or feel shame about it! I will order books that I hear about that I want to read! And then I will read them! Ahhhhhhhh

It is designed to break your heart.

It breaks your heart.  It is designed to break your heart.  The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. 

A. Bartlett Giamatti, "The Green Fields of the Mind," Yale Alumni Magazine, November 1977


----

Baseball season ended last night.

It was a pretty good game --  I watched it at this Indian sports bar (right?!) with Kyle and Bri. We had a few pitchers and some serious curry and some great conversation while I watched the screen with one eye. The night before, I watched part of the game at home on my couch with Nick, listened to it go into extra innings on the radio in the car, and watched the final few innings at Yogi's with Dylan and Austin. 

Some nights to remember.

Sitting in Yogi's, I was practically giddy watching the score tie and break and tie and break...it was the real magic of baseball. And though Encinitas is not a hub of St. Louis or Texas fans, people in this bar cared. We cared about who won and who lost and who hit and who struck out and of course it's all just a game but it's the game and the series...ah, baseball.

I wanted Texas to win the series because they've never won one, but then I didn't want them to win because GWB used to own them (gotta have principles) and I wanted St. Louis to win because they're the NL team, but then I didn't want them to win because they beat the Brewers to get there...neither are my team and I could hardly have cared less about them a few months ago. But they were the two best teams in October that is what matters. 

When we were sitting in Zaika, I was cheering and groaning and not listening to the conversation at times because I was watching the game. Bri asked if I was really that into baseball. I laughed. In the words of my dear father, baseball is life -- the rest is just details. I grew up watching baseball on TV and in real life with my family. And playing softball. And watching my dad play softball in his Sunday league (in which he still plays).

To me there is much magic about the game. So many people think it's so long and boring to watch -- I can't even begin to understand that. Every split-second there are options to be weighing, decisions to be making. Swing? Bunt? Check? Look? Run? Steal? Fastball? Curveball? Change-up?

And then there's the joy of the ballpark. Hot dogs, lemonade, peanut shells on the ground...when we were kids, once, we pretended to be at the stadium and cooked hot dogs at home and ate peanuts and mom let us throw the shells on the ground like we were really there. That's how much we love how baseball makes us feel. And every time I go to a new stadium, I feel a sense of familiarity, there. No matter what city or team or level or section, it's a baseball game. 


A few weeks ago, Dylan tweeted an old joke, that the last two words of our national anthem are "PLAY BALL!"


My parents joke that if a movie comes out during baseball season, they'll probably never see it. Every Friday night they (or we when I'm in town) go out to Island's to get a beer and a burger and watch the Padres. The bartenders there know my parents by name and order. They got married in February because, as my dad puts it, it's a sports death valley. In the years since they got married, the Super Bowl has been moved from January into February and is now their anniversary weekend every year. But this is so far beside the point.


Baseball is a ritual part of me, of my family, of my country. As Allen Craig stepped back to catch that final fly ball, a giant smile spread across my face. The Cardinals bench stampeded  onto the field, and the crowd roared. It was pure joy. 


But as the confetti fell and the awards were announced and the champagne sprayed...the smile began to fade. It's over. For another year, baseball has come to a dramatic close. And the fall ends and the winter begins and there is no sunny, American, joy anymore. 


Pitchers and catchers report in 112 days. The ritual begins, anew.

October

What a great weekend for Wisconsin sports! Our Brewers, Badgers, and Packers all had wins this weekend -- the Brew Crew even had two! October is a great month because it includes college football, professional football, and the most important part -- postseason baseball.

My Padres are nowhere near the postseason, and neither of the Bay Area teams are either, so I went to my last ballgame last Tuesday. But my TV will be parked at ESPN for the rest of the month, bathed in the excitement of October.

My dad was in Wisconsin this past week, so he watched all three of his teams pile-drive their opponents in real life! Such joy.

If the World Series lasts more than four games (as one always hopes it does), I'll get to watch those final games at home with my dad! This will be the perfect ending to a baseball season.

I don't really have much more to say.

I just love October.