Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons (5 page)

I chose to expand. In high school I went through a phase where I got really into crystals. I wore an amethyst around my neck and a tiger stone bundle in my pocket at all times. Later I learned one of the properties of amethyst was “inhibits drunkenness,” so I left it home on Fridays and Saturdays. No point in taking in all those empty calories if you're not even going to get a buzz off it. My love of crystals was a portal into a whole New Age world. I was an honest-to-god tree hugger in every sense of the world, mixing concoctions of oatmeal and cornmeal and ham into a paste and spreading it at the roots of the grand oaks in our backyard. This was supposedly an offering in exchange for the lead in my school's play or to get Skid Row to come to town for a concert. (And maybe a backstage pass for
my friend Cindy and myself.
And
if possible, maybe for Sebastian Bach to fall in love with me. Just asking.…)

When the full moon rolled around, I concocted an offering to the tree spirits made of oatmeal, corn meal, maple syrup, and birdseed (generously donated by my parakeet Bogie) and gathered up all my beloved gems and brought them outside in a bath of cool water and set them under the moonlight to recharge and clean them of my teenage karma. My parents saw me doing these things. I left the house armed with the only flashlight we had in the house, Judy's spatulas, and a Tupperware bowl, yet they never commented. At least not verbally. Judy's stamp of spiritual exploration approval came in the form of a ribbon-wrapped bundle of brand-new commercial-grade spatulas she left on my bed. They were the perfect size for spreading goo on the roots of old oak trees. My friends were making cash offerings to the college-aged potheads who lived across the street from the high school. I guess there were worse things I could be doing.

Judy was all too happy to drop me off at The Spirit Hut on Main Street to stock up on my crystals and dream catchers and bundles of sage.

“Better than dropping you off at Planned Parenthood,” she said.

She even got in on the action, plying me with more rose quartz than what was available in all the mines in Brazil. Rose quartz earrings, rose quartz pendants, rose quartz elephants and teddy bears. Apparently rose quartz is effective in “opening the fourth chakra”—yes, of course, the one that deals with “matters of the heart.” Rose quartz, among others, was said to help get in touch with our spirit guides—the divine forces I sought when faced with all the difficult challenges of being a teenager in upstate New York.

Alone in my hot-pink bedroom, I imagined myself surrounded by white light. Once engulfed in the light (divine light, not manufactured by GE) I took a deep breath and asked, “Spirit guides, please touch me.”

I used my voice to ask the spirit guides. Not telepathy or sign language or a smear of oatmeal on my forehead. Oh sure, there were lots of girls my age mumbling that same prayer. Only
their
spirit guides were senior class presidents and football players.

My books instructed me to determine how many guides I have. Apparently some girls have more than others.

“Is there at least one of you?” I asked.

Wait for an answer and then ask Number 1 to touch you.

I'm not sure how many guides I had or if the sensations I felt were real or just my subconscious blushing in embarrassment, but the first sign of a chill freaked me out. I turned on all my lights and ran downstairs to the
TV room to join my parents for an hour of
Murder, She Wrote.
I wanted to believe. But perhaps fourteen was too young to be fully enlightened.

Moving to Seattle catapulted me knee-deep into the throes of “finding myself.” Unfettered from life as I knew it and the people who knew me, I now had the freedom to be whoever I wanted. Who I wanted to be was a cast member from
Singles.
I lived mere blocks from the apartment complex in the movie and fully expected life to imitate art. I (like Bridget Fonda) didn't know anyone in Seattle, but it was a Mecca for flannel-loving twenty-somethings from all over the country. Meeting people was easy, thanks to my four part-time jobs and cool, indie record label internship.

One of my new friends was an earthy hippy artist named Phoebe. She was beautiful in an I-just-danced-all-the-way-here-from-Eureka, California-barefoot-and-razorless way. I was all too familiar with these patchouli-soaked hippy wannabes thanks to my four years at a liberal arts college in upstate New York, but Phoebe, with her anklet-jangling, toe-ring-wearing, yin–yang-tattoo-sporting style really pulled it off. She, too, was from New York and that, along with our appreciation for essential oils, birthdays in February, and abilities to consume vast quantities of red wine, bonded us. She was deeply spiritual, and I envied her that. Phoebe seemed to float through life in a lavender-infused cloud of mysticism. What religion she aligned herself with I couldn't tell. Part Buddhist, part Wiccan, part stoner, Phoebe was always bathed in incense and good intentions. She appeared grounded and even-keeled and all kinds of motherly, even if she was four days younger than me. Her à la carte approach to religion inspired me. (She was also a receptionist at a massage school, so that air of calm about her wasn't a façade. She got massages nearly every day.)

Phoebe was (of course) an artist—a painter and a poet—and as talented as she was, she suffered from delusions of other people's grandeur. In an effort to channel the frustrated artist who allegedly lived inside all of us, she guided me through a series of meditative exercises guaranteed to free him.

“How do you know my frustrated artist is a he?” I asked her.

“It's so obvious,” she answered. “You can't feel that?”

Yeah, seems weird that I wouldn't feel that, but no. My frustrated artist was more hands-off than I was.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered.

“Is this where you steal my kidneys and leave me in an ice bath?”

“Shh.… Feel the air moving through your mind, taking your thoughts with it.”

The emptying-my-mind part worked. Her voice was as soft and soothing as a corduroy pillowcase. How could I not fall asleep? When I woke up a few hours later, Phoebe had finished two paintings. One a portrait of Frida Kahlo and one of a frustrated artist breaking free from the confines of a stiff-armed skeptic who will always be picked last in Pictionary.

“That happened while I was asleep? Damn. Looks painful.” I checked myself for puncture wounds.

A few months later Phoebe and I were walking around Capitol Hill, dreaming about a vacation in Belize—or maybe Portland—when we came across a nondescript white house turned into a place of worship. The only sign of the holiness that lurked within was a tiny cross painted on the mailbox and a small sign planted in the grass proclaiming this the New Aquarian Church.

Still open to filling the spiritual void my perverted spiritual guides left when I was fourteen, I got excited. Phoebe and I were both Aquarians. It was meant to be.

We attended a service the following Sunday. (And like the church of my youth, these Aquarians didn't get things started until double digits.) Phoebe and I were two of seven people total. Perhaps the later services were better attended?

A woman dressed in a colorful muumuu stepped up to the podium.

“Thank you for coming,” she said as she smiled. “And welcome to our new guests.”

All five regulars turned around to delight in our company. Aquarians are very friendly. We waved back.

“Today's sermon is a special one. Reverend Joe is going to talk about forgiveness.”

“Oh good,” I said, leaning over to Phoebe. “Maybe I'll learn to forgive you for putting that Free Mumia bumper sticker on my car.”

We stifled giggles, not wanting to make a bad first impression. While we waited for Reverend Joe to enter, Miss Muumuu brought out an old-school cassette player and placed it, along with a microphone, near the speaker.

“What's going on?” Phoebe whispered. “Is this like the opening act?”

“They must be recording the sermon,” I said. “Maybe you can buy a cassette tape for a souvenir? I'm so getting one for Judy.”

Miss Muumuu clasped her hands in front of her. “Enjoy,” she said, winking at us.

Phoebe's giggles were snuffed out by sounds of muffled chanting coming from the tape recorder. Where the heck was Reverend Joe?
Perhaps he should get out here and clean the tape heads. Didn't Miss Muumuu lady say enjoy? Enjoy what? Ear strain by electronics circa 1978? And then it hit me.

“Oh no, that's Reverend Joe!” I whispered. “Or, at least, his voice.”

“Maybe he's sick today?” Phoebe, ever optimistic, suggested.

“I'm in this dude's house of worship and he can't bother to come out and say hello?”

I felt the giggles coming on and fully expected Phoebe and me to be asked to leave. I tried to focus on the sermon and the rest of the parishioners but I could only make out every seventh word or so. Miss Muumuu was bobbing her head in the corner. Our fellow parishioners were smiling along. Not only could they understand this drivel but they agreed with it. When I turned to Phoebe to point this out, I was stunned by what I saw: tears.

Noticing the tears (from laughter) streaming down my own face, she mouthed, “I know. So beautiful.”

What had I missed?

On the walk home, she touted the absentee reverend's wisdom after reading the brochure Miss Muumuu handed us on the way out.

“He receives his sermons from another plane and channels them into the tape recorder. Isn't that amazing? He's so wise.”

Wise? Great. Now I'll find a Free Reverend Joe from the Tape Recorder bumper sticker on my car.

Phoebe was deeply moved by Reverend Joe. She went back to the Aquarian Church every Sunday and bawled her face off during our coffee dates later that day.

“You should come back,” she begged me. “I've never felt more in touch with the Universe.”

Once again, spirituality had leapfrogged me.

These days I know all too well who my spiritual guide is. Her name is Judy and enlightenment can be yours, too, with the right amount of postage. Judy is open to all forms of illumination, including New Age philosophy. Obviously she loves the universe as much as if she were its mother, too. In return the universe finds her premier parking spots and the eight of clubs during Gin Rummy games. My one-year gift subscription to Netflix can hardly compete with
that.

I already have tons of books about spiritual enlightenment from Judy and even a couple from Mike who used those $1.84 refund checks to spread the good word of the universe.

“You need to set aside seventeen or sixty-eight seconds every day to close your eyes and visualize your goals.”

Don't ask. I already did. Apparently those times have been proven to be most efficient.

Mike claims it was
The Secret
that helped him sell his overpriced, almost sinking townhouse by the river (and subsequently not get sued by the buyers when he decided to
not
sell it at the last minute). Personally, I think the sale should be credited to the St. Joseph statue I buried headfirst in his front lawn, but whatever. Joseph and I don't need the credit. The universe knows the truth and the universe will have to live with it.

I pick up the copy of Deepak's
Ultimate Happiness Prescription.
Yep. I still have this book. It's one of the few on Judy's recommended reading list that isn't residing on my secret bookshelf. (And by “secret bookshelf” I mean the one at Half-Price Books.) Admittedly, my favorite part of this book is the cover. The color goes with my living room décor quite nicely.

Even Deepak can't inspire me. Judy and Mike could have him. I have James Wyatt.

As is Deepak, James is a nice guy with a sage-like air. He also happens to be the creative manager for Dungeons & Dragons. I know what you're thinking.
Creative manager
for a product that's all about boundless imagination and inspired originality? If I didn't know better I'd think he spent all day modeling his feelings out of clay and watching PBS.

“I do a lot, thank you,” James said when I asked him. “I'm in charge of story and innovation. I manage a think tank!”

And they're all geniuses, too, according to James.

“But please don't tell them I said that,” he urged. “I don't want it going to their heads.”

“I won't.” Well, sort of.

I kind of glossed over the pages on religion and alignment in the D&D rule books. Although I loved creating characters who were the anti-me—fearless, rugged, totally fine with living out of a suitcase for months on end—no one ever explained to me how religion factors into D&D, or at least to your character. And I guess I never asked. Until now.

James is the right guy to answer all of my burning questions. In addition to being a nice and sage-like person, he's got a background as a minister. He studied religion at Oberlin College and then went on to receive a master's of divinity from Union Theological Seminary in New York City that prepared him, or rather, promised to, for the two and a half years he spent as a parish minister. And yes, he was playing D&D the whole time he was a practicing minister.

Just as Judy tried to instill her spiritual side into my brother and me by forcing us to attend Sunday service and school, I felt like I was doing just the opposite in my D&D game.

“I'm afraid my characters are suffering due to my lack of faith,” I told James. “Or rather lack of any clear religious influence. Why do I keep rolling up these spiritually ambivalent characters?”

“Who's to say that's a bad thing?” James asked.

“Judy.”

“Judy?”

“My mom,” I said realizing I probably need to give James a little back-story. An hour later we're back on topic.

“Well, the beauty of D&D is that you have an avenue to explore religion in a nonthreatening, nonconformist atmosphere. You should try out lots of gods and see who fits with your—I mean your characters'—ideals. Overall, religion can be as important as you want it to be and as comfortable as your group is comfortable with it being.”