When I was ?n my slumber party phase, my friends and I played those games. You know the ones. Light as a feather, stiff as a board, quiet as a churchmouse. We choked each other to deplete the amount of oxygen traveling to our brain and passed out for seconds at a time. But most of all, we sat knee to knee with the Ouija Board between us. Often at night. Sometimes at a cemetery. Obviously, we enjoyed fear and had a penchant for the mystical. But mostly, we wanted to find out who we would marry.

Years later in college, I Ouija’d with some of my sorority sisters in the attic of our 19th century house. The last thing I remember is running down three flights of its spiral staircase toward the land of the living. It was a fun freak out, but I decided then that I would leave devils and destiny alone.

So when I saw the board propped in my room’s fireplace at the olive farm in Turkey, it certainly contributed to the spookiness of our space. But I was no longer worried about spirits. I began thinking about free will.

As a child, belief in a predetermined path of fate through either a mystical presence or a religious God provides comfort and reassurance–especially at a time when we may feel lost or confused. But ideally, as an adult, we feel empowered to change and influence our own life, leaning on an alleged higher power a little less often.

Instinctively, I gravitate toward free will philosophies. I believe I am responsible for my own happiness. I adhere to the Open Space Law of Two Feet (if you’re neither contributing nor getting value where you are, use your two feet (or available form of mobility) and go somewhere where you can) . I am not repulsed by Tony Robbins. And I’ve always loved this little gem from Live Life To The Fullest, a gift from Aunt Sue at graduation: Act as if everything depends on upon you, but pray as if everything depends upon God.

However, for balance, and to help me release some control and literally go with the flow, I also sway toward more fatalistic mantras. I repeat: This is where God circled for me to be on the map. I believe in the other Open Space saying: The people here are the right people. I trust in the universe.

But in the past few years, a new concept has came rolling into my driveway. One that meets somewhere in the middle. . .and reconciles the two schools of thought. Two years ago, I watched science, positive thinking and mysticism collide in What the Bleep Do We Know. I listened to the hokily-delivered, but powerful lectures of Abraham Hicks. And at the olive farm, I read between the not-so-literary lines in James Redfield’s Celestine Prophecy. Here’s what they (and not coincidentally, Buddhists,) say: While I am the master of my own destiny, and I need not depend on the universe for answers or direction, my connection with the universe is still crucial. Because if I can harness its power and energy, one much greater than little old me, then through deliberate creation, (free will and intention) I can attract exactly what I want.

Tapping the universe? Harnessing energy? I know, it’s tough to believe, let alone embrace. And I’ve been thinking about it for a few years now. But . . .just give it a whirl, think of it as positive thinking with a pirouette and let it carry you away for a dance or two. It’s good stuff.

I’m still in denial about moving that mysterious Ouija planchette. At least on purpose. But even back then, as we reached out our adolescent hands to the universe, probing for information about our hopes and dreams, we were practicing for life. Because we did get something back. I think our only mistake was attributing the message we received to a higher force. . .when it was really coming from ourselves.

One of the things we’re accustomed to, in our nomadic life, is the presence of second-world elevators. The kind where you actually watch the rectangle floors go by, like some kind of early 90’s thriller where the journalist resorts to microfiche in the downtown library.

Some elevators are also void of short-term memory. So, for example, if you get in with a fellow stranger and you push Floor 8 and then they push Floor 2, the elevator will go to Floor 8 and then settle into sleep as if it’s job is finished.

We know about the quirks.

A few weeks ago, in the beginning of Beirut, we were in an elevator destined for the fourth floor Inma Center office. As we rode, I thought out loud, (as my inner monologue is so completely worn out from keeping quiet in front of all these strangers!)

“I wonder what happens when the electricity goes off while you’re in the elevator?”

And at that very moment (and I mean that VERY moment) like a good drama student should, the elevator slowly came to a stop between floors.

So we pushed another button. And it began moving (whew), landing between another couple floors (ack). And we did that again. And then we did that again. Ffffuuuuu. . . .and, eyes squeezed shut, we rode to the bottom, where I banged open the door and embraced the stairs.

Michael rode back up. Show off.

See Michael here, on the front terrace of our Beirut apartment, reading Sophie’s World? He is quite content, sitting in the sun.

But just seven hours later, we’re settled into bed, ready for sleep, when the sounds begin. We hear the first one, glance at each other and say: Could have been a truck backfire.

And all is quiet for awhile. Then another one sounds, something a bit different. But we ignore it. Finally, I am teetering toward sleep when a long hollow ga-goooooon reverberates across the city. My eyes open.

I say: Oh my God.

And I suddenly understand that my whole life, until now, I have been hearing car backfires that SORT OF sounded like guns. But that what I just heard was clearly something quite a bit closer to a gun. I notice that my heart is beating fast, but I am calm. Michael is up, slipping on some pants.

He says: I’m going to the front terrace to check it out.

I say: What should I do?

He says: I guess just be ready to get dressed if we have to.

But Michael returns within a minute or two, reporting a peaceful neighborhood scene. There’s nothing unusual at our intersection–Corniche Mazra and Saeeb Salem– despite the fact that we live smack on the border between Sunni and Shiite neighborhoods, a cradle of potential conflict.

The next morning we talk to our friend Adel and he explains that celebratory firecrackers and shots were fired last night following a political speech. We learn later that February 14th (four days from now) will be the three year anniversary of Hariri’s assassination. We learn from our friend Maureen that a few days ago, following a Hezbollah panel, Hariri’s son made a speech essentially telling the “opposition” that he was ready for a fight.

Okay.

So, the next night, around the same time, just as we are attempting sleep, we hear a constant deafening noise. At first, I think it must be a strong wind. Then it sounds more like a tornado. I briefly consider a garbage truck, but then immediately dismiss that idea. Finally, I wonder if it is a very fast succession of gunshots. But when Michael opens the bedroom’s sliding glass door which faces the residential street below, the sound getting ever-louder, he does not panic.

He says: So THAT is what a tank sounds like.

And we try to sleep.