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.

Wait, where are we going again?A tribal circle. In honor of the full moon. To pray for world peace. Right.I saw a bad moon rising. Earlier.That day. After picking olives and finding the abandoned, hard-shelled houses of turtles and snails in the earth. Scraping my skin against the metal of the tree markers. Combing the tree as I do my hair, tugging at the knots of olives and waiting for the satisfying plop. Smashing olives with my bare feet. My purple-tinsel scarf wound around my head like a gypsy.

But trouble was not on the way. Tonight there will be nothing but a tribal circle in the round, stone wall dwelling in the orchard. The smoke of burning sage will be tossed into my fleece. I will sit, unspeaking, on a mat, staring at the well-tended fire for hours. I will meditate. I will struggle to get settled-I mean situated. I will see faces in the coals.What do you see?

There was no earthquake. No lightning. Not nasty weather. Nothing all that dramatic. But there was the sound of palm to drum and a child’s cough. The rhythm of shoes in the dirt. The music of a far-away Turkish wedding. The rooster’s insistent cockadoodledoos. The sound of Michael’s breathing.

Don’t come round tonight. And I didn’t. Not there. It wasn’t my time. I had both feet on the ground. No floating or zoning or rising. I was merely an observer, looking in. Others stared into their own possibilities. I just kept staring at the moon.

It’s bound to take your life. No, but I can see how they thought the moon might. I was giving it power with my own energy And receiving. . .something back. Staring like I’d never seen it before. It was no longer the moon, but the perfectly round polka-dot-on-a-dress sized window to another world. The pure white light of another galaxy. I felt so small, but part of something so big. Humbled and empowered. In one moment. And the gravity of my thoughts drug me to the ground. Kept me there. Clutching the earth.

There’s a bad moon on the rise. It was still going up when we left the circle and held each other’s soft, gloved doll-hands down the orchard path at 1AM. That’s when we saw the Yakaba horse. Calmly eating grass in the moonlight, shimmering olive branches between its head and the sky. A creature of the universe. Like me. Like Michael.And I. . kkkkk. . .kkkk. . . . I felt the energy kick in. The connection. The current through all of us. For just a few seconds. Before it slipped through my fingers once again.

According to Bill Bryson, whose book, A Short History Of Nearly Everything, I totally recommend, the English word “uncertainty” doesn’t translate perfectly into German. Did you know that? It’s just too vague for them. You could say weltschmerz, but this translates as uncertainty about the world. Or maybe, zukunftsangst, but this means uncertainty about the future.Languages are often a reflection of the culture where they reside and are said to evolve to fit the needs of those using it. Germany is often fairly assessed as a land full of detail-oriented and organized folk, not big on religion, for example, or. . . .gambling. They’re not big on trusting in the universe and prefer a concise means of self-expression. Therefore, in German culture, it’s easy to see why a vague term such as “uncertainty” just might ilicit the response: Uncertainty of what? Be more specific!So even amidst uncertainty, they want to be certain.Sounds a little like me. I don’t have any German roots I know about, but I found this especially poignant. You see, I’ve realized that my worrying, my craving for certainty, my neurotic level of planning, is actually an addiction. And I don’t like it at all. You might call me hardwired this way. But I’ll go one step further by saying that my insatiable need to know things will “turn out” (a more and more dubious phrase) actually represents a staggering lack of faith in the universe.And, I can’t explain it right now, but this is not who I want to be.So, I have taken action. Or rather, I have chosen not to. And the universe has rewarded me. I had read, for example, a few days ago, that Bursa, Turkey, was famous for its shadow puppet theater—oil-soaked, camel-hide figurines which are painted, then lightcast against a white cloth. Apparently, a hunchback called Karagoz amused himself with such crafts while working on Bursa’s famed Ulu Cami, a twenty-domed, calligraphy-walled mosque from the 12th century. The Sultan, infuriated by the goofing off, had his shadow-puppeteering friends put to death. Perhaps not an uplifting story, but this revived art form seemed like a quirky and innovative look into a legendary Turkish subculture.In the past, I would have copied down the address and mapped a route, holding tight to expectations and remaining determined to accomplish my goal, missing the forest of mosque minarets and Turkish barber shops for the shadow puppet trees. But I chilled. Our first day we took a wander round the city in no particular direction. Eventually stopping to rest for a street-side glass of tea, I was taking in the terrace when I saw a banner. About the shadow puppet theater. Right there, that night, in the very café where we sat.But wait, then it happened again. We were In search of a ferry from Istanbul to Muldanya. After chasing our plans down a maze of rickety lanes, onto a tram, across the Galata Bridge, and past three ticket counters (all the wrong TYPE of ticket counter), up the hill, into the train station, down the hill, and back up the hill again, we finally made the ferry at Yenikapi Port, JUST in time. Yesterday, via email, our first Turkish couchsurfing host, Meric, said to call him when we arrived.But the phone didn’t work. Or maybe it was the number. Or the confusing rules about area codes and zeros and mobile phones using longer numbers. Or just that whole “we’re in a different country” thing. Sometimes I hate it when real life appears.I did not panic, which is really so huge for me and so pleasant for Michael. We knew that we needed to somehow check the validity of our phone SIM card or login to the website and double check our host’s number. So we lugged on our packs and began walking into this coastal town on the MarMara sea. A mere half a block later, plastered with glowing lights and several harmless loiterers, was a Turkcell store and an Internet café. Side by side. Nothing but kebab shops and convenient stores squished along the rest of the lane. Exactly what we needed.And I thought: OMG. This really works.