No Small Miracle

I used to think of miracles as rare, supernatural phenomenon that defied the laws of science and nature, like the person who survives a shipwreck and is washed up on shore with hardly a scratch ... or the transforming of water into wine. But I see now that miracles happen around me everyday — if I'm willing to see them as such. Among the greatest miracles of my life are my relationships with my friends.

We met by chance more than 30 years ago.

When I consider how many events had to line up perfectly for me to have met some of the most important people in my life, I'm rendered rather ... speechless. (For those who know me, that's saying something — or rather, not saying something.) Millions of actions both subtle and overt had to occur for me to "happen" to meet any one of my friends. And when I consider all the actions that my parents and grandparents and great-great-grandparents had to take in order for me to end up perfectly at a certain place and time to say, meet Christina in Little Rock, or Janet in Knoxville, or Lesley in Atlanta, or Sandi in Birmingham, the expounding factors really boggle my mind. 

I've often wondered why in the world I've been given so many awesome friends. One might argue that I just make friends easily, but I don't think it's that simple. I mean, why would I manage to become close friends with certain people and not others? There are a lot of wonderful people in the world, many of whom I will never meet, let alone forge a friendship. Turns out spiritual guru Eckhart Tolle has an answer. “Life will give you whatever experience is most helpful for the evolution of your consciousness," he writes in his best-selling book A New Earth. "How do you know this is the experience you need? Because this is the experience you are having at the moment." 

Apparently, the experience I need is to be surrounded by a lot of smart, funny, loving people. 

Recently, I spent a long weekend with a group of smart, funny, attractive, successful, loving people. They happen to be my six girlfriends from college. I've known these women for more than 30 years and being back among them is always a refreshing reminder of who I was and who I am. Our chance meeting on a college campus more than three decades ago was nothing short of miraculous. Somehow over the years, we've managed to not only stay in touch, but also remain close friends. Yes, there have been years when these get togethers have been difficult because I felt my life wasn't where it should be and I struggled seeing these friends who all seemed to have it all together. But now I see that even when my life was falling apart, the relationship we share was solid and abiding. No one judged me for my first — or even my second — divorce. Everyone was supportive when I resigned my job at Turner, and when I was downsized from Time. Being back among these women this year I particularly appreciated the walk-on-water phenomenon of our friendship.

Boys night out is a miracle too.

While I was lounging at the beach with my pals, another miracle was unfolding back home. I received evidence of it via text message on Saturday evening. My dear boyfriend Jason had taken Jack to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch the Alabama game. Afterwards they went back home for copious hours of MineCraft. And although I often take this relationship for granted, it too is a miracle — and not a small one.

More than two years ago, Jason entered my life in the same manner in which all my friends entered my life: totally unexpected, and with instant rapport. We just "hit it off."

What I could never have imagined is that Jason would also hit it off with my (then) ten year old son. I've seen all the awful movies about kids who resent their parent's new romance. I resigned myself to the fact that, even though I might have a boyfriend at some point, our dating would be relegated to weekend outings that did not include my son. I never dreamed I would stumble into a relationship with a man who loved my son and whom my son respected and loved back. In fact, it was Jack's idea for Jason to move in with us over a year ago when the lease to his condo expired.

"It would just be mean to not let Jason come live with us, Mom!" Jack said.

Lest I add to the pile of mean-Mom infractions I'd already accrued by that point, I happily acquiesced. Only later did I come to see that this intermingling of lives was nothing short of parting the Red Sea or the curing of malignant cells. No amount of holy water in Lourdes could have manifested the little family I now enjoy. Often when we sit down for dinner in the evenings I am humbled by this gift. This what I always wanted and more — and yet, I could never have made this happen. Even my ex-husband loves Jason! No, this is not of my doing. Not by a long-shot. Lazarus jumping up from the dead's got nothing on this.

Zombie Sons

I love my zombie son.

When we arrived in Grantville  there were zombies all over the little town square. We knew very little about what to expect. Jason, Jack and I heard about the game two months ago when we visited our friends here. A long time ago, I lived in this town. Ten years ago to be exact. There were no zombies back then. There weren't that many among the living either. The town boasted a population of 1,200. Now it had grown to more than 5,000 residents—most of them human.

The last time I haunted Grantville's downtown, I was a new mom. I had never changed a diaper before Jack was born and motherhood did not come natural to me. Fortunately, there were some wonderful women in this town who knew a thing or two about infants, and I found expert help when I needed it. Returning here ten years later with my 12-year-old in tow reminded me just how far I'd come—and how far I had yet to go. Going through a divorce is not exactly the ideal circumstance for a kid. I worry all the time that I'm a terrible mom. Somes times my fears are validated. Suffice to say a lot has happened since I left this sleepy southern town.

Grantville was recently put on the map one when it was selected as a location for the AMC series, The Walking Dead (TWD). The producers scouted all over Georgia and deemed Grantville the perfect setting for their post-apocolyptic, zombie-fied world. I've never liked the idea of flesh eating anything, but when I discovered Grantville was one of the locations for the series, I started watching. After a few episodes, I was hooked.

For industrious Grantvillians, an entire zombie industry cropped up around those episodes. There are no fewer than three shops that sell TWD stuff and assorted zombie paraphenalia.  Zombie mania is a trend that won't last, but for now, merchants are riding the wave and so are other profiteers. The Zombie Soul Survivor Game was just the latest in the undead-themed attractions aimed at snagging some of the discretionary cash being spent by the living.The game provided fresh white t-shirts for the hopeful humans and, if tagged with a "bloody"(red paint) hand print or splatter, you were then deemed infected and eliminated from play. Simple enough. Jason and Jack decided to test their zombie apocalypse survival skills. To be honest, the idea of  paying $40 to be chased by zombies did not appeal to me much, but my guys were up for it and I went along to provide moral support and visit with my Grantville friends.

As we stood in line to get our t-shirts and sign release forms reliquishing any responsibility of the game maker should we really be harmed in the apocolyptic play, some quite convincingly made-up zombies approached us and began to make "I want to eat your brains" noises. They really were creepy—even at high noon on a very sunny Saturday. I decided to ignore them and not make eye contact.  I looked around, I discovered Jack cowering behind Jason. He wasn't playing; he was really stressed out. We inched forward in line and every step we took—bringing us closer to our zombie-bait fate—Jack became more anxious. Tears began to form in his eyes as we were handed t-shirts. He grabbed my arm and said, "Mom, I don't think I want to do this."

I looked at my pre-teen son and saw a child about to melt down. I wanted to say, "Hey c'mon! We've been planning this for months and you love the whole zombie thing! It will be fun! Lighten up! They're just people in costumes and make-up!" There was also a part of me that wanted to be pissed off because my plan for the day was being derailed. After all, we'd talked about this outing for weeks and spent money on fuel and tickets. Fortunately, I set that aside because I could tell that Jack was really scared. No amount of cajoling would encourage him to release the fear he felt, because at this point, his fear was real—even though the zombies weren't.

Fear is a complex emotion. It's one I've been studying a lot lately as I explore my own fears and how I react when faced with them. The thing about fear is that even though whatever it is I'm afraid of is rarely actually happening—my fearful thoughts are happening and, therefore, are quite real. It is hard to set aside those feelings once they are picked up. Finding a sense of humor is the easiest way to break the hold of fear. Laughter really does combat fear like nothing else I know, but it's hard to laugh when you're (literally) scared out of your wits.

Jack was shutting down. I've done this too. It happened decades ago when I began taking lessons to get my SCUBA diving certification. I attended the initial instructions at a local pool, but when it came time to practice the essentials, such as taking out your mouth piece while underwater and sharing it with another diver (a technique known as buddy breathing,) I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I froze, and refused to get back in the pool. After that night, I dropped the course. It wasn't that I tried and didn't accomplish the feat, or had a bad experience, got water in my nose or anything like that. The thought of being underwater and not being able to breathe scared the be-Jesus out of me. To this day, the idea of SCUBA diving has no appeal to me, and on a recent trip to Cabo, I found I didn't even like snorkeling so much.

So I understand this type of illogical, debilitating fear, and this is what I saw in Jack. He began to cry. Jason said, "Let's just go," but I wan't ready to give up just yet because I do know a thing or two about fear. 

Fear makes me feel as though I have no options. Within the cycle of my fear,  I begin to feel I have no recourse, so I panic and become more afraid, and the more afraid I become, the more my mind clouds and I can't think straight. The more I fear, the more cut off I am from reality and from making healthy decisions, and so I react in panic and (often) fall deeper into whatever hole I'm trying to escape. But not today. Today, Jack was in the hole. But since I wasn't, I could see another option: Go zombie. 

You see, players who were "infected" in the game got made up as zombies and were allowed to continue playing for "the other side."

Polite zombies win the day.

"Why don't you just start out as a zombie?" I said.

After seeing the zombies in person, Jack was retiscent to join their ranks, but our options were narrowing and time was running down. The game would begin soon. Jack agreed to give it a try. I led my boy over to the old train depot where the zombies were being created so I could ask the nice man with the airbrush and artificial scabs to kindly turn my beautiful son into a goon.

Inside the depot was dark. Jack hesitated and didn't want to follow me in. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw the make-up artist transforming humans into zombies with greenish spray paint and blood-red gashes. Jack hung back, eyeing the newly zombie-fied humans with distrust.

"I don't like it in here," he said. "I can't see."

"Let your eyes adjust," I said. "Give it a minute."

There was a group of zombie kids, about Jack's age, waiting for the game to begin. I asked a boy if he liked being a zombie.

"It's fun," he shrugged. "You just run after the people and try to tag them. They tell you what to do and who not to tag."

Jack hung back beside me, listening.

Three ghoulish teenage girls said they'd been here since 7 a.m. and they didn't seem traumatized in the least. (The first event was at 8 before the heat of the day set in. I was seeing the logic in that as the temperature rose past 90 degrees.) 

The make-up artist stopped to eat a slice of pizza, and I stepped up and asked him if he could put some paint on Jack next. He nodded.

"Soon as I'm done eating," he said.

While we waited, I turned to the young man standing next to me.

"Have you been here since this morning?" I asked.

"Yes mam," he said.

"Wow, what nice manners you have," I said.

"Yeah, you wouldn't think that to look at me," he said.

The young man had big plugs in his ear lobes. When I was his age, we'd call someone who looked like him a Punk Rocker, but I have no idea what the young and extremely pierced call themselves today.

"People look at kids like me with tattooes and earrings and they think we're weird, but they don't know what's in our hearts," he said.

You weren't there, but let me assure you that he didn't come off sounding defensive or rude. Quite the opposite. The young man assumed I was being judgmental of his looks—and I was, just a little, even though when I said it, I meant he had great manners for a zombie. But perhaps since I sported suburban Mom Bermuda shorts and a matching cotton top, he judged me too. His eyes were alive and filled with knowledge. Not at all typical of the undead—or of most 18-year-olds, for that matter.

"You're right," I said. "You are so right. Can't judge a book by its cover. But what I meant was for a zombie, you have nice manners."

He laughed.

"I'm from Louisiana," he said. "Part Creole, part French, part Southern. We were raised with good manners."

"That's great," I said. "I like my son to see older guys like you who still say yes mam."

The young man introduced himself as Zach. I asked him if he thought Jack would be okay as a zombie and he said yes, mam, he did.

"He's just 12, and he was going to be in the game, but he got freaked out," I said. "I'm trying to help him get over it."

And then Zach said something really unexpected. 

"You're a really good mom," he said. "My mom and dad died when I was little and I was raised by my grandmother and when she passed away, I didn't have anyone looking after me. So I never had a mom really. You're really cool to look after your son this way."

I was stunned and touched by his words. I wanted to hug him. I could easily have been his mother. Most of my girlfriends have children his age, even older. The thought of a child—any child—abandoned at such a tender age, made me want to cry. And yet, here he was now, this young man, seemingly at peace with the fact that his childhood sucked. His tone didn't convey the least bit of bitterness or anger. Why had he told me these intimate details of his life? He smiled and affirmed something very deep and real. In that moment, I felt something meaningful pass between us. A sense of warmth and well-being came over me. It felt like ... healing.

I'm not completely sure what happened. At may sound odd, but I can assure you was that the presence of something greater than me was with us in that moment. In an inkling, this complete stranger confided in me and then gave me the message I needed to hear. And I was given the opportunity to affirm in him that he was a great young man with beautiful manners and a good heart.  In that moment, I wondered if this exchange was the reason we had come all the way to Grantville that day.

"You're a very remarkable person," I said. "When the game starts, can Jack go with you?" 

"Sure," Zach said, without hesitation. 

Since you weren't there, it may be hard for you to imagine how I so quickly and willingly turned over the care of my son to an 18-year-old zombie with a hole in his ear the size of a quarter, but that's what I did. Not falling prey to fear, I followed a hunch, and it was a sound one. I introduced Jack to Zach.

"Do you want to be made into a zombie and hang out with Zach and his friends?" I asked.
"Sure!" Jack said, without hesitation.

The make-up artist transformed Jack and he joined Zach and his friends, who all had ear plugs and piercings and tattoos all over their bodies. I felt completely comfortable allowing my child to run off with them. And Jack felt comfortable, too—with the punk kids, and the zombies, and his fears. 

After Jack ran off with the zombie horde, I joined Jason and about a hundred or more hopeful survivors. The game began. Jason and I were infected (tagged out) at the third obstacle as were many of the other participants. Jack remained with Zach and his gang until the game was complete and had a blast.

Honestly, the game itself wasn't really worth the price tag, but to pay $80 to discover that I'm a decent mom after all was a bargain.  I also discovered that mending past wounds is very important work, and you never know when you'll get the opportunity to help heal someone else—or yourself. And finally, I learned even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse there's redemption to be found, if fear is abated. Years from now, if Jack turns up with a ring in his nose, you'll know the genesis of it. Blame it on me for being a "good" mom.

Hooked on a Feeling

We were looking for the perfect end-of-the-summer activity and we found it: the latest Marvel blockbuster, Guardians of the Galaxy. I admit, I'd never heard of these heroes before I saw the movie trailer earlier this year—and I was only in it for the smack-talking raccoon.

There's something about hairy ...
Image compliments of Marvel Studios,
 Guardians of the Galaxy

Although this latest cinematic installment of Marvel comic series seems an unlikely place to find Buddhist teachings, as it turns out, we have a lot to learn from a genetically modified, wise-cracking, machine-gun totin' raccoon.  But first, I have to say I haven't been this swept away in the pure fun of a film since George Lucas premiered a little ditty called Star Wars in 1977.  With its overt and subtle tributes to the original space epic and its crazy, perfect soundtrack to my youth, Guardians of the Galaxy transported me back to a time not so long ago but far, far away.

On the surface, the film follows a familiar trope. Boy is tragically orphaned. Boy meets fate. Boy is transformed. In this case, young Peter Quill is abducted by an alien ship helmed by a blue-faced incarnation of Merle from The Walking Dead (both characters played by my favorite anti-hero, Michael Rooker,) and turns up 20 years later as an able-bodied space looter.

We're introduced to grown-up Quill (played by Parks and Recreation's Chris Platt) in a scene that borrows pacing and attitude from another George Lucas classic starring Harrison Ford, Raiders of the Lost Arc, Quill (Chris Platt) is chasing down a very valuable trinket called the Orb when he's set upon by some space baddies. With a heap of Han Solo bravado, Quill makes off with the treasure only to discover that his problems are just beginning. Yes, when he lands in a prison reminiscent of Jabba's basement, things seem to really go down hill, but that's what makes for the best possible epic adventure, right?

Of course, there's no better place than prison to meet up with the other component necessary for epic cinematic swashbuckling: a ragtag team of unlikely co-conspirators. Quill's Fellowship of the Orb includes Rocket, a genetically modified raccoon (voiced by Bradley Cooper,) Groot, a hulking sentient tree (Vin Diesel's best role ever!) , a green hottie assassin princess (Zoe Salanda)—not to be confused with anyone named Leia,—and a tattooed bad ass (WWE champ Dave Bautista.) The ensemble cast—and characters—play well together. But since we're mixing Star Wars metaphors here, actually Rocket and Groot steal the show as the new Han and Chewie. As previously mentioned, I fell in love with Rocket at first sight, and my feelings were not mis-spent.

And then there's the Guardians soundtrack. Quill's beloved Awesome Mixed Tapes pushed all my happiness buttons. I mean, come on! I had an awesome mixed tape of my own back in the late 70s. My prize possession back then wasn't a Sony Walkman (as featured in Guardians) but a Sony cassette recorder. Crazy though it seems today, that hunk of electronics was a phenomenon at the time. I loved that recorder and spent many happy hours poised beside my sisters' stereo waiting for Dream Weaver or I'm Not in Love to come on the local top 40 station and so I could quickly mash down the blue record button and capture the soundtrack to my teenage angst. But I digress ...

It's nice to have a little nostalgia to hang onto because Guardians of the Galaxy has a lot of not so nice villains who could use a pina colada and a walk in the rain. Things start to look very grim indeed when Baddie McBadderton, Ronan the Accuser (Lee Pace), gets hold of the Orb and its powerful contents and sets about the task of micromanaging the galaxy's next Big Bang. In the midst of the imminent galactic destruction, as our heroes—the would-be Guardians—find themselves facing certain death, Quill, digs deep and rallies his companions in a very Buddhist way.

"I look around at us ... you know what I see?  Losers!" he says, sounding like a coach shouting the classic down-by-a-gazillion-to-one  at half-time speech, but he has something else in mind (or the skillful screenwriter does at least.) "I mean, (we're) like, folks who have lost stuff. And we have. Man we have — all of us. Our homes. Our families. Normal lives. And usually life takes more than it gives, not not today. Today it's given us something. It's given us a chance ... To give a shit for once and not run away."

And this is the line in the movie that turns the tide and rallies our heroes. It takes another 45 minutes of crazy CGI action and plot twists and great one-liners, but the unlikely companions do get another chance to right the wrongs done unto them—and by them.

Quill is right. We are ALL losers. We all experience profound loss, sometimes on a daily basis. Sometimes it's big, like the death of a friend or family member or the end of a marriage or demise of a career. But most often it's the small loses, like the passing of a sweet era of childhood. The latter is particularly relevant for me today as Jack enters 7th grade and I relinquish the last of his pre-teen days. As a parent, you look forward to the time when your child will walk and talk and propel himself through the world on his own volition, but when the day comes ... it feels too soon.

And yet, through losses great and small, we experience the death of ourselves (our egos) and this is, ultimately, essential for spiritual gain. Letting go is what allows growth through transformation. Like the Guardians, I have to set aside my resentment and sorrow and self-pity and self-centered interests and let go of my idea of how my life is supposed to go so that I can have that chance to feel the loss and the joy that life provides and not run away from reality. And that requires consciousness.

We live in a society that promotes winning and winners, and to admit that I'm a loser is well, so losery. And yet, in the end, we are ALL losers and this is really, really good news because only when I accept that  loss and death are part of a natural (some might say Divine) process, can I have a chance at true and sustainable happiness. I may not be able to save the galaxy, but everyday—correction—every moment, I have that chance to awaken and right myself. (And to think it all started with a talking raccoon.)

Why I Loved Lucy

Spiritual allegory or vendetta flick? 

 On Saturday night, I wanted to see Sex Tape. Jason lobbied for Lucy. 

We'd seen the trailers for both films  and I had to admit that Lucy looked intriguing. It's actually the latest in the growing genre of "philosophical action movies." (Think The Matrix, Looper and this summer's Tom Cruise confection, Edge of Tomorrow.) Lucy promised a mixture of ingredients to meet both Jason and my weekend entertainment requirements. On the surface, it had lots of shoot-em-up-action-and-adventure and high-speed-car-chase-scenes (that Jason loves,) wrapped around a thought-provoking pop-psychology, gooey center (that I crave.) It seemed the perfect Reese Peanut Butter Cup flick!

The premise of this Luc Beeson (The Fifth Element) thriller is that the heroine, Lucy, (played by Scarlett Johannson) unwittingly becomes a drug mule. When the synthetic uber drug implanted in her gut ruptures, she starts to experience an extreme and immediate expansion of her brain capacity. Her experience is portrayed as the worst-best drug trip ever. Thankfully, we get help from Morgan Freeman's geeky wise neuroscientist character to explain what's happening to her along the way. (It's a sci-fi scientific perspective, BTW).

But what the film actually portrays is ... enlightenment. Yup. I'm not sure of Beeson's religious or spiritual persuasion, but the concepts he portrays in the film are oh, so Buddhist. Perhaps he was influenced by his film The Lady, the 2012 bio-pic about Burmese  leader, Aung San Suu Kyi, who is Buddhist. Regardless, some of Lucy's allusions to Buddha's Four Noble Truths are hard to ignore.

At one pivotal point, Lucy tracks down the evil drug lord who cruelly implanted the deadly drug inside her stomach. As she tortures him (not so Buddhist) to extract the whereabouts of his other drug mules, she tells him that humans are blocked by their perception of experience. She says we are hindered from seeing the truth due our own struggles. "Like right now," she says flatly as she stabs him. "All you can think about is pain." True that.

No matter what you think of Beeson as a screenwriter or filmmaker, that is the first Noble Truth, which says, suffering exists.* Seriously, this is the first step to seeing the truth about life. The sooner I accept that there is suffering, the sooner I can find the source of the discomfort. Of course the Buddha wasn't talking about being tortured physically (although that certainly is painful.) The Buddha was talking about good ol' emotional suffering and dissatisfaction, which I experience just about everyday without benefit of anyone stabbing me with anything.

The second Noble Truth is that we become attached to our suffering. Put plainly, I don't see reality because I'm too caught up in the everyday drama of my life. In fact, I get so accustomed to numbing out reality with drama that I seek out drama when things get too boring. (And this may very well be why Hollywood and films like Lucy exist.)

When I finally perceive that I am the cause of my own suffering, and my attachment to wanting life to be the way I want it to be, then I can finally let go of my attachment—maybe. (That's Noble Truth number three.) Then, I can choose a healthier way to go about my life (Noble Truth 4.)

I'm not sure that Lucy really gets to experience the fourth Noble Truth. She does seem to be freed from suffering and the cycle of human existence that includes suffering. At one point in the film she says, "It's like all the things that make [me] a human are fading away." Before she gains full enlightenment; however, she totally kicks ass. She single-handledly takes out an entire Korean mafia and potentially alters Man's (or at least Morgan Freeman's) understanding of life.

Ultimately, Lucy experiences enlightenment—seeing the truth in everything, 24/7—and it's fascinating to watch what that might look and feel like. At least I think so.

Johannson portrays the newly awakened Lucy with a mixture of white-knuckled terror, feral-cat fearsomeness and wide-eyed wonder. If that is anything near what total enlightenment is like, I can understand why we humans want to stay stuck in our humanity. Having the ability to control matter, energy and time is exhausting—and very hard on the body, apparently.

Lucy wasn't a great movie, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. A lot of reviewers beg to differ and take issue with Beeson's creative license with known science, but for me it was a thought provoking film much in the vein of 2001:A Space Odyssey—with a lot more blood and gore and set on earth and not space, and ... well, it was very different, except for thought-provoking part. And for my money, that's always a thumbs up.

P.S. What's the Buddhist perspective on Sex Tape? I have a feeling it has a lot to do with karma. Stay tuned.

* This is sometimes translated as "Life is suffering," or, as M. Scott Peck understated it in his book The Road Less Travelled, "Life is difficult."

Some You Win ... And Some You Lose ... And Some You Get Rained Out

Long, long ago I lived in a quiet city called Atlanta. I moved there in 1990 after landing a job with Turner Broadcasting. I lived in a cute, historic, in-town neighborhood and drove my car to work everyday. If I ran into traffic, it took thirty minutes (tops) to get from my driveway to the Turner offices in Midtown. At the time, there were just under three million people living in the metro area (including suburbs.) Today, there are more than five million Atlantans. Suffice to say, a lot of things have changed.

Turner Field in all its glory.

Back in the 90s, when I worked for Turner, I spent many a happy summer evening cheering on the Braves through regular season and championship games. I even attended a few World Series games. At a particularly close and emotional World Series game in 1993, I fondly recall hugging complete strangers when the Braves won in overtime. At age 12, my son Jack had yet to experience the joy of a live Atlanta Braves game, so this summer, we made plans to rectify the situation. 

Finally, the big day arrived. I imagined arriving at the game, finding our seats and looking out over the beautiful emerald field. We would sit in the stands and cheer the Braves on to victory over the Philadelphia Phillies. I thought about how much fun it would be to watch Jack chant the "Tomahawk Chop" along with thousands of fans. Of course, to attend a Braves game, you have to get to Turner Field, but I didn't understand the reality of what that meant in 2014.

Since we were staying with friends in the suburbs, I thought it best to drive to a nearby MARTA station and take the train downtown where a shuttle would carry us on to Turner Field. We could avoid the stress of gridlock traffic and hassle of event parking. Before we left the house, I studied the rail line and discovered that, like most metro transit systems, Atlanta changed over from using tokens to a refillable credit card. No big deal. I'd used these cards in NYC and LA and they were simple enough to purchase. All good.

When we arrived at the MARTA station, we marveled at how quiet it was. On Saturday afternoon in the suburbs, we seemed to be the only passengers in the station. We were standing in front of the kiosk that dispenses transit cards, reading through the instructions when a man appeared nearby.

"You know what you're doing?" he asked. "You need some cards?"

I looked at the man. He was probably in his late 50s and from his clothing and general demeanor, he looked as though he might have had a hard life. He had one lazy eye, which gave him a benign appearance. He smiled and held up some transit cards.

"Here, you can use these," he said.

Before we knew it Lazy Eye was shepherding us to the turnstiles, insisting we use his cards. I actually thought he was being generous. In hindsight, I'm not sure why I had that thought, but I promise you I did. He didn't strike me as a panhandler. We were in the middle of a very affluent suburb. It just never occurred to me that we might encounter subway scammers here. Before we knew what happened, the three of us were inside the station and the man was standing on the other side of the turnstiles with his hand out. He wanted cash for the cards.

"I just need to get some food," he said.

Too late, the reality of the situation hit me.  I had one dollar in my purse, and we were already inside the terminal. The man expected to be compensated. It was an awkward situation. We could have just walked away from the guy, turning the tables on him. But we had taken his cards now and we owed him some money. I asked Jack if he had any money and he produced three more dollar bills.

"So we have a round trip on each and can use these on the shuttle to the game?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," the man said. Of course he would have told us that the cards would take us to London and back if he thought that we would pay him.

I was dubious by now, and offered him the four dollars. Lazy Eye made a sour face.

"Aw, man!" he said. "C'mon! I got you three cards!"

Jack had more cash in his wallet, which he reluctantly handed over to me. In the end, we shelled over $15, which is what we would have paid for the cards if we had purchased them from the kiosk. The man thanked us for the cash and hurried away.

"How do we know that guy was telling us the truth?" Jack asked as we proceeded downstairs to catch the next train.

"We don't," I said. "But it's okay. We're safe and we're on our way now!"

Jack had never experienced anything like this before. On our trip to NY a few years ago, he saw panhandlers in the subway, but we had never been approached. I'd forgotten what an unsettling feeling it is when you realize you've been ripped off.

As we rode downtown, I tried to convince myself that the man had done us a service. The kiosk was confusing and he'd helped us, right? We got the passes we needed. But I had an uncomfortable feeling in my gut and as we exited the station at Five Points to catch the Braves Shuttle, my fears were confirmed. We'd paid a roundtrip fare for one-way tickets.

I wanted to believe the man was doing us a kindness, but he had taken advantage of us. Of course, I did try to barter him down, but let's face it, I was a pushover. I just felt crappy anyway I sliced it. A wave of "I shoulda known better" caught up with the sick feeling and began to wrestle with it. There would be no winner. How stupid and naive could I be?! This was Atlanta, not Candyland. In a city of five million, some people are desperate and do desperate things. Lazy Eye was probably getting high right now with the $15 we gave him. Ugh.

We found another kiosk and began the process of reloading the cards so we'd have the proper fare to get onto the shuttle and return after the game. While we stood there, the man at the next kiosk began to instruct us on how to reload the card. At first we tried to ignore him, but he gently walked us through the process. When we were done, he asked us if we could spare some change so he could buy a fare. Without hesitation, Jason swiped his credit card one more time and loaded one ride on the man's card. We thanked the man for his help and proceeded onto the game. 

It was only later that I began to wonder if Lazy Eye had started out like Kiosk Man. Had he helped a confused out-of-town-family load up their MARTA cards and received a free fare for his trouble—when he really wanted cash? Had we just started the cycle of deception again?  My head started to spin when I considered all the karma we were generating on this innocent trip the ballgame. I allowed myself to believe that Kiosk just wanted to ride MARTA home and left it at that.

We made our way through the terminal and out to the street to meet the shuttle, and after a brief ride, finally, we arrived at Turner Field. The glowing stadium lights cheered me, but it wasn't until we arrived at our seats and saw the bright green field and flashing Jumbotron and heard the nostalgic strains from the old ball field pipe organ, that I could shake off the residue of yucky feelings. Jack, who was also disturbed by Lazy-eye's rip off, perked up too. Jason bought us peanuts and popcorn and Cracker Jacks, and soon we were all enjoying the game.

I hated that Jack had a negative experience before his first Braves game. But then again, what we experienced was rather benign in the scheme of things. The lazy-eyed scammer may actually become one of Jack's most valuable teachers. Through him, my son learned that not everyone is well-intentioned and honest. He may be more alert when traveling in the city. (I still can't believe how naive I was about this situation!) And—thanks to Kiosk Man—Jack also saw that strangers could go out of their way to be kind. And—thanks to Jason—Jack learned that regardless of what has happened in the past, you can respond with generosity.

Although it wasn't exactly what I envisioned, Jack certainly had a memorable first major league game. It wasn't what I had in mind, but maybe, just maybe, it was what Jack needed and what Jason and I needed, too—or maybe it was about what Lazy Eye or the Kind Kiosk Man needed. I rather like it think we all given what we need.

Perspective from the Dark Side

I love summer movies. There's nothing better than entering a cold, dark theatre on a hot summer day, settling in with a big tub of popcorn and a cold drink and being transported to another place or time. But last week, Jason and I went to see Maleficent, a movie that was less of an escape and more of a reality check. 

As a kid, I was given the Big Golden Book Sleeping Beauty, which featured illustrations from Disney's 1959 film by the same name. Malecifent is painted as nothing less than pure evil, so I was curious to see the sorceress' side.

Disney portrayed folklore's "bad fairy" as
a horned menace with too much
purple eye shadow.
Image from Walt Disney's Sleeping Beauty

Of course, the tale of Sleeping Beauty is an ancient one. It existed in oral tradition long before the father of the fairy tale genre, Charles Perrault, published it in his Tales of Mother Goose in 1697. Perrault's telling was informed by Gambattista Basile's collection of fairy tales the Pentamerone published in 1634. There are distinctions to these old tales—which in Basile's telling includes the rape of Sleeping Beauty—but the premise of a princess being cursed to sleep remains a consistent thread.

According to the Charles Perrault tale, the upon the birth of their longed for child, the King and Queen invite seven fairies to their daughter's christening party. They hope the magical creatures will bestow wondrous gifts upon their baby. The King and Queen spare no expense to please these special guests and commission custom-made golden place settings for the seven fairies. But when the big day arrives, they find they've made a royal faux pas. An old fairy shows up at the castle without an invite. According to Perrault, the oversight wasn't intentional, but due to the minor discrepancy that—because she hadn't been seen in a long time—everyone assumed she was "dead or enchanted." Seems like an understandable mistake. But the Royals are at a total loss of what to do. To their credit, they try to accommodate the senior citizen as best they can but she's pissed about the "sorry we thought you were dead" excuse. Maybe she's suffering from dementia or maybe she's just hurt over being left out. Regardless, she chooses to bestow her own gift on the baby—and it ain't a sterling silver binky. We don't know much more about the old fairy or why no one bothered to find out if she really was deceased. And, after her curse is bestowed, we don't hear from the old fairy again.

The Disney 1959 film version of Sleeping Beauty gives the old fairy a bad name—literally. Maleficent is the embodiment of malice, which according to Merriam Webster is the "desire to inflict injury, harm, or suffering on another, either because of a hostile impulse or out of deep-seated meanness."  Disney also gives the storybook villainess a facelift and the ability to transform into hideous creatures, like a dragon. Resplendent in horns and purple-black attire, Disney's arch-villaness, like her haggish precursor (pun intended,) Maleficent crashes the christening of the little Princess. Her appearance is much more overtly foreboding than that of an elderly woman (although let's face it, most of us are terrified of aging,) but her malicious baby gift is borrowed from Perrault, who apparently had a textile aversion. 

Enter the 2014 Hollywood version. The villainess (portrayed by Angelina Jolie) is front and center and provides us a new perspective on the making of the evil curse. And as it turns out, her story is far more lively than that of the dosing princess.

We meet Maleficent as an orphaned fairy child. She is the protector of her magical land. Grant you with long, pointy horns and dark wings, she isn't your classic good fairy type. Indeed she is a creature who is much more of the earth than are the trio of candy-colored sprites who end up as bumbling babysitters. As the tale unfolds from her perspective, we discover that Maleficent was betrayed. Suddenly we're rooting for her to take out King Stefan, the asshole who violated her trust and stole her wings. As the saying goes, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

The film also reveals the perspective of the innocent princess, Aurora, whom Maleficent has cursed to a fate worse than death (ie: waiting for eternity for unconditional love.) Aurora, being pure of heart, doesn't judge Maleficent as evil just because she has huge scary horns, impossibly sharp cheekbones and ultra-thin arched eyebrows. Because she's met with acceptance, the child's goodness and compassion warm the cold-hearted fairy. Transformation happens. True magic manifests. Hatred and resentment melt into—yes!—true love.

What happens to our long-loathed stereotypical villains when we begin to understand what turned them to the dark side? We start to understand that perhaps there is no abject evil in this world. We see that villains—like heroes—are made not born. 

Accepting that we are collectively the authors  of our world's unhealthiness and suffering is not always easy. I want someone to blame, someone to pin my hurt upon, because I think that it will make me feel better or relieve me of the responsibility for my own actions. When I can open my eyes and see that everyone responds to life based on their experiences and their perception of those experiences, I come closer to realizing the truth. So if someone is treating me badly, I can bet my silver binky that she has experienced the same treatment (or worse) from someone else. And I can generate compassion for that person rather than hatred and fear. This is so much easier said than done! But seeing a movie like Maleficent reminds me of to consider more than my own limited point of view. I'm still wrestling with this final piece, but I know in my heart that everyone—even villains—deserves to live happily ever after.

Of course, Maleficent is just the latest Hollywood offering that shifts the plot line to the villain's perspective. The Star Wars series was perhaps one the first and most lucrative of these explorations of the nature of "good and evil." The Harry Potter series is another great example. In recent years, Hansel and Gretel, Alice in Wonderland, Jack and the Beanstalk have all received a revisionist approach on the big screen. On TV, ABC's current series Once Upon A Time has created an ongoing drama that explores the stories behind beloved fairy tales. Revisionist fairytales obviously has financial appeal or Hollywood wouldn't keep turning them into movies, but I wonder if the outcome extends beyond entertainment value. 

Will these perspective-shifting tales blow the lid off the stereotype that bad guys are 100% pure evil? Will Jack and his generation begin to realize that evil is indeed made, not born? If so, our media-saavy kids just might be inspired to stem the tide of suffering. I doubt that's Hollywood's aim, but it might just be a very happy ending.

What I Learned in Obedience School

Rocky at 3 months.

Somehow I managed to avoid dog ownership until last year when Jack finally wore down his dad with requests for a puppy. He picked out a mutt from the Human Society shelter and named him Rocky. He was a mixture of God only knows what breeds. The vet's best guess is that he is part Australia Cattle Dog. He's a sweet pup with boundless energy.

Rocky took up residence in my ex-husband's backyard and I agreed to help out as needed. He is "Jack's dog" but of course, as is typical for kids, the ownership is only in name. Since I knew next to nothing about dogs when Rocky reached about 6 months old we signed up for obedience class at the local Petsmart. From the first class it became apparent that Rocky wasn't the only one who needed training.

Over the course of our six Saturday morning classes, we learned—with help of dog treats and a blue plastic cricket clicker—how to sit, stay, shake hands and walk on a loose leash. But one of the most useful commands was "Leave it!" This is an all-purpose directive can be used whenever a dog shows overly enthusiastic interest in anything you don't want them to approach. The idea is that whenever a dog goes after something really desirable, such as another dog, or another dog's poop or a baby with an ice cream cone, or whatever, that you condition the dog to leave that desired thing and come to your side and sit. This repeated action of returning to their person's side resets the dog's urge to compulsively run after anything and everything of interest. Of course, favorable behavior is reinforced by providing treats each time the dog leaves the coveted item and sits down beside you. The idea is that—eventually—the dog learns to overcome his distractions by merely being reminded via vocal cue.

Jack with Rocky at Puppy School!

After our instructor explained the exercise, she set us loose  in the aisles of Petsmart to practice. I thought she was insane. Have you seen the aisles of Petsmart?  It's a fantasy land for dogs! We could only walk about two steps before Rocky tugged at the end of his leash. My arm was already growing tired from holding him back from shelves of chew toys and stacks and stacks doggie delights. At first, I was very frustrated. How could Rocky ever learn when there were so many wonderful scents? Rocky tugged this way and that, trying to get at all the wonderful dog stuff. He didn't want to "Leave it!" 

When the instructor stopped by to see how we were doing, she could tell I was a bit miffed—to put it nicely. 

"Can we go to aquarium supply aisle?" I whined. "There are just way too many distractions here! He'll never learn."

"He'll get used to it," she said, smiling patiently. "There are going to be even more enticing smells when you take him for a walk outside. Keep working with him. He's a smart dog. He'll learn."

I was dubious, but to my surprise after a few false starts and stops, Rocky began to catch on. As it turns out, Rocky's love of treats far outweighed his desire to sniff stuff. After walking up and down the aisles a few times successfully, Jack set out an entire obstacle course of sexy-looking chew toys. Rocky was able to navigate around them all without getting distracted. 

Each week, we worked on these skills and after the six week course was complete, we graduated from Puppy School with honors. Okay, we graduated. Okay, we completed the course and for that we received a diploma, but as the trainer warned us, the real work was ahead of us—out in the real world. 

Leaving a rubber, squeaky bone lying in the aisle of a bright, sterile pet food store is one thing, but a stroll through the neighborhood supplied an infinite number of opportunities to challenge Rocky's obedience degree. Every two inches there was a new distraction. We didn't get but a few feet down the street before he tugged the leash longingly as he lusted after the neighbor's azalea bush. "Leave it, Rocky!" I said sternly and clicked the plastic cricket.

As we rounded the street corner, he tugged to sniff a mound of monkey grass laced with the scent of a countless dogs, cats, rodents and God only knows what, but finally he came back to my side to gobble down his treat. After the first few blocks, we strolled along nicely until he encountered the one temptation that no amount of kibble could prevent Rocky from lunging after: grey squirrels. 

There must be a million grey squirrels living within a mile radius of Jack's dad's house. Every one of them came out to taunt and tease our poor dog. "Leave it, Rocky! Leave it!" became my mantra. Rocky wanted to run after them so badly, he almost launched himself into the air. Of course, he was tethered to  me by his nylon leash, but that didn't seem to matter when it came to all things squirrel. He needs more practice for sure, and the only way to break him of this habit of chasing after these teasing, fluffy-tailed distractions was to spend more time reinforcing the behavior to leave it—no matter what.

Of course, Rocky is not the only one who is easily distracted. My mind is often filled with "grey squirrels" that I desperately want to chase. I am easily side-tracked by chattering discursive thoughts. Some days they lead me to—quite literally—bark up the wrong tree. I can observe this tendency whenever I sit down to meditate, but when I'm not on the cushion, the squirrels in my brain can be much more damaging as they compulsively gnaw away at my positive mood and serenity. I'm going about my day and suddenly a negative or worrisome thought scurries across my mind and I lunge for it. Unlike Rocky, my mind is not on a short leash, so I can chase after that negative idea all day if I don't recognize my thought process and tell myself to "Leave it!" 

Setting aside anxiety is not easy. Even though there is nothing I can do about a situation—I know I have no power over the person, place or thing—I still want to race after it. My only hope of finding peace is to take my mind to obedience school and learn some new strategies for letting go. Like Rocky, I must  replace my habit of chasing squirrels with the desire to sit patiently and be rewarded. This takes effort and practice and it can't be accomplished unless I am willing to experience life on life's terms. In other words, I can't stay in the aquarium section.

If I want to improve the way I respond to life, I must be willing to experience the real crap that triggers my negative responses. What's my reward? Something much better than kibble. When I refuse to chase that miserable squirrel across the yard and up a tree, I gulp down a little peace of mind and the satisfaction. Good girl!