Artifacts and Relics

I’ve got a confession to make. This is something that exactly 16 people in the entire history of the world know. It’s true, I can name them all. I’ve counted, and taken measures to ensure total secrecy. But I need to get this off my chest. Here goes…

I played Dungeons and Dragons as a kid. In junior high. A lot.

Like, on beautiful summer days when I should have been out playing ball or getting into breakdance battles like the normal kids in the 80’s. Like, enough to join a club at school—the after school D&D club at Valley View Intermediate. Like, enough that I can still remember some of my characters’ names, over thirty years later. Like, enough to spend my paper route money on several types of graph paper, pens, and pencils to better design epic adventures that I would lead my fellow D&D clubbers through.

When I was ten years old, I got the original Dungeons and Dragons game for Christmas. It consisted of the basic game book and a beginner module (sort of a campaign to play through). This set me on the slippery slope/roller coaster ride that is D&D collecting and playing. I started buying dice, character sheets, issues of Dragon magazine, other modules, little lead figures, and big, fat, expensive, wonderfully detailed, beautifully illustrated books.

There was The Player’s Handbook, The Dungeon Master’s Guide, a guide to the mythological gods of the D&D worlds, and an encyclopedia of the monsters and creatures to be encountered (entitled, fittingly, the “Monster Manual.”) Between myself, my friends, and my brothers, we had a couple thousand pages of this stuff. We would learn the minutiae of a book, studying harder than we ever would for school, then swap it with someone else so we could become more knowledgeable in another facet of the game. We’d solve a campaign or finish a quest or game, then trade that module with someone else who had one we hadn’t picked up yet.

I loved many aspects of D&D—there were individual and team components, enormous creativity, luck, skill, intelligence-testing bits that kept you guessing and searching, and constant progression (or virtual death for your made-up character). As an avid reader of fantasy and sci-fi, it was endlessly entertaining to me, and I particularly enjoyed poring through the books and learning about the lore and mechanics of the game. One chapter of one of these books that I thought about again just yesterday, was called “Artifacts and Relics.”

Artifacts and relics were magical objects that would turn up during a game. Sometimes you found them. Sometimes you bought them with pieces of gold or platinum or other precious metals. Sometimes retrieving an artifact or relic was the whole point of a module or campaign. Sometimes you’d happen upon one when you defeated an enemy.

Sometimes you’d need to destroy an object (like Frodo’s quest in Lord of the Rings.) These artifacts and relics could vary in size, shape, type, and style. They could be rings, books, weapons, or pieces of armor. They could be parchment, medallions, boots, or belts. They could be good, evil, or neutral. But they all had one thing in common. They all had power.

An artifact or relic would bestow power on the user, or on whom the magic was directed. They could heal you or help you. They could give you power to fly, teleport, or cross dimensions. They could make you invisible, fast, slow, or even give you the consistency of Jell-O. They could make you 10 feet tall or shrink you to the size of an ant. But some of these artifacts were so powerful, they could also truly, permanently change you—shaping your desires, changing behaviors, pulling you in a direction—for better or worse. So what do artifacts and relics have to do with me, today, over thirty years after I last rolled the 20-sided dice? A whole lot!

Artifacts and relics do not just exist in fairy tales, video games, fantasy novels and Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks. These magical items are all around us, here and now. Objects with powers that affect the user, that affect those around the wielder of these objects, and—like the artifacts and relics of my fantasy-filled youth—even change the owner in subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways. I actually have a few of these magical objects.

This all started rolling around my head this week as I flew home from Portland. Rather, these memories began bubbling as I walked down Third Avenue, then cut over to First, and waited for the train by Apple Music Row in Old Town, all while carrying a magical artifact in the form of a big pink box. “Hey, Voodoo Doughnuts for everyone,” a guy hollered as I got on the train. We laughed and joked for a few minutes as we rolled past a handful of stops. He got off, and as the red line train headed toward the airport, several other people commented, asked questions, and wondered about the wait time (just ten minutes that day—it gets shorter as the weather gets colder!)

This treat I had brought along to surprise and delight my kids was having that same effect on other strangers around me. It was an instant conversation starter, a magical mood lifter, it broke through crusty shells and steel-faced walls. Soon, the power overtook me, the holder of the artifact. I was no longer just the guy trying to get home as quickly and painlessly as possible, I had become Doughnut Guy, lifter of moods, creator of smiles, the magical improver of long, arduous, air travel experiences. By the time I arrived in Seattle, and was picked up by Darcie and the kids, I’d probably talked to 20 people I otherwise would have ignored, and been ignored by. The magic of the artifact was changing me, at least for a couple hours!

In between doughnut conversations (which incidentally led to other topics of discussion), I thought of another artifact I’d been carrying from time to time—my mandolin. For most of the three and a half months I’ve been working away from home, I’ve brought along my mandolin to play in the few spare moments I get. As I took my first trip through the airport without my mandolin (after a good eight to ten weeks of having it at my side), I noticed something was just off—a little piece of magic was missing.

When you carry a mandolin around, you’re seen as a musician, a mandolinist, a creative person, a studier, a performer. You have a reason to chat with the guy busking on a corner. Something to talk about with the guy making your falafel sandwich. An opportunity to explain what the mandolin is (“hey is that a ukulele?”) On one trip through the airport, the girl at the burger place said she’d give me my lunch for free if I would play it for the crew. Another time, the guy at the desk of the hotel where I stay told me he could play ukulele right handed, and was also learning to play it left handed—crazy! When I checked in a week later, without my mandolin, he barely recognized me; my magic powers were fading without the relic’s presence.

Finally, I thought of another interesting phenomenon, another magical object, this one to be worn—my BYU hoodie. Made by Nike and given to me by BYU when the store I was running sponsored their sports marketing program, it’s a favorite and I love it. It looks great and feels amazing, and more importantly it tells the world I attended BYU, and that I’m a Mormon. I’ve noticed its powers over me, the wearer, and those in its vicinity, are more powerful the further I get from its home in Provo, UT.

In Utah, no one noticed I was wearing it. Here in Seattle or Portland, I feel like everyone sees me, the BYU Mormon guy. I am just ever-so-slightly more aware of how I present myself to the world when I’m wearing this artifact. My road rage rages more quietly. My eyes smile when I might otherwise be expressionless. I am more cheery, more inclined to talk with a stranger. The sense of pride I have in walking tall around the grocery store is real; I’m proud of who I am and happy to be an example of our faith. When I wear my old greasy gray T-shirt, I don’t walk as tall, smile as much, or look for conversations to join; at least not as readily as I do when I’m wearing that magical sweatshirt.

As I pondered these magical items, my mind went to real life, to how we can use artifacts and relics to become better people, or at least better at some part of our being people. My new Microsoft Band (love this thing!) reminds me to get better sleep, tracks my activity throughout the day, helps me be more healthy and productive. I also like showing it to others, increasing the power this artifact has over me, and helping to influence others at the same time. Having an inspirational quote on my phone’s lock screen gives me dozens of reminders throughout the day of a principle or goal. Carrying a book, packing gym clothes, having healthy snacks on hand all give you an edge or advantage you wouldn’t normally have—and if that’s not magic, I don’t know what is! Great shoes make you want to run, an instrument will draw you to play it, and posted reminders on your screen, fridge, dashboard or smartphone can inspire, enthuse, and empower us.

Some might challenge me, and say I’m being fake, or putting on an act, being disingenuous. But I bet the ambidextrous ukulele player was happy to share his talents with me. The smile on my face was sincere, and the discussions of doughnut appreciation and conversations comparing Blue Star with Frost with Voodoo were lively and enjoyable, on an otherwise drab trip from train to plane to minivan. And there is nothing wrong with an artifact like my BYU hoodie, or a CTR ring (magically reminding the wearer to ‘Choose The Right’), a bracelet asking WWJD, or some other item reminding you and others of who you are and who you’re trying to become. At least that’s this former 40^th level wizard’s opinion…

Do you have an artifact or relic that you wield, bringing magic to others, and helping you to be your best?