Stumbling Toward the Buddha

Problems?

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 04:21:16 GMT

Emails. Phone Calls. Bills. Deadlines. My problems were too big for their britches.

I hauled them to the car and drove to my favorite park, a strip of flood plain sandwiched between the river and the railroad tracks. I parked, opened the windows. The ground shook. An eastbound Burlington Northern thundered through a crossing. Its air horn blasted. The engine labored against its mile-long string of cars, loaded with coal from the mines of Montana. Just ahead, the silent Missouri River crawled toward St. Louis.

I let the wind breathe for me. It carried my so-called problems off into the unconcerned clouds.

Birthday Celebration

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 19:27:44 GMT

A winter draft sneaking under the blanket woke me up. The clock read 5:17 a.m. on my sixty-first birthday. Hallelujah.

At this hour decades earlier, twenty-year-old Dawn had just run out of time to finish the term paper due that day. Thirty-year-old Dawn gulped aspirin to tamp down a hangover . . . caused by the previous night's attempt to outrun her misery. Forty-year-old Dawn rose from her shared bed to wonder how things had gone so wrong.

At 5:17 a.m. on my sixty-first birthday, I celebrated. Nothing had ever gone wrong.

I snuggled under the covers, while my mind spun its newest batch of stories.

My Sister's Face

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 21:54:48 GMT

My face disappeared. In the bathroom mirror, I looked wrinkled. In the closet mirror, my skin was smooth. In the make-up mirror, I had dark circles. In the car, my eyes were bright. I didn't know which reflection was real. I had no idea what I looked like.

The day I skyped my sister, Michelle, her face filled my computer screen. The expressions that danced across it were mine. Our hairlines matched. Our noses, too. When she laughed, I saw my teeth. (She laughed a lot that day and so did I.)

There's my face. Michelle's been wearing it. It's beautiful.

Sunday Worship

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 16:39:14 GMT

At church, a kindergarten boy squirmed between a silver-haired man and woman. While he chomped on a piece of gum, the little one inspected the ceiling, his shoes and the gentleman’s necktie. Removed gum, inspected it. Madame withdrew a tissue from her purse and held it in front of the wiggler. Without hesitation or protest, he deposited the glob. She leaned over and kissed her boy on the top of his head.

Beholding this miracle, I praised God.

Service Without a Smile

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 02:32:57 GMT

The gym's saleswoman promised, “Dawn, we provide personal attention.”

After signing up, I became Nobody. For 23 months, only one voice spoke. I swiped my card; scanner responded, "Have a nice workout." Receptionist ignored me.

Then four weeks remained on my membership.

Swipe. “Contract expires soon."

Receptionist smiled. "Dawn, wanna renew that?”

One week left. "Contract expires soon."

"Dawn, need help with your renewal?"

Last day. Scanner silent. Receptionist frowned. “You can’t come in... contract expired yesterday.”

I'm happy to be Nobody again.

Sleep Interrupted

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 02:22:56 GMT

I woke up at 2:00 a.m. with the blanket wrapped around my ankles in a serpentine tangle. My husband snored beside me, his arm heavy on my chest. The sweet scent of an apple core on the nightstand mingled with body odor from the long-past-laundry-day sheets.

Outside the window, treetops swayed in the moonlight, and fallen leaves rustled as they danced around our patio. An airplane roared across the night.

At home in Paradise, I drifted back to sleep.

A Taste of Jealousy

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 01:25:38 GMT

An upscale magazine showcased a friend's Los Angeles home, but it was a full-color spread of my green-eyed monster. It drooled on the Ming porcelain. It crouched on the French settee.

Plunging elbow-deep into the horse manure of envy, I recovered my affection. "Congratulations," I emailed.

She responded, adding "I love your blog."

Shucks. My words were her treasures, perhaps displayed on her Rococo game table. Elegantly back-lit, because after all, she has exquisite taste.

click to see the house, page 106

Dear Lovely Subscribers

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 21:40:17 GMT

I'm sorry... I hit the wrong button on my blog and published something by mistake. Please ignore if you received a post that says "The house."

Facebook Friend Finale

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 21:24:19 GMT

"XX wants to be friends with you," the email said.

XX and I had dated for a decade. I left abruptly…after he raped me. For forty years, I've ignored and dreaded his attempts to reconnect.

I tapped delete.

A screen appeared. "Do you know XX outside of FB?"

Unexpected discernment answered, "No."

Another screen. "...won't be able to send you any more friend requests."

Voila. Vaporized. Forty years a stalker. Now, only a ghost in the collective imagination.

A Death in the Suburbs

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 15:51:57 GMT

After the storm killed the power, our block was as still as a cemetery. In the afternoon a chainsaw's whine split the silence. Neighbors had assembled to remove an uprooted oak.

The sudden swarm mystified me. Perhaps the leafy giant's demise had triggered a homeowner distress signal, discernible only to native suburbanites. I was deaf to their language and my ignorance of tree-clearing etiquette stymied me. Should I help out or was it invitation-only?

More Power to You

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 18:59:21 GMT

The storm uprooted trees, turning my morning stroll into an obstacle course. Facing day two without power, I longed for a hotel with movie channels and AC. A neighbor, sixty-ish like me, retrieved her mail. Fresh make-up, manicured nails and salon blonde hair –– a girly-girl like me? A kindred spirit?

She scowled. "Gotta clean my yard again. I'm no sissy, but now I'm getting aggravated."

I slouched home, a sissy in danger of being found out.

Perfect Storm

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 05:30:00 GMT

The pelting rain obliterated the view through the windshield. I gripped the steering wheel. Twenty miles from home; I'll never make it. This deluge will sweep me away. The 18-wheeler in the next lane will slide into my car and smear me across the highway. I'm going to die. Actually, it's a good day to die. I'm in love. I'm happy. The bed is made and the kitchen is clean. I relaxed. It stopped raining.

Endless and Bottomless

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 02:16:07 GMT

I couldn't stop the stories. They arrived in a rush, day after day. They made me happy, so I emailed them to friends. And then I worried. After all, no one had asked for daily parables. Someone's probably annoyed. They probably don't like them. I put the next story on my blog, instead. Friends read it. They subscribed to the blog. Others asked why I'd stopped emailing. I waited for another parable to arrive. And waited. And waited. Until now.

Rumi-nating

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 14:13:34 GMT

A video of myself horrified me. Myself should have worn her hair differently or painted on eyebrows or used a different lipstick shade. All night long (neglecting her beauty sleep), Myself posited solutions to the problem of looks. In the morning, The Essential Rumi fell into my lap. I read for an hour. When I returned to the video, instead of Myself, a charming woman was reading stories that made me laugh.

Saving Face

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 12:12:51 GMT

Pema's face makes me happy. It dances when she talks––unadorned by hair, make-up or good lighting. Her face says she knows me well and loves me deeply. It would sure be something to look like that.

Just watched myself in a video. Is my chin receding? Is my forehead growing? And what's that weird expression? I look like a frog.

Poor frog, glancing in her pond and seeing me.

A Change in Appetite

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 22:48:46 GMT

Hubby tried to share my plate of food. I wanted to stab his hand with the fork. My demons are growling, food doesn't grow on trees you know. Why does mealtime tick me off?

I asked my older brother, who remembers our childhood in historic detail.

He said, “Dad hunted squirrel for food, not fun.”

“What?”

“Yeah, Some days, when we were kids, the next meal didn’t appear.”

Of course. I'm not really hungry; I'm afraid of getting hungry. And now I see what was invisible before our conversation. Food does grow on trees, and on every corner –– at the gas station, fast-food place and grocery store.

“Hubby, have a bite a bite of my pie.”

Hunger Pangs

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 13:43:00 GMT

Sometimes transformation occurs although nothing actually happens. Hubby tried to share my plate of food. I stabbed his hand with a fork. I wondered why offering a bit of my dinner made me homicidal. My older brother filled in the memory gap. “Remember? Dad hunted squirrel for food, not fun.” “What?” “Yeah, Some days, the next meal didn’t appear.” Now I’m confident the next meal’s in the fridge. “Hubby, have a bite a bite of my pie.”

I need to change, maybe

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 13:30:43 GMT

Sometimes... Lordie-I-wish-I-could-change! Victor James Dougherty finished his new cd. I’m excited for him. I’m all about Oneness, Community, Love…hah! Devil on the right shoulder – what about ME? I wanna cd too. Angel on the left –he’s your friend, he’s a genius, he’s a sweetheart, he deserves it. Devil – Yeah. Sure. What about ME?

Changes

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 13:57:32 GMT

Change can mean transformation, metamorphosis, a leap off the cliff. Sometimes, though, change is more like being pushed off a cliff. I’m a writer. I read stories from behind a lectern, but for a change, at my next event I’ll have one of those cool mikes on my head like rock stars wear. I’ve always wanted to be a rock star, but I might make a not-so-smooth move and stumble in my stilettos and take out the whole front row of audience.

The Mirror: What, Me Prejudiced?

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — Wed, 25 May 2011 18:19:26 GMT

"This must have been written by some illiterate Italian who can't speak English." The remark slid off the pastor's tongue as he read the announcements from the church bulletin. He chuckled when he offered his opinion about the typos he was encountering.

I elbowed my husband. "Did you hear that? The preacher just made a racist joke!"

Ben's words came slowly. "I know...yeah..." He seemed as alarmed as me. But not as mad.

We had visited the church on a whim the previous Sunday; we'd moved into a house down the street. We returned, because Ben liked the music. I was wary, because mine was the only black face in the congregation. When the preacher made the comment, I felt attacked. If he joked like that about Italians, Lord knows what he'd say about me.

My mind inventoried the possibilities. In my twenties, hard at work at the front desk of a resort hotel: a guest sneered that my kind were only fit to clean rooms. In my thirties, driving my mother to the store: a pedestrian screamed a racial epithet at me and added an obscene gesture. In my forties, paused at a stop light in the suburbs: a man in a truck pulled up beside my car, rolled down his window and spat the N word. The preacher had said "illiterate Italian," but I heard a lifetime of nigger.

Fear cowered beneath the anger. If a minister expressed himself with racial slurs––and from the pulpit––I couldn't trust anyone. I longed to give him the benefit of the doubt, so I could feel safe. Nearby parishioners made no sounds or gestures I could interpret as protest; maybe they agreed with the insult. Maybe they wanted me out of their church. Maybe they hated me. It was no longer Kansas City, 2003. It was Montgomery, 1961.

I had to get out of there.

Shame stopped me. It destroyed my will to do anything except disappear. It seared my cheeks and forced me to stare into empty space. Just as it had at sixteen, when my white stepmother took me to see Gone with the Wind. I hated Mammy's black face,shining like polished leather under that stupid white bandana. I hated Prissy's simpering uselessness, hated her for being exactly what Ret Butler called her. A "simple-minded darkie." After the matinee, my stepmom and I edged through a crowd of women who looked like her––fair skin, straight hair, thin lips. I was Prissy.

The church service continued. Pastor moved on to his sermon, but my pounding heart drowned out the message. In fact, I constructed a lecture of my own, filled with moral superiority. I let him have it with both barrels. I shot him with how-dare-yous and shame-on-yous and a fusillade of you-don't-knows. But the outrage could not sustain itself without a target. The fear and shame could not endure while Ben cradled my hand in his.

Stripped of the option to fight, run or vanish, I sat. I struggled to find calm within a torrent of emotions. Beneath the still surface of my skin, my insides vibrated. I felt like a duck gliding across a pond, while its feet like crazy under the water.

Thinking, debating and remembering gave way to grief. I surrendered to the belief that intolerance is part of the human condition. Fear breeds prejudice, and fear is universal.

The need to speak up persisted, although I no longer knew what to say. Rage had energized, but grief left me helpless...as useless as Prissy.

After the service, I turned to Ben. "I have to go talk to him."

"Okay. I'll grab a cup of coffee and wait for you in the lobby."

The minister stood in front of the altar, greeting parishioners. I trudged down the aisle toward him. He smiled when we shook hands.

I pushed my dreadlocks off my face and took a deep breath. "My husband and I visited last Sunday...and today. I felt welcome––until I heard that joke about Italians. I don't feel welcome anymore."

His smile dissolved. "Oh, let me explain. We're doing a pizza fundraiser with an Italian restaurant and..."

"I'm not here to accuse you of anything or make assumptions about your motives." I yearned to let him off the hook, longed for this awkward exchange to end. I usually ran from conflict. "I wanted to tell you how I feel. That joke...it made me think...when will it be my turn to be laughed at."

"That won't ever happen. When you get to know me better, you'll understand." He described his leadership in the area of diversity. He recited the church's contributions: civic committees, outreach to immigrants, programs for inner city youth. "Everybody knows I like to tease..."

"I'm new to your church, didn't know anything about you when you made the joke."

In the end, he apologized. "I can see it might have been poor judgment. Thank you for your courage and honesty." He draped his arm across my shoulder, uninvited.

I cringed, took a step backward. I had spoken up, but did not feel heard.

Ben and I walked to the car in silence, my hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. We pulled out of the driveway.

"Awfully quiet," he said. "You OK?"

"No."

"What happened?"

"Well, he's not a bad guy," I said, "but it's the good people who tick me off."

"What do you mean?"

"They're so sure about not being prejudiced, they don't listen."

My anger refueled itself. Outrage returned. The preacher did something I would never do. I had principles.

A mental door slammed open, interrupting my indignation.

Months earlier I'd attended a nephew's football game. I crossed the urban schoolyard looking for other team parents. Three African-American students sauntered toward me. They were dressed in baggy pants and shirts that hung to their knees. Shoulder punching punctuated their banter, which grew louder as they approached. When they drew close, I asked for directions.

To my surprise, they responded with well-spoken courtliness. "If you continue down the walkway, ma'am, you'll find the football field directly on your left. Have a nice day."

I'd expected them to talk like gangster rappers. I was astonished that these young black men spoke politely in perfect English.

After recounting the episode to Ben, I gasped. "Oh my gawd, I'm prejudiced!"

When I'd looked that minister in the eye, I stood face to face with myself. My self-assurance obscured my bias. Years earlier, I'd worked as a counselor in inner city schools. Just like the pastor, I did my part, played the good citizen, and took pride in my achievements. Just like him, I preferred talking to listening.

Confronted by the minister's indiscretion, I'd dismissed his good intention. When both are acknowledged, the one can by forgiven and the other acclaimed. In passionate monologues, I clamor for change, but progress will start when I lay down the megaphone and pick up a mirror.