Dawn Downey - Stumbling Toward the Buddha: Stories about Tripping over My Principles on the Road to Transformation

In this collection of stories, Dawn Downey takes daily dilemmas and guides us into the recognition of what we do indeed already know. She writes candidly about the workings of her mind, which are the unspeakable workings of ours, too. Her writing is pure Zen.

Cheryl Wilfong
Author of The Meditative Gardener: Cultivating Mindfulness of Body, Feelings, and Mind and Following the Nez Perce Trail: A Guide to the Nee-Me-Poo National Historic Trail

Stumbling Toward the Buddha

Stories about Tripping over My Principles
on the Road to Transformation

Dawn Downey

Also by Dawn Downey

Searching for My Heart: Essays about Love

From Dawn to Daylight: Essays

for ben, my big sweetie

Table of Contents

PART I
Nobodys Perfect: Accepting My Humanity

PART II
Bad Things Happen to Good PeopleIf Theyre Lucky: Transcending Difficulties

PART III
Revelations: Finding Myself

PART IV
Oneness Makes Strange Bedfellows: Losing My Self

PART V
A Question a Day Keeps the Answers Away: Making Peace with Paradox

Part I

Nobodys Perfect: Accepting My Humanity

When an upscale lifestyle magazine featured a friends Los Angeles home, it was a sixteen-page, full-color spread of my jealousy. The green-eyed monster drooled all over her Ming porcelain. It hunkered down on her French settee. What is a settee, anyway? I plunged elbow deep into the horse manure of envy in order to recover my former affection, then emailed her a cheery congratulation. She responded in half an hour. BTW, she said, I love your blog. Oh. My words were her treasures, perhaps displayed on her turn-of-the-century Rococo game table. Elegantly backlit, because, after all, she has exquisite taste.

The Collection

My personal treasures make the acquisitions of the Smithsonian look like tchotchkes. The holdings of the Louvre are mere keepsakes in comparison, King Tuts treasures cheap trinkets. Ive amassed a collection mined from the caverns of memory, a museum filled with priceless gemsmy thoughts.

Humdrum Hall stores workhorse thoughts. Not very pretty, but always close by when needed. To your right, at the bottom of the laundry basket: Wish these clothes would wash themselves for a change. In front of the television: Shoot, too cold to go for a walk todaybut on the bright side, too cold to weed the garden. Please hold your noses, before I open the refrigerator door for: Oh no, another bowl of green fuzz.

Follow me up the down escalator to Fantasy Foyer, where the tooth fairy supervises acquisitions. Note the funhouse mirrors. Im particularly proud of beauties like: After I lose five pounds, my little black dress will fit again, and Don t care what anybody says, gold lam clogs are right in style. Keep a safe distance from: I ll clean out the closet next week , or youll get cobwebs in your hair.

Single file, please. The hallway narrows as it winds around to Beliefs Atrium. B.A. requires specialized ventilation, because its contents are ancient and fragile. Dont be alarmedthe door will close behind you with a vacuum seal, which keeps out fresh air. Space is limited; theres no room for newer models, as long as these crowd every corner. Lets pause to reflect on I need to meditate twice a day, picked up at a Buddhist monastery. The viewpoint under the American flag is on a four-year rotation: My political party won t mess things up like the other guys.

Maintenance costs in Beliefs Atrium eclipse those in other areas of the museum. I squandered thirty-three years on the upkeep of: A traditional career path will lead to success and happiness.

Try harder and this marriage will work. Eighteen years.

Just five little pounds, just five. Well five years.

Wear clean underwear in case you get into an accident. Half a century and counting.

Were now approaching Dawn Salon, which houses the most rare thoughts of all. You cant purchase these jewels anywhere else. In the doorway: My name is Dawn . A perfection of simplicity, dont you think? Turn your attention toward something more complex, the mobile overhead: I resigned from a secure position, with $20,000 to my name, to gamble on a writing career . Shifting air currents alternately show off its polished surfaces, then accentuate its shadows. And one more, just to give you a flavor of the whole Dawn series: I m middle-aged, with a house and a mortgage. Not attractive by traditional standards, but integral to the set.

According to provenance, each piece originated right here. But a woman out in California, a fellow attendee at a writers conference, claimed her name was also Dawn (now appended as The Younger, for purposes of differentiation). Not only that, every thought in the Salon described her life as well as mine. Coincidence? Hardly. She obviously bought them from a forger. God forbid, she owns the originals and mine are the fakes.

Now, on to Ornery Alcove. Be careful. Mental activity is quite unstable in this area. Jokes leap from pedestals at the slightest provocation.

To set the mood before his dharma talk, our meditation teacher introduced it with an instruction. Please listen in a meditative frame of mind.

A resident of Ornery Alcove pounced: Well, I m not going to .

The teacher couldnt possibly have heard, but he did glance in my direction before he continued. The Buddha discovered 102 forms of consciousness. How many do you experience in your life?

104, what s it to ya?

Wed better leave before someone gets hurt. Young lady on the cell phone, pay attention. Let s pretend there s a spider is about to crawl up your leg.

Heading over to Doubt District. Please put on your night-vision goggles for this section of the tour. The lights short out constantly. Careful you dont trip over Who are you kidding? That black dress will never fit again.

Dawn The Younger (sneaking around in my museum again) asked me to suggest a title for an article shed written. A dozen suggestions came to mind, rolled out like an assembly line that is, until volunteers from Doubt District slowed down the process. You can see them crouched in the far corner: God, these titles are corny . Boy, do these need help. That one s really far-fetched. I emailed my proposals to Dawn The Younger, and in the subject line, typed the words, I failed.

She, however, called my offerings brilliant and crowned me the Title Queen. Its doubtful shes right about that.

In the center of the museum, The Obvious. Note the angelic harp music as you pass under the arched entryway. Here we display only two lovelies, the foundation of the collection.

First, sitting on an ebony pedestal: I am African American . Notice how the light dances off oh dear, the staff neglected to return Black History Month to storage. Please be aware of sharp edges as you walk past: Here we go again, the same old documentary about the Edmund Pettis Bridge.

Next to it, a companion piece, equally hallowed, multi-faceted, glowing pink: I m a woman. Its curves complement the angularity of African American . These masterpieces set the tone for everything else in the collection.

Push on a heart-shaped brick. Voila. The wall gives way to a secret passageThe Tunnel of Family Heirlooms. Keep moving. Otherwise, tentacles will wrap around your ankles and snatch you off your feet. You can t afford, you can t afford, you can t afford: a broken record bequeathed to me from Dad. From Mother (or stepmother, technicallyshe married Dad when I was twelve): You re too pretty to wear beige all the time and Wash the dishes, dammit.

The sealed chest in the corner? My biological mother dropped it off. Didnt get a chance to sort through it before she died. Suspect Ill need a therapist to break the lock.