Stumbling Toward the Buddha

Fired.

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — 2012-03-03T18:07:58Z

     My brother, the college professor, got laid off. After six months, from a job it took him three years to find.
     We commiserated by skype, with half a continent between us. I threatened to go out there to California and set those people straight. (I didn't called them "people.")
     My brother slumped in his chair. "It makes me sick to think about going on another job interview." He barely moved. It was hard to tell he was breathing. He said, "I don't know what to do."
     Neither did I.
     We sat together, in the eerie glow of our computers.

Problems?

dawnldowney@yahoo.com (Dawn Downey) — 2012-02-03T04:21:16Z

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) — 2012-01-20T19:27:44Z

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) — 2012-01-06T21:54:48Z

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) — 2011-11-19T16:39:14Z

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) — 2011-11-07T02:32:57Z

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) — 2011-10-26T02:22:56Z

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) — 2011-10-11T01:25:38Z

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) — 2011-10-06T21:40:17Z

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) — 2011-09-24T21:24:19Z

"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) — 2011-09-13T15:51:57Z

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) — 2011-08-27T18:59:21Z

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) — 2011-08-14T05:30:00Z

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) — 2011-08-12T02:16:07Z

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) — 2011-08-06T14:13:34Z

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) — 2011-08-04T12:12:51Z

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) — 2011-07-31T22:48:46Z

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) — 2011-07-26T13:43:00Z

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) — 2011-07-25T13:30:43Z

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) — 2011-07-22T13:57:32Z

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.