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Dawn Downey's Blog: Stories About Mindfulness, Gratitude, and Transformation

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Dawn Downey's Blog: Stories About Mindfulness, Gratitude, and Transformation

Rated: 2.91 / 5 | 1,783 listing views Dawn Downey's Blog: Stories About Mindfulness, Gratitude, and Transformation Blogging Fusion Blog Directory

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  • Dawn Downey
  • December 01, 2014 11:49:52 AM
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My outlook on daily life will inspire you and make you laugh.

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12 Reasons to Put Off Going to the Doctor

The pain will go away on its own; it’s only been ten months.It only hurts when I get dressed. I don’t need to get dressed.As long as it hurts, I don’t have to mop the kitchen floor.The office schedules only by phone. The phone triggers memories of collection agencies calling to threaten me about my student loan.  The scheduling assistant will ask how I injured myself. She’ll call me a wimp when I say yoga.If I wait two more weeks I’ll be able to say,...

  1. The pain will go away on its own; it’s only been ten months.
  2. It only hurts when I get dressed. I don’t need to get dressed.
  3. As long as it hurts, I don’t have to mop the kitchen floor.
  4. The office schedules only by phone. The phone triggers memories of collection agencies calling to threaten me about my student loan.  
  5. The scheduling assistant will ask how I injured myself. She’ll call me a wimp when I say yoga.
  6. If I wait two more weeks I’ll be able to say, “Yes. I’ve been icing the sore spot.”
  7. My doctor’s-appointment outfit needs to be washed.
  8. My car’s out of gas.  
  9. I’ll get lost in the parking garage.
  10. The office will charge $75.00 co-pay. I'll have to call an 800 number, because the plan booklet said the co-pay was zero.
  11. The nurse will weigh me. I’ll no longer be able to live in denial.
  12. The doctor is a man. Men I’m not sleeping with are not allowed to touch my body.


Candlelight Vigil

On a frigid December night in 2014, my husband and I pulled into the parking lot of St. James Catholic Church to join a candlelight vigil against gun violence. Parishioners were already gathered on the corner, their candle flames a minor constellation within a universe of traffic lights. I pulled two tapers from my purse, as our friend Kate parked her car near ours. We paraded toward the group, and claiming spots against a wall, blended into the background.The national news had been filled with...

On a frigid December night in 2014, my husband and I pulled into the parking lot of St. James Catholic Church to join a candlelight vigil against gun violence. Parishioners were already gathered on the corner, their candle flames a minor constellation within a universe of traffic lights. I pulled two tapers from my purse, as our friend Kate parked her car near ours. We paraded toward the group, and claiming spots against a wall, blended into the background.

The national news had been filled with stories about unarmed black boys and men killed by police, while the local news had been decrying the frequency of homicides in city neighborhoods.

Setting aside my opinions about twenty-first century USA, I held a candle.

We were only a few, our presence on that sidewalk brief, but I felt consoled with my hands folded in prayer around a taper. Drivers tapped their horns; some waved, and the gestures brought us together in sorrow and united us in our exhaustion from grieving. A gust sneaked up my coat sleeve. I shivered. It was a night to mourn.


My Lost Boys

When the news anchor reported the police had killed Casey Goodson, Jr., I gagged and then bolted up the stairs to the safety of my closet.What was I doing watching the damn news, anyway? It was bad for me. I had vowed to abstain and hadn’t watched for months. And then, like an addict, I slipped. What were the odds I’d get bad drugs the one time I slipped?I moaned. I rocked myself for comfort that could not be found. Another one gone. Another one lost. Another future stolen.No more....

When the news anchor reported the police had killed Casey Goodson, Jr., I gagged and then bolted up the stairs to the safety of my closet.

What was I doing watching the damn news, anyway? It was bad for me. I had vowed to abstain and hadn’t watched for months. And then, like an addict, I slipped. What were the odds I’d get bad drugs the one time I slipped?

I moaned. I rocked myself for comfort that could not be found. Another one gone. Another one lost. Another future stolen.

No more. No more.

Casey Goodson, Jr. was transformed from flesh and blood into just another news story. After a year of protest, demonstrations, marches, petitions. A year of conversations about systemic racism, white body supremacy, white privilege. A year of hearing that consciousness was shifting.

I retched. In my imagination, I smashed windows.

I looked him up online. My god, he was a sweet-faced baby. A handsome twenty-three-year-old, until he was a headline on the kitchen floor. Found there by his grandmother and baby brother. There were demonstrations in Casey Goodson, Jr.’s hometown, but nothing here in Kansas City. Nothing on Facebook, where football games and plates of food got honored. In my imagination, I cussed out my friends. Why weren’t they as mad as I was?

In a crowd of protestors near the Ohio Statehouse, there were his mother and family attorney, calling for justice, urging peace. With the impenetrable government facade as backdrop, his mother’s loss spilled out in heaving sobs.

If I couldn’t bear this, how could she? How would she?

In bed, I said a metta prayer for her. For mothers of murdered sons. For mothers of absent sons. For mothers. Grandmothers. Baby brothers. Families bearing loss. For all beings in all realms. May they be free from suffering.

During the day, when she came to mind, I trembled. In my imagination, we were together in her house, staring at the spot on the kitchen floor. We sat knee to knee. I put my hand on hers.

All beings in all realms … are they real? Casey Goodson, Jr.’s mother is real. She’ll have to fry eggs in that kitchen.

I sent her a card.

The rigidity in my body eased, like armor removed. I spread my arms in release and welcome. I felt permeable.

Then the police killed Andre´ Maurice Hill.

Another one taken. There will always be another one taken.

I’m not supposed to bear grief. I’m supposed to bear witness.

To all who love my lost boys, I vow to be open. Let your grief pass through me on its endless journey.


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