The Collection
by
Dawn Downey
I have a friend who collects radios. Four-foot tall dark brown radios, circa 1940, stand sentry in the front hallway and in the corners throughout his house. About a foot below the ceiling, a shelf encircles each room. Small, brightly colored plastic radios from the 1950s and ’60s line these shelves, like pop art crown molding. Like many collectors, he’s adapted his house to accommodate his collection.
I have friends who collect cats. Visitors are seated so as not to disturb any sleeping cat. Conversations stop when a cat enters the room so that the cat can be admired. Special chemicals are purchased and carpets are eliminated to diminish the smell of cat urine. Like many collectors, they’ve adapted their houses to accommodate the collection.
Me, I collect souvenirs from my life. There’s a poster of a tiger hanging on a wall in my living room. It’s an artifact from a dream I had. There’s a toy biplane on my desk – a relic from another dream. A piece of driftwood on the bookshelf represents a romantic vacation. A horse made of wire symbolizes my father. In my house, furniture is rearranged, books removed from bookcases, and family photographs hidden away in drawers, all to make room for the latest souvenir. Like many collectors, I’ve adapted my house to accommodate my collection.
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I have another collection. I collect thoughts. They’re important, rare and valuable because…well, because they’re mine. I’ve constructed an entire museum in my head to house this precious collection. Let’s take a tour.
In the entryway of the museum I keep the thoughts that are more mundane, less valuable. For example: “It is hot today.” That thought sits near the door. Or, “I have a dentist appointment” Over here is an even less valuable thought, “It’s time to clean the kitchen.” I could easily get along without these particular thoughts.
The museum entry opens out into the Beliefs Atrium. Scattered throughout the Atrium are thoughts that are precious, and I guard them closely. As long as I own these, I can’t really see the possibility of obtaining different ones. Here’s a Belief I acquired several years ago. “I need to meditate more frequently.” Here’s another one. “There is no such thing as immaculate conception.” And in this corner a matched set. “God exists.” “God does not exist.” And a final example from the Beliefs Atrium. “The cause of suffering is craving.”
Sometimes I misplace pieces of my collection. The last time I tried to fill in my phone number on a form, I couldn’t find that particular thought anywhere. Where did I put it? Who’s messing around in my head and rearranging stuff?
Occasionally, as I wander through the museum, I find thoughts I don’t recognize. I don’t know where they came from.
Last week while I was cleaning the kitchen, I began thinking about my friend Marissa. She was having trouble with her boyfriend, and she wanted my help in figuring out how to talk to him. But midway through scouring the sink, I realized I don’t have a friend named Marissa. Now I’m very sorry that she’s having trouble with her boyfriend and I would probably help her if I could, but how did these thoughts about somebody named Marissa get into my head? I certainly don’t remember putting them there.
We’re now approaching the Dawn Room. The thoughts in the Dawn Room are extremely rare. You can’t get these babies anywhere else. Let me share some of these with you: At the entry to the Dawn Room is a lovely piece called, “My name is Dawn.” I love the simplicity of that one. We move past that thought and towards a more complex one just beyond it. Here it is: “I resigned from a terrific and profitable job in March, with less than $20,000 to my name, in order to pursue my love of writing.” I love that one. It’s currently my favorite thought.
But let’s move on. Here’s a plain one over in the corner. It’s called, “I am middle-aged, with a house and a mortgage.” It’s not one of my favorites, but it’s part of the group. Here’s one that’s recently been moved to the middle of the room. “Not long ago I had a life-changing revelation that for thirty years, I’d worked for a whole series of abusive bosses.” I love that one! And here’s one more, just to give you a flavor of the whole Dawn series. It goes like this. “My dad, who died some years ago, was a dearly-loved and inspirational celebrity in his community.” That’s got a nice patina, don’t you think?
I thought the thoughts in the Dawn Room were mine. I believed they were exclusive to my museum. But they’re not. They also belong to another Dawn, a lovely woman I met on a recent trip to California. Every one of the thoughts I just showed you in MY Dawn Room describes her life too! How did my thoughts get into this other Dawn’s head? Who forged my stuff and gave it to her? God forbid, she has the originals and I have the fakes!
Near the Dawn Room is the Ornery Alcove. Be careful as we walk through. These thoughts are unstable and tend to leap off their pedestals unexpectedly. The first one is around this corner. Here it is: Last Sunday as usual Ben gave the familiar instruction, “I invite you to continue listening in a meditative frame of mind.”
A thought in my Ornery Alcove replied, “Well, I’m not going to!” Where did that come from, and why did it choose that particular moment to present itself?
He continued. “There are 121 forms of consciousness. How many do you experience?”
“One hundred and nineteen,” replied another thought from the Ornery Alcove. The Ornery collection is out of control.
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Now we’re coming to the Doubt Room. I’m having trouble with the lighting in here, and it stays pretty dark. It’s real easy to bump into these thoughts, so we won’t go in. I’ll just describe them from the doorway. Here we go: A friend asked me to suggest a title for an article she’d just written. I came up with seven suggestions. I can’t tell you how many volunteers from the Doubt Room leaped forward to help. There was “God, these are corny.” “Boy, do these suck.” Followed by, “That’s really far-fetched.” And, “Nobody will ever get that one.” In the subject line of my email to her, I even typed the words, “I failed.” My friend, on the other hand, immediately responded that all of my suggested titles were brilliant. And she was officially crowning me the Title Queen! The Doubt Room is very dark and very crowded.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’m really in charge of this museum. If I’m the curator, I should be able to find things when I want them. I shouldn’t find things in there that I didn’t put there. I should be able to stop acquiring new thoughts whenever I want to. I can’t.
And like many collectors, I’ve adapted the house that I call my life to accommodate my collection. I’ve devoted entire chunks of my life to certain exquisite pieces. Here’s an example: “A child should be raised by two parents, not one.” I gave fifteen years to that thought. Here’s another: “I need to have a full-time job with retirement and health benefits in order to be a successful person.” Thirty-three years. “Good friends talk to each other once a week.” Twenty-three years. “Wear clean underwear in case you get into an accident.” Fifty-four years and nine months.
In the center of my museum is a tiny room named The Obvious, The Obvious is lit with the soft glow reserved for only the most sacred objects. It contains two thoughts, prized above all the rest.
The first thought shimmers in the middle of a shaft of golden light. It sits proudly on a mahogany pedestal. It’s called, “I am African American.” Next to it, a companion piece, equally hallowed, multi-faceted, and glowing pink. It’s called, “I am a woman.” No matter what happens to the rest of my collection, these I must treasure. They color all of my actions and every other part of the collection.
Though we don’t like to consider it, our collections are all in constant danger from outside threats. At any moment they could be demolished by a natural disaster. Face it. During tornado season, a twister could strike, destroying our houses and everything in them. Our precious radios, cats, artwork, or eBay purchases could be sent flying through the air, only to land on some unsuspecting little old lady in Topeka who isn’t even interested, because she collects spoons!
So, too, my thoughts are at risk of being reduced to a pile of meaningless rubble by a threat called Truth.
At any moment, Consciousness could flip a switch and turn on Truth like a floodlight. I imagine becoming temporarily blinded by its brightness and being unable to make out the contours of my thoughts. Or perhaps Truth will slowly and steadily increase the light, like a dimmer switch. I may gradually begin to see the thoughts more clearly. What I took to be granite or marble may actually be plaster. The diamonds might be glass.
Even The Obvious is threatened. Though thoughts dictate that I’m African American and female, I’m neither of those things. The decoding of DNA has revealed that race does not exist in biology. It’s a cultural concept, an agreement we’ve struck with each other in order to keep score. Science also tells us that gender is not one or the other side of a coin, but rather a point on a continuum. I’m not a woman, to the complete exclusion of being a man. I’m somewhere in between.
As long as I believe in the importance of my collection, I limit the possibilities in my life. As long as I put time and energy into its maintenance, there’s little time and energy to live. More and more, as Consciousness illuminates them, I’m seeing my thoughts for what they really are: vaguely interesting and somewhat entertaining artifacts from a not-so-unique life.
Anyhoo…just a thought.
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