Sputtered Dreams

When I was about six years old, I was the darling debutante of my doll and barbie social scene. Pulling the strings of my make believe happiness, I was God, creating a world where everything was perfect, ordered, and full of sparkle; essentially the complete opposite of my barnyard, farm girl, tomboy reality.

But one day, inspiration struck. I decided to build my very own doll bed with particulars not even Disney would be able to top. I had it all planned out. It was going to be exquisite with all the classic detailing: rocking legs, white trim, lace, a delicate rounded headboard, and an ever so soft pillow and silk-lined blanket to tuck in for sweet dreams.

The blueprint in my mind was set. I couldn’t wait to start building. I hurried across the driveway to the shed, ready to put my little can-do hands to work in creating my dream doll bed.

I found three, rough pieces of wood to begin molding into my vision. And I remember so clearly not questioning at all the roughness of the wood or the obvious fact that these pieces were scrap. I was so intent with belief that I could make the creation in my mind a reality.

I found six half-rusted nails and began positioning them into a bed frame. I grabbed a hammer, well about the size of my head, and with a few good ‘whacks,’ got both sides into place. I was immediately proud of my “carpentry.”

But when I set the rough, grisly three pieces of scrap down on the gravel to evaluate my handiwork, it was just that. Three pieces of pathetic scrap wood hammered together.

I stared blankly. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.

My heart sank.

I still remember tears welling up inside me because for the first time, I saw that I could not create, even though I had so clearly seen it in my mind. I could not make my dream a reality. So strange that an experience so easily dismissed as child-like whimsy could, nearly 30 years later, still be felt so viscerally.

It was as if a cold shield shot up around my young, dreaming heart. What I believed in that moment was that there was a disconnect between what I could imagine, and what I could use my hands to create. At such a fragile, imaginative stage in life, I matured in cynicism, and decided to only ever take routes where I could not fail. What I believed in my heart that day has truly affected and guided most of my choices in life, sad to say.

But what I perpetually find interesting about this reality of failure is that although everyone experiences it in one way or another, it can have the effect of nearly devastating one person, yet be a catalyst for success in another.

Was it simply that I was a capitulator to disappointment and not made of the same stuff as a “go-getter?” Maybe.

Either way, it’s sad to think that you can pin point the moment you stopped dreaming. My dream mechanism began to sputter as I stared down at that hard-featured, ugly excuse for a doll bed.

I remember even trying to spruce it up. I ran inside and fetched some markers, hoping that perhaps some color might help the look of this raw creation. It didn’t.

And it’s as if the more I tried to fix the ugliness of my limited little hands, the uglier the doll bed became, and the more my beautiful imagined doll bed began to fade. 

The reality of the failure I was seeing became the reality of my unbelief in myself.

And from that time on, every time I saw an inspirational poster in school propagating sentiments like, reach for the stars! I would roll my eyes. I had a f-ing ugly ass doll bed in my shed to prove that platitude wrong.

And I wish it was simply a matter of, get over it. It didn’t matter. It happened so long ago. You were a kid! You can’t let that affect you now. You’re over-thinking it.

There’s just something about it, though. Failure. Much of life is spent avoiding or overcoming it. But like pain, it’s a reality of life. Failure reveals the struggle, but it doesn’t guarantee the surmounting.

Few grapple with and sit with failure. Rather, we herald those who overcome failure. We don’t ask questions. Winners are those we want. Success stories. Dreamers achieving dreams. Talk to us when you’re not failing.

And although I wouldn’t say I’m failing in life; quite the contrary actually. I’m living in the greatest amount of prosperity, genuineness, and gentleness than ever before. But this nagging memory remains. Why has failure from that moment as a child been so emblematic of my choices since?

Perhaps its more emblematic of necessary healing; learning to be gentle and kind to myself in every way. And perhaps in the learning, a side effect will be a lessening of fear toward failure, knowing that I will be kind in the face of it. And perhaps, I will even be emboldened to take more creative risks; to risk failure in doing that which I'm unsure I can do well.

Perhaps. I'm still that teary eyed little dreamer, after all.