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Recently I retrieved a box of childhood treasures from my parents' home. Among the dolls and long-forgotten art projects, there it lay nestled: my first work of fiction, "True Love in the Grand Canyon." I opened the volume hesitantly, unsure of the extent of the inevitable chagrin I would feel after reviewing this childish fancy. As it turned out, the story (which was no doubt tempered in its silliness by my co-author Ginger) was a delight. We all got a huge kick out of it and laughed at something I once intended to be taken seriously.
Sometimes I think of myself in my childhood form, and wonder what Young Robyn would say if she knew how she would turn out. Some things I'm sure would win her approval: Handsome, loving husband. Sweet, beautiful baby. A lovely home with nice things to look at and eat. Some things might excite her: "I will outgrow this training bra one day and won't be called 'Bandaids' anymore!" Some things might ignite her hope and give her something to look forward to, "I will never stop learning. I will constantly refine my tastes in art and music. I will never find an end to my desire for beauty and creativity. I will always seek a deeper understanding of God." Some things might keep her up at night, "Depression will haunt me all the days of my life." And some things might cause her to shake her head with amused indulgence, "I can't believe I leave the house wearing those shoes. That dress is perfect for Tacky Day. And my taste in jewelry has gone tribal."
But there is one thing that I'm sure would infuriate Young Robyn: what I do now that I'm grown up. You see, the young author of "True Love in the Grand Canyon" intended to be a great writer. Nothing less than national fame and a reputation as a child prodigy would do. A teacher of mine once claimed I would be the next Victoria Holt. I took this to heart. I was certain that one day I would be appreciated on a level that would blow my fellow schoolchildren out of the water and cause them to rethink their treatment of me. When Young Robyn got a little older, the stage was her certain calling. She would be discovered, work at Opryland for a while, then Broadway, and finally a movie career. Of course, she would be a popular country music singer along the way. I wrote copious amounts of poetry as a teenager. I forced myself to write short stories and poetry even when I was tired or didn't feel like it. I kept a meticulous record of my daily life in my journal, certain that one day I would be my generation's Samuel Pepys. I neglected my family so I could exercise my writing skills. Instead of visiting my aging grandparents on Saturday, I wrote short stories. Writing, it seems, has been my longest dream.
I'm not a great writer. I'm not a great actress. Nor am I a singer. Nor a poet. I'm not famous. In fact, I have no career at all. I’m a housewife and a stay-at-home mom. I am, in a way, ordinary. A life wasted in a quest to become something special has boiled down to cleaning, cooking, and raising a child. My poor grandparents have all passed away but my grandmother on my dad's side, who is in poor health. And all of those short stories, all the poems, and all the journals have been destroyed. By me. I couldn't stand to have them around anymore. Because they are all terrible. Not just terribly written. Not just silly or stupid. It's worse than that. When I read them, I get a horrible feeling that there was something the matter with me. That I wasn't normal. That I was sick somehow. That my imagination was a wild tangle of nonsense. Everything I worked so hard on is gone. Everything, that is, but "True Love in the Grand Canyon." This single story is my monument to an abandoned dream.
Ask a child what he wants to do when he grows up, and you will get many wild and wooly answers. "Doing" something with your life is an expectation we all anticipate, and we dream many dreams before our true fate is realized. When you meet someone new, one of the first questions they ask is "What do you do?" We are marked by what we do, we are identified. What we do is who we are. Perhaps a better way to look at ourselves and others is not doing, but just being. To be happy, to be kind, to be alive.
I suppose what I have learned from this long and at times extremely painful journey is that, though childhood dreams and creativity should be encouraged and explored, there is nothing wrong with being ordinary. As I return to my childhood hometown, I embrace the ordinary more and more. I love Wal-Mart, Old Timer’s Day, the County Fair, and hanging out with my family. These are the things that make me happy! This is the lesson I want to give to my daughter. I wish I had learned a long time ago that being friendly, that loving people and praying for them, and that seeking a life lead by God is a much better way to attract people’s affection that trying to show them how talented you are and seeking a treacherous dream of fame.
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