Parabola

Stuart Dobbins holds countless respectable titles. He has been ranked among the Fortune 500, featured on the cover of Forbes Magazine, and probably owns more cars than can be found in a small country. The irony of Stuart Dobbins, however, is that his story is referred to as the “success story of a failure” by most people who know him. I have always been curious about this because while he admits to his humble origin, he has never told the full story. This is the story that he recounted to me when I interviewed him at a recent conference.

                “What comes to mind when I think of the word ‘success?’ That is quite the story, Miss Spearman. Honestly, I was never meant to be great, and I am still far from greatness. I never led an impoverished existence; I never went hungry for anything more than adventure. In my safe, warm home, I lived with my parents who cordially tolerated one another. The walls were covered with sepia-tone photos of our family of three, and my life was a giant white canvas. That bare whiteness resembled my inner space…”

                “Inner space, Mr. Dobbins?” I interrupted, unaware of his meaning.

                “Oh yes, hmmm. I suppose you could call ‘inner space’ the playground for the mind and heart. I apologize for the lack of clarity. All I had ever wanted was color in my life, so I pursued art. Passion, emotion, and depth were what I loved so much about art and those who created it. This love likely stemmed from my previous lack of all three. I adored painting, and that I had the power to create. Whiteness became filled with life and color at my command. My paintings gave voice to imaginings to which I could never ascribe words.”

                “I did not know you were an artist, Mr. Dobbins,” I exclaimed, intrigued. He chuckled, and glanced upwards for a moment as if deciding what to say next. The bright, white lights hung from the expo-center ceiling, and created a colorless ambiance. He continued,

“It is common knowledge that artists rarely make a living from their art. I believe this is only fair, since it would be, in a sense, like selling one’s soul to the highest bidder. Far from home as a young man, I spent countless nights on friends’ couches and I often went weeks without doing anything. When I could not afford art materials, I would sit around and bemoan my inability to express myself. The unfairness of my perceived plight would overwhelm me, and I was hard pressed to see the beauty of my own existence. Those years exemplify what I now consider seasons of immense failure. I failed as an artist not because I was un-talented or lacked passion and desire, but because I made my art for myself only. Anything I could have offered to the world’s life-giving stockpile of beauty was handed over already devoid of value.”

He paused as his words echoed off of the metal walls, and he seemed pensive as he recounted the story. I prompted him, saying, “What happened next, sir?”

“Well, I eventually decided I did not like being a ‘poor, starving artist,’ and pursued a career in business. My creativity was now filtered into a new project birthed from my selfishness; sales. Passion and desire are useful for more than just painting, but often come in handy in convincing people living in colorless worlds that a ‘want’ is a ‘dire need.’ I was an excellent salesman from the beginning. Plastic grins and empty charisma oozed out of my being because I knew what I wanted. At least, I thought I knew. After several years of dazzling material success, I felt little-acquainted with my old self. The “artist Stuart” was long gone, and he had been replaced with “overpaid, reckless Stuart.” Having piles of cash was a new sensation for me, so naturally I did not know how to handle the situation responsibly. I spent money almost as quickly as I earned it on frivolities. Eventually, the day came when I began bouncing checks and having my credit card declined. I was being suckered out of the money I had swindled. Rejection swiftly replaced acceptance. The friends with whom I had previously painted the town scurried away like cockroaches fleeing stomping boots. This time my failure was immediately evident to me, and having experienced gain, I resented friendly-couch homes more than ever. I envied “artist Stuart” for his naïveté. I was mistaken about one thing, though.”

“What is that?” I encouraged.

“I had not failed because my money was gone. I had failed because I had continued to worship myself. I ‘progressed’ from satiating my inner longings through art to spending money in a prodigal manner. My loneliness and emptiness were overwhelming. The final blow came about a month after my money ran out. During my time in sales, I had engaged in some illegal activities regarding the handling of money. You have heard whispers of my money scandal, have you not?”

“I must confess I have, sir,” I admitted.

“Well, now you will know the whole truth of the matter. I broke the law to increase my own wealth, and when I was at my weakest point my retribution came. I was sued for $500,000.00 by my company’s partner for lying on my sales records. I lost my job, I spent the next year in and out of court, and I was left destitute. My parents would not let me come home, I had no friends, and I was living on the streets. It was then that realized that it was my fault that I was a failure, and only then did I begin to learn what true success was. Winston Churchill said, ‘Success consists of moving from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.' I find it ironic that the definition of success is meaningless without failure. Success, Miss Spearman, is rooted in humility. One who thinks only of himself will never truly be successful because no matter what he owns or how much money he has, his life will be one of insatiable yearning and selfishness. Many judge my success by how many dollars are in my bank account, but I am successful because my heart is full. I have finally created something beautiful for the benefit of others, and I in turn have benefitted. Well, it has been a pleasure, ma’am.”

He smiled, shook my hand and walked away.

Note to readers: This is a definition essay I wrote for my super fun writing class. I hope you enjoy it! Also, can you figure out why it is titled "Parabola?" Please put your guesses in the comment section (on Facebook or Blogspot).