It's All Relative

The waves of laughter swelled and rolled through the air, right at me, until the sudden splash of twenty-eight kids' and one teacher's joy drenched my senses. As the giggles died down, but all the smiles remained, a dawning awareness seeped into my thoughts: the very word that had caused near euphoria in a fourth grade classroom, barely registered a blip of sentiment when mentioned in my former field of nursing. How wonderful it felt to witness the antipodal response--a washing away of the stagnant and a refreshing swig of the new.

But their reaction really wasn't new...just...different. And not different for most, but different for me--a varied view of the same thing. Like the sight of the immense, ebbing and flowing ocean from any shoreline on Earth compared to its seemingly static, solid, blue-marble appearance as viewed from space. It is the same water, but what a distinct departure from what we're used to seeing up close. That's what the mention of this one word, in this one classroom did for me that day. It made me remember the relativity of life.

Can you figure out what the word was? I'm sure you have an idea. But here's an easier one:

During the same week, I was again jarred out of my old thought patterns. After over three years of being away, Joel realized that no one else in this family minds the pretty wild flowers that lightly dust our lawn in happy yellow spots. Nathan always kept it neatly mowed, but not once in those three years, did either of us put chemicals on our grass. Unbeknownst to Grace, until it was too late, Joel resumed his measured maintenance of the lawn, which included a methodic distribution of fertilizer and weed-killer, because that's what those yellow flowers were to Joel: ugly weeds.

When Grace found out...oh, the indignation and passion of our eight year old: "Daddy!" She was sharp and to the point. "You. Are a flower. Murderer!" Then she was nearly weeping, "Why? Why did you do it? I love those flowers! They're not ugly, they're beautiful!"

For the next six days, as the sparsely sprinkled yellow wildflowers wilted and died on our lawn, Grace went out each day and picked bountiful bouquets from our neighbor's chemical-free yard (probably the last one left on our block), to disperse into smaller bunches in varied miniature vases throughout the house, where Joel would be reminded of his murderous mistake. She put them on the little stand near the front door; she put them on the bathroom sink, in front of his toothbrush; she put them on the kitchen counter, near his lunchbox for work; she put them on the kitchen table, the living room table, and his bedside table.

Ironically, she failed to realize that by picking the flowers, she, too, was cutting their life short. I didn't want to squelch her tenacious drive to prove her point--Grace always stands up for what she believes in and she has no fear attached to doing so--I love that about her.

So. Diarrhea and Dandelions: a mundane, if inconvenient, bodily function and some ugly weeds? Or, I prefer: a hilariously gross-me-out-the-door word with the power to uplift and renew an entire classroom and beautiful, golden blooms that ignite the passions of at least one eight year old girl. It's all relative.