A theory of relativity

This is part 1 of a series of important things I want to tell my children.

Over Christmas my mom and Stuart and I discussed the theory of relativity.  I've always had a major conflict with this theory.  I'd love to believe it (mostly because Einstein is a major supporter) except for the fact that it's weird as hell.  I don't know about you guys, but I've been raised under the belief that units of measurement (such as minutes, seconds, feet, gallons, BAC, etc.) pretty much remain standard.  Hearing that time can move faster or slower depending on the situation really messes with that idea. 

Actually, it looks like Al looks pretty confused himself...

Anyway, we were in the kitchen and Stuart and my mom (without a doubt the two smartest in the family) were discussing how time was the fourth dimension.  It was about noon, I'd woken up about twelve minutes earlier, and basically it was way more than I could handle, so I focused on the Honey Bunches of Oats (we've been out of Kap'n Krunch for approximately 8 months, harder to live without than you thought).

Mom, Stuart, and a creepy looking dude circa 1997

On the car ride back to South Bend I started thinking about this stupid concept, and believe it or not, I started to believe it.  I mean, how else could a car ride take so fricken long?  I therefore started driving faster, and now owe $175 to the state of Indiana.

I've been thinking more and more about this idea and finally today I realized why it always made a little bit of sense to me.

A few years ago my church had an interim minister named Gil Fauber, who I always had a pretty solid spiritual connection with.  He made a sermon about what he called "thin places," which were places where you felt more connected to God, or nature, or basically the rest of the universe.  There really isn't much other description than that.  If you have these places you already know what I'm talking about, and if you haven't found them yet you'll know exactly what I mean when you experience them for the first time.  I have thin places when I walk through Notre Dame's campus when it's empty, and it seems like it's just me and the universe, absolutely timeless.  I find them at the ballpark in late afternoon, when it's cool and humid and it feels like the game could go on forever.  I find it when I'm driving in the summertime with the windows down, or when I'm on the golf course when there's still dew on the ground, or when I'm listening to one of my favorite songs.

The thing that all of these places have in common is that there is no sense of time.  No matter how long I'm out there, it's like the outside world doesn't change at all, like the universe knows how important these places are to me and decides not to mess with them.  Somebody up there knows that these are the moments that we want to remember, that will live on forever inside of us.  The truth is, a few minutes earlier or later and the air wouldn't feel right on the ballfield, the grass wouldn't feel right on the golf course, or there would be a few other people walking through the serenity of campus, and the thin places would get a little bit thicker.  Instead, it seems like time freezes for everybody but still allows us to live in our moment.  The moment lasts for what could be hours, giving us enough time to really soak it all in.  Then once they're over, it's like time snaps and the hours rush forward to catch up to where it's supposed to be.  We need to treasure these moments, though, because if we don't treasure them, they'll come and pass just as quickly as anything else.  Maybe time really is the fourth dimension.  Maybe it does speed up and slow down.  Maybe the world isn't as simple as we think.