Interpreted or misinterpreted?

The following is a true story that, as far as I can recall, I've never shared with anyone.

When I was in fourth grade, I was in a class for the rather un-PC-sounding "talented and gifted". (I won't go into the exact acronym that was used -- it's embarassing to say, even in my head.) Every Monday the teacher would assign us something called "creative homework" which was due the following Monday and required us to come up with a solution to some open-ended problem. I can now recall only two of these assignments. One asked us to design a musical instrument out of household items. (They were all of this nature -- it was only fourth grade!) Another asked us to design a garden and specify what kind of flowers and plants we'd put in this garden and why. It's this second one I want to tell you about.

The creative homeworks never took much time to complete. I suspect most of us cobbled something together in an hour or so each Sunday evening. The directions were usually brief, and only rarely were examples of solutions given. This left a wide margin for interpretation and, at least in my case, sometimes added some anxiety to the process. Each Monday we'd be given the opportunity (or should I say, coerced) to present our work by a combination of our teacher's requests, peer pressure, and awkward preteen sideway glances.

The Monday after the garden design assignment was given, I remember sitting in the classroom watching other students present their ideas. One by one, they laid out grand ideas of colors and geometries. Meanwhile, I was attempting to sink farther and farther into my seat. I'd done the assignment, but to this day I still don't know if I misread what was asked or just had a completely different take on it. What I'd done the day before was ask my dad to take me to the library where I checked out a book on the medicinal value of different flowers. And when I actually got around to putting something down on paper, I started by trying to think of what ailments a gardener might want to treat, rather than how the damn thing would look: this plant was good for colds, and this one was good for stomach aches, etc. So, on Monday while others were showing their colorful designs (I remember one looked like an American flag), I sat in the back nervously fingering the black-and-white layout I'd sketched out of medicinal-valued plant species. I was sweating at the thought of trying to explain the drab text-filled boxes to my friends. Thankfully, the period ended before everyone had the opportunity to present.

We all passed in our assignments and a few days later received them back. Usually they were returned with comments like "Good Work!" or "Interesting!". But I never did get mine back. I still don't know what happened to that assignment -- whether it was lost, or whether the teacher kept it as an example, good or bad. But I'll never forget the feeling of reading something in a completely different way from my peers and the nervousness that follows. On my bravest days, I say to myself: of course I would've done it the same way if I had the chance to go back. But on days when the winds blow cold, and the world seems dark, and all I long for is the glow of friends nearby, I wonder if I should have opened up a box of colored pencils instead of a book on medicinal plants.

To go along or to go alone -- how many times have I asked myself that question since then?