"Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. If you can bend space you can bend time also, and if you knew enough and could move faster than light you could travel backward in time and exist in two places at once."
~from Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood

If I could have one super power, one Heroes-esque quality, one tiny spec of God's knowledge, it would be that ability: to know enough and to move faster than light, to bend time and exist in two places at once. Sometimes, though, despite the lack of knowledge and speed, time bends. It almost folds back on itself, you can nearly look through the dimension and see yourself, at the same place but a different time, a beloved time, a time you want to return to.

Almost.

Nearly five years ago, I sat here, at this table.
My three oldest were running around Disneyland with their cousins, and Kaleb was hungry. So I sat here, in this nearly-deserted little spot, to nurse him. The flowers were different—mums, I think—and the season: October. But it was still chilly, a little. It was the same iron scroll chairs, the same cheerful decor and faux Swiss architecture, the same vague tinkling from It's a Small World. Back at that moment, I tossed the blanket over my shoulder (the expertise nursing-in-public movement that comes with four babies) and snuggled up with the warm baby, sipped a hot chocolate and thought about how perfect a moment it was. I savored, hard as I could, the minutes of sitting there, just outside the Pinocchio ride. I never expected to take my four-month-old baby to Disneyland, but we did, and it made the experience even sweeter. (Plus: all those stroller passes!) I nearly asked Kendell to take a picture, but as I hate asking that, I didn't.

I wish I had.

So on Thursday, when I found myself at Disneyland again, I took a picture. Then I sat in the exact same spot and I thought about how much life has changed since that sweet moment, and how it hasn't. I thought about time passing, my children growing up, how I expected that their ages would change but I never imagined how our relationships would, too. I wished with everything I had that I could bend time and sit in a chair behind that younger version of myself; I wish I could step back into her heart and feel the exact way I did at that exact moment, instead of just remembering it. I thought about a future day, too, when maybe I would come to Disneyland again, and visit that same spot. What might that older version tell me to appreciate about this moment, right now?

Time bends. Not really, but I could almost, almost make out my alternate versions. My eyes might have filled up. Then Kaleb ran to me and bumped my leg with his shoulder and told me about the Dumbo ride, which was good but could we please go back to Space Mountain now? And time, like it does, kept moving forward. I took his hand and we strode off together toward Tomorrowland.

Today, when Kendell and I were out together running a few errands, I noticed: it is looking less like winter and more like early, early spring. Then, later, after I had sequestered myself away to get folded the enormous mound of laundry I had been ignoring, we went out again. This time, it was dark—dark and cold. It had drizzled and then, closer to the mountains, snowed a bit.

Still late winter, I suppose. A much-too-dry winter. We haven't had enough snow here; the foothills are already brown and it fills me with a sense of foreboding I cannot shake.

I found myself thinking of this poem, from Jane Kenyon:

"February: Thinking of Flowers"

Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.

Nothing but white--the air, the light;
only one brown milkweed pod
bobbing in the gully, smallest
brown boat on the immense tide.

A single green sprouting thing
would restore me. . . .

And even though I have a few little green sprouting things in my garden—those hopeful snow crocuses!—I am right there with her. If it cannot snow, I wish it would start to sprout. I wish color would return to the world.

• Crappy acrylic stamps that don't stick to the acrylic blocks.
• Letter stickers you have to glue on because the stickers won't stay stuck.
• The fact that I misspelled a word on a layout I did today for my class...despite the fact that I've known how to spell "wish" for, oh, more than three decades now.
• My laser printer, which I love and adore, but is O.L.D. Older than Haley. I have to feed the paper by hand now, and it will sometimes just randomly print garbage for no reason.
• My children's impossible eating habits.
• My lack of artistic skills.
• The pile of stuff on my kitchen desk. I keep going through it but not throwing away much.

What's bugging you?

Found in my flowerbeds just this morning:

Winter cannot last forever!

"Marriage sucks!" I shouted, slamming doors. "It's all sex, and arguments about sex, and dirty bathrooms and fighting over cleaning the bathrooms. It's just no one getting what they want and then trying to pretend you're both happy about getting absolutely nothing you wanted!" Then I stormed down the hall and sat at the kitchen table and burst out—laughing. Because what I really said was far more funny than that, and too nasty to write on my blog despite the warning, and, all at once, so painfully, obviously truthful and simultaneously not even close.

So I sat with my forehead on my kitchen table, laughing and thinking about the nature of happiness in marriage. "No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato," Lucy Snowe, the heroine of Villette, declares, "to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure. Happpiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth blooms and golden fruitage of Paradise." Well, all apologies to Miss Bronte (and Lucy, too), but I think happiness is a potato. Or, at least, happiness in marriage.

I thought about my nieces, recently married. About myself 18 years ago—18 years ago today—full of terror and expectation as a newlywed. I thought about what I had anticipated marriage might be, a certain brand of happiness. Someone always loving you meant, I thought, that you would have everything you wanted. That they would want to do everything to make sure you were happy, and then: the divine dew of the soul would drip over everything and, voila! Happiness.

But honestly: I don't think it happens that way. At least, for me it hasn't and, (again, at least for me), it doesn't for many people. I'm not sure I can think of one glowy, amaranth-blossomed marriage. My parents' marriage wasn't happy like that—I'm not sure it was happy at all. My dad's parents' marriage was unhappy and, I think, my mom's parents'. It doesn't fall from heaven, happiness in marriage. It comes slowly, or all in a rush that drains away quickly, after much work in darkness. It is two people whose needs, wants, hopes, ambitions, foibles, flaws, and mistakes don't often coincide. It is working—digging around in the muck, trying to make something grow in all that dirt. A slow sprout—but the soil is fertile. Usually.

What I have learned in 18 years of marriage is that happiness doesn't look like you think it will. It's not a flower, blooming in the sunshine. It's not immediately apparent. Sometimes it is a bitter happiness, or a bland one; sometimes you have to push around quite a bit of dirt to find it, hiding in the dark. It's not all sweetness and light, but savory and dense. It needs washing and peeling and boiling, plus salt and garlic and cream and butter, before it is delicious. It isn't easy, and it only comes in seasons; it is wrapped in soil.

But sometimes, sometimes, it's here: warm and thick. Delicious, despite—or because of—all the mold and manure.

{awkward segue}

It is just like this poem says it is, a poem I wish I could write, a poem I have written although with completely different words.

(But, watch out: it swears.)

When a Woman Loves a Man 
~ David Lehman

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."
He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

A close friend of mine is putting an offer on a new house. Talking to her about it has reawakened my own I-want-a-new-house desires—the ones I am always quick to stifle. When we built this house—married for just a year, 22 and 25 respectively—we were still full of that everything-good-will-happen-to-us expectation, and we thought we'd live here just for awhile, and then move to a bigger house. That didn't happen, and my everything-good expectations have morphed into terrified-to-change-anything complacency. Still, tonight while I made "football food" — pizza sticks with three different dipping sauces, guacamole, chocolate chip cookies—I found myself building my always-to-be-imaginary dream home. I don't need (or want!) anything enormous (because then I'd have more space to fail at keeping clean, of course!), but just a little bit bigger than what we have now. As I rearranged mental rooms and made sure all the plugs were in the right place, I also thought to myself, self, you should write this all down. So, the reasons why I wish we could move:

1. Better schools. The elementary school my kids are supposed to go to has disappointed me, and the junior high? I'm not sure there is a lamer junior high in the country. It's a great school if you happen to need ESL classes, but if you want to be pushed, challenged, or encouraged to do something difficult? Not really going to happen. OK, this was supposed to be a post about houses, not schools, but yeah: I'd like to move to where the better schools are. (That might not be possible, seeing as how I live in Utah, but, again: different post.)
2. A family room that's just off the kitchen. Our family room, which is otherwise fabulous, is in the basement. So unless the entire family is together, we're on different floors. I want a connected kitchen/family room combo. (Toss in a lovely new leather sectional, too!)
3. Bedrooms for everyone. Nathan and Kaleb share a room, which is only getting harder—5 1/2 years separate them. I wish everyone could have their own room.
4. A REAL master bath. You know: with a shower and a separate garden tub, by a window—a tub I don't have to share.
5. Places for more bookshelves. I really own a lot of books. I've run out of space to put them, as well as shelves for scrapbooks and photo albums. If I were really indulgent (or magically wealthy) I'd have my own little library, lined completely with bookshelves, filled with comfy chairs. Barring that, larger family and front rooms would make me really, really content.
6. A bigger yard. Our yard is this strange, sort-of octagon shape. I'd like space for a vegetable garden and a big row of raspberry and blackberry canes.
7. Lots of plugs. Especially next to the banisters...every Christmas I get annoyed for not putting a plug by our banister. I SO want a lighted garland there!
8. Start new. New wood floors, new kitchen cupboards, new paint. Of course, we could also do that to our current house, but have I ever mentioned: I hate and detest and loathe painting?

And now that I am feeling disloyal to my good little house that has sheltered us for 16+ years, a list of what I'd miss if the impossible happened and we did build again:

1. My neighbors and my ward. It has taken me a long, long time to feel comfortable in my neighborhood and to find many friends at church. I love my neighbors and my ward and would feel awful starting over.
2. My trees and flowers. How could I leave my trees? The apple tree that has been my children's summer home as long as they have existed? My sycamores that were exactly as tall as Kendell when we planted them? The spring bulbs I planted the fall I was pregnant with Haley? My maple tree—the one that Kendell doesn't like very much because it grows so slowly, so I love extra-hard? My flowering plum, which is still struggling after last year's April snow storm? And all the flowers that are like friends?
3. Having everything finished: basement, yard, fence. As nice as it would be to start new, it means, well, starting new. The thought of having to finish a basement again, or put in a fence, makes it hard to breathe.
4. Our built-in bookshelves. Despite wishing for more, I love the brilliant idea Kendell had when we were building to include built-in bookshelves in our room and one other bedroom. Of course, I could have these in my dream house, too. Only every room would have them!
5. The memories. This is where I brought my babies home, where I rocked them and worried over them and heard them laugh. Dozens of birthday cakes have been eaten here, meals well cooked or burned, pancakes flipped. Every room a sort of memory museum, all invisible archaeological layers. How can I leave them?
6. Our back-door view of Timp. The mountain is another friend to me and I love watching it in all weathers. Plus, my over-the-fence neighbors trimmed their enormous old walnut tree last spring, so my view is even better now.
7. Our fairly-tiny house payment. 

More than anything, it's that last thing that keeps us here: the little payment. That, and how it is bound up in fear. If (when) Kendell loses his job again, we can manage our payment. If we move, if we build what we want, would the burden of a bigger payment be worth it? I wish I could stride out in utter surety: life will always be OK, no matter what house I live in. But I am bound by fear, constrained by "what if," lacking the faith needed to reach for what I want.

So we'll stay here, safe but crowded, unlit banister and all.

What would your dream house be like?

Lately I have been rereading Fahrenheit 451. But this isn't a post about a book—that will be for another day.

Instead it is about the topic I return to over and over.

As I read the beginning section, with Clarisse doing her best to shock the burned casing off of Montag's heart just by her ability to be herself in a society that didn't want her to be, I had this thought: When I have another baby, I want to name her Clarisse.

And then I had to stop reading, put down the book, and do something else.

Because otherwise I might curl up, fetal-like, and weep, the foolish weeping of the impossible. Because, like I said: I come back to this topic over and over. Because I can't help wondering: does it ever go away?

I know enough to not feel sorry for myself. I have four wonderful children who are healthy and happy. I had no fertility problems and the best pregnancies imaginable. I had great deliveries. I got to nurse and rock and sing to and sew for and love four of my very own babies. I have nothing to be winsome over.

Except I continue to be winsome.

I continue on with my old desire: wanting another baby. I miss everything about the process: the three-month exhaustion, the uncontrolled belly growth, the weird skin thing my face develops; the anticipation of feeling the baby move, and then feeling the baby move; the wondering who the baby will be, and then the moment when he is handed to you and you begin to see. And then the actual having of a baby, a baby in the house, a velvet bundle of deliciousness. I try to push the desire down, to keep it buried under everyday life. I think about the reasons why I can't have another one: I'm too old, we wouldn't have enough room, I am not sure I can undertake the marital upheaval another baby would cause. Plus: on the other side of motherhood the landscape is fairly easy, at least in terms of lugging diaper bags, car seats, and endless changes of clothes. I don't ever have to spend money on diapers again. I (mostly) get to sleep through the night. I can consume chocolate, broccoli, and/or Mexican food without fearing any repercussions.

I am baby-free. Free.

But the weight of my 451-induced thought continues to linger. It isn't only the old heartache but also the new realization: that thought came completely unbidden. It came out of the blue; I was thinking about dystopias and the value of books, not of babies. Will I always be sad about leaving the baby days behind? I know: one day I will be a grandmother. I cannot wait to be a grandmother. (I mean: I will happily wait until the time is right...but I am excited for when the time is right.) But it still won't be my baby: won't be me picking out the name and the nursery decor. It still won't be the same.

And maybe, maybe I don't want the grief to go away. Maybe it is the only thing that connects me to that part of myself. The foolish weeping, which I avoided by ironing the spilled wax off my pretty spot, is the way I remind God: I was good at babies and I hope You remember. A way to remind myself: I was good at babies, and I never want to forget.

The world kept spinning on its axis.

Gravity continued to function.

All the rules of the natural world remained intact.

Nothing stopped in shock (well...except for my husband).

That's right, folks: Yesterday I, Amy Sorensen, got my lazy butt out of the house, put on my shoes, and ran.

My lungs didn't explode, my heart didn't stop beating, my quads didn't deteriorate. (In fact, they were all exceedingly happy.)

All I have to say is this: a three-month exercise hiatus? Totally does a number on your conditioning. I managed only two-ish miles of running and walked the rest of the way. I slept the exhausted sleep of an ultra-marathoner last night. And this morning my quads do feel like they're going to deteriorate.

But: I have the smallest of itches...to run again tomorrow. An itch I am going to have to scratch.

The world makes sense again.

The north-exposed yards keep quiet about the sunshine. Under their breaths they whisper "winter, winter, winter" in wise voices; still covered with snow they are all too aware that spring has not come yet.

Not the southern yards. Having shrugged off their snow, they are singing: "spring, spring, spring!"

The song is irresistible. It pulls us outside, away from stale air and out to the fresh. We reacquaint ourselves with running, the grass, still laden with cold wetness, a yielding surface. We remind our toes of cement and our upturned faces of sunlight. We revisit, in tiptoe, the hiding spots of quail and discover they are still there; the robins remind us that a few of them have stuck around, too.

Of course the north is right: this isn't the end of winter, but simply a rogue spring day. Snow is not finished, grey clouds will return. Not even the tiniest hint of green will appear for weeks yet. But winter's whisper makes days like this even sweeter. Nothing matters more than the moment in weak sunlight when children's laughter is once again on the air.