You know that "If you could have superhero powers, what would they be?" question that pops up in memes here and there? I'm not ever really sure how to answer that one, because I'm not sure if my desired super power really belongs to a hero, despite the fact that it does, indeed, happen on the TV show Heroes. The super power I want? To be able to time travel. I don't think I really would want to live for a long time in, say, Celtic Great Britain before the Romans came (no books then! and think how hard it must have been to take a bath) or America during the pioneers' time (consider the difficulties just in feeding your family, let alone doing the laundry, and my hair would be constantly frizzy and ugly without a blow dryer). I'm mostly glad I was born in the time period I was, but I also have a deep yearning to know how things used to be.

Lucky for me, my super power can be sort of granted by way of historical fiction. Since my earliest reading days I've had a fondness for well-done historical fiction. (Remember the http://amysorensen.typepad.com/the_english_geek/2008/01/book-note-miss.html ? and I swear: Laura Ingalls was one of my best friends.) I like how it brings history out of the blandness of dates and politics, bringing the experiences of people to life. When I spotted the novel Mistress of the Revolution, by Catherine Delors, on the library shelf, I snatched it right up. It tells the story of a woman living during the French revolution, a time period I'm sort of vague on, anyway. I mean, I know that Marie Antoinette was involved, and starving peasants outraged by her "let them eat cake" edict, and that partly it happened as a result of the American revolution. But the things that actually happened, the whys and hows? I'm not so clear on.

What's a little bit frustrating, after finishing this, is that I'm still not very clear on all of it. I did learn a lot about how women in France were treated during the years before the war (deplorably), as the first part of the novel was excellent. Gabrielle, an impoverished noblewoman, falls in love with a bourgeoisie, but is married off to a lecherous older---and far wealthier---man. There's rape and misery and anger, but she manages to find a way to make things work. Until her horrid husband dies and she discovered there's hardly anything left for her in his will.

I wish the novel would have continued on like it did during this first section, wish it would have continued to have felt like a novel. Instead, as Gabrielle goes off to find her way in Paris, it starts to read like a personal history. Faced with the daunting task of making her characters livewithin the complexities of the revolution, Delors falls apart a little. For example: Gabrielle (who is now the kept woman of the aristocrat Villers) accepts a position as the lady-in-waiting to the queen's cousin. But we never go to the castle with her; we don't experience what it's like to serve the royal family---something that would be cool to know. Instead, it's just a little detail thrown into the story that exists to make things more difficult for Gabrielle when the revolution arrives at her doorstep. Plus, I think what a well-written historical fiction does is weave in the teaching into the story so that it feels like part of the story instead of like a history lesson. Delors doesn't even attempt to do that. Instead, she simply drops in names of people who really experienced the revolution, assuming we know exactly who they are and what their motivations were. If I have to stop reading in order to research a character or political movement, I'm not going to feel like a happy reader.

Still, despite those flaws, I did enjoy the novel. I learned quite a bit about the French revolution---exactly how cruel the populace was to the royals, for example, or anyone who has worked for or schemed with them. I was reminded of how miserable many women's lives were. It sparked an interest for learning more. I'd even recommend it to someone who wanted to learn about that time period. But as a time traveling machine, it was a little faulty.

So. I'm rebuilding my MP3 playlist, as my dumb little MP3 player (we officially Do Not Believe in Mac Products---iPods included---in this house) was not very happy, and its unhappiness---expressed by randomly shutting itself off every three minutes or so---was affecting my running. Anyway. As I've been shuffling through all the tons of music I have on my computer, I have started to see this trend. *I* think I have great taste in music, of course, but my tastes seem to run towards the slightly...well, I've dubbed it "lyrical" music. (The DH calls it something else.) It's great for almost everything I do. But I want something fast, upbeat, and energetic to dump onto my (hopefully-happy-now) player, to entertain me while I'm running.

That's where the picking of your brain comes in. I (and my MP3 player and my wanting-to-be-useful running muscles) would be ever-so-grateful to any of you blog readers who'd be kind enough to suggest some tunes. What are your favorite fast, upbeat, and/or energetic songs (that are not rap, or country, or overly annoying)? Or, if you're a runner/hiker/biker/elipitical-trainer-er/whatever who listens to music (even on an iPod!) while you're exercising, what's on your playlist?

My quads thank you.

Despite the fact that I've watched the Twilight trailer*** about 59 times since I discovered it, I'm really not a hopelessly devoted Stephenie Meyer fan. I mean, I confess I've reread her Twilight series a few times too many, but honestly: when you look at those books critically, they're not an outstanding example of literary fiction. We never really understand why Bella and Edward love each other so much, other than the fact that they just do, which as all of us in the adult world know isn't the way it really works. You have to move on past the initial fluttery sparks, and the characters in Meyer's books don't. Eternal first sparks really would be fantastic, though, and maybe that's why I sometimes do seem like a hopelessly devoted Stephenie Meyer fan. Twilight et all remind me of how first sparks felt. It's a different sort of reading experience than I usually have, because while her books are strong in story and character, that's just about it: story and character. I finish them with my mind full of memories of my own first sparks, but I've not learned a whole lot about myself or humanity.

So when her new novel, The Host,came out, I decided I wouldn't buy it. Instead, I put my name on the library's hold list and didn't really think anymore about it. Until I got my library copy, that is. A staff copy, meaning everyone else in the library is waiting for me to finish. So I read it fast, over about three days. And, you know, despite my experience with the Twilight books, I found myself learning a bit, from this book, about what it means to be human. That, to me, is one of the greatest things about science fiction: it gives you a chance to look at humanity from outside of humanity, and from that perspective you can see us more clearly, and this proves true in Meyer's book, too.

I'm certain everyone knows the plot synopsis: Earth is invaded by an alien force that simple moves into human bodies. These are peace-loving aliens, turning their host bodies into peace-loving, gentle creatures who abhor violence. Like all dystopias, the general idea of a perfect society is appealing. Think of how our society might be if violence disappeared. Perfect, right? Who wouldn't want a peaceful world, void of violence and war and conflict? The question, of course, is whether or not we as humans can achieve peace; is violence a basic part of what makes us human? To some in this society, remaining human is better than losing themselves to alien control.  They manage to resist being occupied. Some manage to avoid the aliens altogether; the rebel group we meet in the novel lives in a series of caves, going on raids for food and other supplies whenever they can. Others resist the aliens' control after it's been inserted into their bodies, fighting back with their own ideas and personalities, trying to resurface; the main character, Wanda, is one of those hybrids: two souls in one body.

Of course, no novel is perfect, and this one had its flaws. It felt like there were too many superfluous characters; I never grew to care about many of them, so when deaths occurred my own emotions (sad for death, of course, but not overly disturbed) contrasted sharply with Wanda's (great despair). Wanda is a little bit too good---too kind, too gentle, too willing to give up her own needs for others. Having flaws, wrestling with them, being lovable despite them: it is the flawed characters I can relate to the most, because I myself am flawed. Plus, I felt like some of the characters were remodeled versions of Twilight characters. "Here's Jacob!" I thought about one character, and "here's Edward!" Some reviewers have said the beginning is too slow, and while I don't agree completely, I think the editing could have been done more carefully, sharpening the flow of the story instead of letting it wander.

Still, I found many excellent things in the novel. First is Meyer's creation of a believable society. The rebels in their caves, and the way they survive and interact with each other, feel authentic. She got the details right; the solutions to the inherent hiding-from-aliens problems---light in the caves, exercise, food and water and bathing---are creative and unexpected. The world she created is vital and living. The contrast between the two very different souls living in the one body is vivid; they are definitely each their own woman. In fact, it's that contrast that makes you start to pay attention to the points the novel tries to make: how much of who we are is tied to our bodies? When we love someone, do we love the person or do we love the physical appearance? When is violence necessary?

Ultimately, though, the question I am left with is this: how would a truly peaceful society function? Without any conflict, would we be bored and placid all the time, as the novel's aliens seem to be? If everyone worked together easily, and there were no arguments, strife, or disagreement, how would we know we were happy? Do I, as a human being, have a need for violence and conflict built into me? Or can I just not understand, with the limits of my human comprehension, how peace might really work? The novel doesn't really answer any of those questions. But it does make you think about them. Is it great literature, the kind that will still be read 100 years from now? I'm not sure. But I am glad I read it. And, I might even buy myself a copy. When the paperback comes out.

***I can't get Typepad to put in a link for me, but you can copy and paste this into your browser if you want to see the Twilight trailer, too: http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.fullscreen&videoid=33429578. Happy viewing!

I'm really trying to keep up my running habit despite the job. I'm starting to be able to haul myself out of bed in the morning, rather than hitting SNOOZE until all my running time is up. My goal has been to run four times a week, and while I've not yet accomplished that since I started working, I did manage, this week, to run three times. It hit me during my third run on Saturday just how varied the conditions were for each run. A sort of testament to how crazy our weather is here. On Monday, I ran in the afternoon, which was almost a mistake, as it was nearly 90 degrees. I came home with sunburned shoulders and a nearly-purple face I was so hot. On Wednesday morning, rain started falling not three minutes after I left home. It won't last long, I told myself. Rain in Utah usually doesn't. But it kept falling, and I slogged through my three miles, water dripping down my nose and off my ponytail. I was soaked by the time I made it home. And Saturday, I ran in the evening, a perfect 63 degrees. I did my hill route for the first time this spring---two downhills, two uphills---and it was tough. I'd forgotten how much I love a nice, long incline, the deep ache in my lungs and the satisfying burn in my hamstrings, the way that running up is perfectly challenging and turning around is its own reward. The sunlight glinted off the lake as I did my last downhill, a few brave boats already out on the water, and the air around me was clean, despite the traffic, scoured of dust and pollution by the week's rain; Timp shook of its clouds to show its new white coat, and I felt that love I have for this little spot of earth I live on.

Oddly enough, my Wednesday run---the rainy one---was my favorite. I wasn't hot or cold, despite the wet, and it was one of those runs when breathing and muscles seems to work in sync; not exactly effortless, but easier than most. When I was nearly home, walking to cool down, I said out loud, "I should do this more often." And then I laughed at myself for talking to myself. (It was early enough that no one was around anyway.) But I just felt so good. Which is a plus, as the other result I was hoping to get from all this running---the ability to lose any sort of weight---is just not happening. It seems no matter what I do, I can't get my sluggish metabolism to respond. At least, despite heat or rain or glorious hills, there's still my quiet little runner's high, the happiness of a pounding heart and tired body.

You know how, in Native American folklore, they mark time by the full moons? Like, May's moon is called the Flowering Moon, and September's is the Harvest Moon. I was thinking about that on Monday, while I was mowing the lawn. I pay attention to time's passing in a similar way when I pay attention to my flowers. Only, since botany isn't quite as predictable as the moon's cycles, I think in terms of suns instead of moons. Garden suns are the time periods when something's blooming. Right now, in my flower beds, it is the end of the Spring Blossoms Sun, when I trim off the dead tulips and tie back the daffodil greens into tidy little green haystacks. And the Iris Sun is just starting, the enormous lavendar blooms drawing my attention. In a few more weeks, the fragrant First Roses Sun will arrive, when the roses bloom for the first---and best---time.

Since we've lived in our house for quite awhile, I can plan around my garden suns almost without a calendar. But this year, I had a surprise Sun. One of my favorite times is the Bleeding Heart Sun, which could also be called the Fuzz Sun, since bleeding hearts are so evocative, for me, of my grandpa Fuzz. But this spring---unusually cold and wet---a big bunch of daffodils bloomed in my back yard at the same time as the bleeding hearts. OK, yeah, I know: wow, stop the presses! ;) But it's never happened before. They're in one of my back flower beds, the one that gets the least amount of shade. I planted those daffodils three years ago, but they've never bloomed. And they're supposed to be pink, not yellow. But I keep going outside just to look at this little surprise sun in my garden:

I can't help thinking: this garden sun might never repeat itself. Obviously I can't rely on those daffodils like I can on the ones in my front yard (which have been blooming since 1996). Or, they might never bloom at the same time as the bleeding hearts. So, even though it's probably silly, I am savoring this random experience. Who knows when this sun will come around again?

Wow---I can't remember the last time I went more than a week without updating my blog. But, as you can imagine, things have been crazy around here as everyone adjusts to me being at work. Plus, I've only really "worked" one day---the others have been training days, at random times according to which department was training. Throw in a class I taught to the young women (about heritage scrapbooking), another (about photography) I taught to some of the women in my ward, three doctor's appointments, a cranky toddler with a cough, planning Haley's long-overdue birthday party, and the sudden influx of yard work since it's finally gotten warm, and yeah: last week was insane. This week is a much more predictable schedule, so soon I think we'll all be settled in and well-adjusted. (Well, as adjusted as any of my family can be!)

My personal reactions during this first week of working have been all over the place. Mommy guilt has resurfaced, and I have asked myself several times: just why is it that I am doing this? Is the small bit of income I'll bring in worth the sort of hardening off I'm causing in Kaleb, who has been my right-hand baby, thoroughly attached, for the past three years? Or the extra pitching-in my Bigs are going to have to do? But I've also felt this strange sort of empowerment within myself. I know I still live in fear of having our experiences from 2001 repeated again. This was the year that Kendell was laid off, and then worked for a start-up that never really went anywhere, and we had a solid 14 months of fearing for our lives; it was a turning point in our experiences, a very bitter pill that caused an untold amount of changes in our lives. Deciding to return to work has helped eliminate some of that fear, because it means I'm not waiting for the other shoe to fall. It's all about the decision, and suddenly I feel able to make other decisions I have worried about for years. I feel like I have taken charge of my life, if that makes sense.

Last week, during my first day of working at the circulation desk, one of the teachers I used to work with stopped by to check out some books. She was surprised to see me working at the library, and asked me why, if I was going back to work, I'd not found a teaching job. Good question, although it felt a little awkward to answer it in front of my new boss. Since seeing her, I've been thinking a lot about that Teaching Question in my life: will I ever go back? Maybe. I miss, odd as it may sound, the students, and I miss sharing knowledge with other people. But I also know that my life right now simply cannot handle all the extra time, away from the classroom, that being an English teacher requires. I don't think it was a coincidence that she showed up on my first day; the conversation filled me with a surety that I am doing the right thing, and that my kids will be OK, and that it is good to steer my own course.

how hard it is to come home after working all day and still have laundry to do, and a not-so-clean kitchen to get a hold of, dirty bathrooms and hungry kids. All that after using my brain all day in a way I've not for awhile---learning new software, reacquainting myself with the Dewey Decimal system, trying to remember the names of an entire flurry of new people. I went to bed thoroughly exhausted as well as a little bit sheepish. My first day of training at the library I learned many things, but perhaps most important was the reminder of what I haven't been doing for awhile: making sure things were good for Kendell when he got home from work, equally exhausted. I also found myself thinking can I really do this? Can I balance working again with my children's happiness and the equilibrium of my home? I had to remind myself of all my friends---Becca, Chris, Becky---who manage to do it and do it well.

But I was really glad to get in bed last night!

We had a crazy-busy weekend. But between everything---the frantic, last-minute-as-always preparations for the Pinewood Derby, the Derby itself, preparing for a day-before-Mother's-Day picnic with my mom (I finally managed to make a half-way decent potato salad), and the typical weekend stuff---I had this blog post rolling around in my head. It was going to be about how much I despise Mother's Day. Because, for one thing, it seems like all the family tensions spring up---it is, after all, a holiday. Then there are the interminable "perfect mother" talks at church, the ones that leave me feeling like I couldn't be any farther away from attaining that label. And, plus, there's the feeling guilty that what I'd really like on Mother's Day is a nice long nap---see the irony? It's Mother's Day, and I want to be unconscious, without my children.

So that was what my blog entry was going to be about. Way too whiny, anyway, but I'm glad I didn't write it for other reasons. First off, my friend Jamie and I had a great conversation that reminded me that perfection isn't really the point when it comes to being a mom. She reminded me that I'm doing OK. Second, the talks in church weren't really about the stereotypical Perfect Mother. And, finally---and by far the coolest---my kids outdid themselves in pampering me yesterday. Led by the intrepid excitement of Haley, they: made me breakfast (pancakes, bacon, eggs) and brought it to me in bed after letting me sleep in until past 9:00; snuck home from church with their dad to make lunch (turkey sandwiches, grapes, left-over potato salad, and even my favorite beverage); set up a at-home spa (flower petals in a hot bath, then a brown-sugar facial and a salt-and-oil pedicure). I felt pampered and appreciated.

Really, the only thing that could have made the day better was if Survivor had ended differently (I was rooting for Amanda the entire time). Later, in the dark and quiet of the sleeping house I found myself thinking about my initial dread of the day, contrasted with how it really went. It feels like a touchstone sort of day, one I'll look back on as the the one when everything changed (maybe in the midst of an entire season of change), when my kids were old enough to not need the filter of their dad or their small, sweet, made-at-school gifts to tell me how they felt. Their acts of service made me feel like maybe I am doing OK, and I can get rid of the weight of guilt I carry for not being perfect. Like I can continue trying to do better but that I, myself, am also enough.

A faint memory from my childhood: I think I'm just five, in kindergarten, and my mom is helping me with my homework, which is to go on a walk and gather some things from nature to bring to school. We're walking down the cracked sidewalk, next to the ditch that used to run along the street (long-since covered), Becky with us in her stroller. In my paper bag I have a pine cone, a seed pod from a sycamore tree, a handful of yellow buttercups, and a clump of fresh mint. I am certain what I am bringing is perfect and will make my teacher happy, because my collection makes me happy.

It's a tiny memory, really. Vague on the details---was it spring or fall?---and random in a pleasant, normal-day way. It popped into my head this morning while I was exercising. I always start by walking a lap around the trail near my home, before I start to run. The trail is just over a mile, an amoeba-shaped circle that meanders around soccer fields. Well-spaced trees (perfect for fartleks), planted only about five years ago, line it, and there are remnants of family gardens from the houses that used to be there, before the city bought the land and turned it into green space. As I walked, I started noticing little details, collecting them in the brown bag of my mind: the way the new leaves on the red maples hung, wrinkled and purple, from their slender stems; or how what I thought was a flock of robins in a almost-blooming snowball bush, each sitting perfectly still with a worm dangling from their beaks, was really the not-quite-green-yet leaves. A fat pink worm shaped into a question mark; the argument of seagulls on the north field; the way the dandelion fuzz was the first thing to catch the light once it finally made it over the mountains.

I think that memory came back to me this morning because I felt, walking in the still, cold air, like I did at age five: captivated, amazed, awed by the beauty of this world. I thought about something I read last night (from a book of essays called Poet's Choice by Edward Hirsch), about the impulse to praise things: "Praise is an impulse to more life, a form of blessing, a way of cherishing a world that shines out with radiant particularity." Today I felt like praising my little world's radiant particularity, like noticing and remembering and cherishing the little details.

Last week, I had to take a drug test. I showed up at this medical clinic and waited for them to call my name, which they did with surprising speed---I barely had time to take my book out of my purse. The nurse ushered me back to a long room with counters and various medical stuff on one side, a row of doors on the other. "I need to see your photo ID," the nurse told me, her voice that sort of "I don't take any crap" tone that might have made me anxious if there were any chances of me actually failing the drug test.

"Now, put your ID back in your wallet and hang up your purse right here," she continued, indicating a hook on the outside of one of the doors. She looked at me, and I swear her body language was saying "next I'm going to pat you down," but she just handed me a thick plastic cup, with a thin strip of thermometer wrapped around it, and said "here. Pee in this. And do not flush."

So, I stepped into the little cubicle. Inside, it's festooned with signs on hot pink cardstock, each of them reminding me, in English and Spanish, not to flush. Plus? The doors are conspicuously lacking one thing: yeah, locks. And I'm thinking...hello, I'm not sure I can provide the required specimen. Way too much publicity for this stunt. But, I managed, being very careful not to flush. Then, I stepped back into the long room, cup of pee in hand. Cup of pee in hand, I'm standing there with four other Hispanic guys. Who are also holding their pee-filled cups. Breathing through my mouth because actually smelling someone else's warm pee might send me over the edge. Yeah. Just me and these strangers, hanging out in a room in front of a non-flushed toilet, holding our warm specimens, trying to just stay cool. Like I do this all the time. No biggie.

"OK," the nurse continued. "Looks like you gave me more than enough." Yeah, that's me. Super pee-er. Pee-er extrodinaire. "Pour it into here," and she held up a vial. I poured. "Now, pour the rest of it back into the toilet. And flush." Alrighty then. The whole time, as I'm trying to not be grossed out by holding my special cup, surrounded by men who are similarly burdened, I'm thinking wait a second, when do I get to wash my hands? But once I"ve flushed, she says "Now, wash your hands," in this tone that is tinged with the smallest bit of disgust. Like I'd forget or something.

And, yeah. That is why want to avoid prison for my entire life. Because I never want to have that sort of militaristic assembly-line view of my body, my private stuff up for inspection. Drug test is close enough.

And why, you might be wondering, did I need to take a drug test? Well, apparently, this city wants drug-free employees. Because, yeah, horrible interview aside? I got the job at the library!

I've known I had it since Tuesday. But, I didn't want to tell anyone until it was 100% official, which meant I had to pass my background check and that special drug test, first. It didn't seem real yet, but my new boss (can't say how strange that is to think about, having a boss again) called me on Friday to start setting things up. I'm still thoroughly shocked, as I still can't think of one redeeming thing I might have done in that interview. But, I'm not complaining. I am, now that it is sinking in, having some Official, Seriously Deep Thoughts about this transition in my life. But I will undoubtedly blog about those later. For now, I'm just sticking with my original story: I don't ever want to go to jail. Sure, if you're lucky you can be the prison inmate who works in the library, a la Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption.

But how awful must those prison drug tests be?