Raise your hand if you wanted to be a fireman when you were little. What about a policeman, or the mail carrier, or a nurse, or Superman, or (for me) Wonder Woman?
They were all equal in your eyes: Heroes.
During playtime at Miss Libby’s we were a yard full of gleeful four-year-olds, whose powers knew no bounds. I learned I could fly on those swings and simply added it to my bag of options. Nothing kept us down, or back, or out, or sitting. Nothing was impossible. That concept didn’t exist.
Need an artist? A playwright? A poet? A dancer? A juggler? A magician? A writer?
You used to be all of the above.
And then life must have gotten very serious.
When is the last time you believed you had superhuman powers? When was the last time you imagined yourself flying? Or painting? Or saving the day?
What if the only thing that’s changed from Miss Libby’s preschool playground to now is your thinking?
What if that superhero, who was your alter ego at age four, is still just a bat signal away?
What if you summon her today?
What powers does she possess that you don’t?
What if you — like Clark Kent — in moments when the situation seems impossible, strip off your tie and toss your glasses aside and reveal the hero in you?
What color is your cape?