I’m not sure what it is about flying that seems so appealing. The weightlessness. The freedom. The movement. The view. Maybe it’s everything. We see it from the time we are little. We admire it in living color, given to our heroes as a superpower. We dress up in capes and wings. Pedal bicycles to exhaustion with the hope that just maybe, if we spin our feet fast enough, just this once, we could leave the gravel behind. We race down diving boards and fling ourselves over open water, flapping, lunging, touching the sky. We spin ourselves into circles. We dance. We sing. Perhaps all in this effort, for just a moment, to rise to where we know our hearts have been.

I suppose it’s one of the great reasons for love — this certainty that our arms will give out, our knees will buckle, our feet will ever be dusted in gravel — but oh, how the heart can soar. So we offer it up and out and dare ourselves to follow. The butterflies tickling our fear at first, and releasing themselves to lead the way, we grab the birded wing of love and every childhood dream reveals that it was, is, indeed a superpower, this love that lifts us into the blue. 

I have said it before, and I’ll say it again, I don’t know what the day will bring, but one way or another, I am going to fly.