I’m right there with him.
I still have that feeling: like one morning I’ll wake up and miraculously be able to live full throttle—without the shredded edges of tiredness that come with staying up late and waking up early and doing a job that requires me to be one-hundred-and-fifty percent on every single minute of the day.
My secret inner superhero (who is tucked into the pocket of my heart, along with my first-star-of-the-evening wishes, and all the instances where find four-leaf-clovers, or cross my fingers for luck) is someone who doesn’t hesitate, second guess, forget things, or feel totally scrambled and drained at the end of a week, and isn’t prone to weird allergic reactions to any form of allopathic medicine (I totally am & am currently so disposed) or bouts of unnecessary snapping at the people I love.
My secret inner superhero can ski triple black diamonds, ride a mountain bike downhill without fear, run triathlons, contribute to magazines, publish a novel, do art, paint her toenails flawlessly, send packages to friends and loved ones ahead of important dates, show up early, hang glide at least once , travel to every continent, speak another language, spend a week a the Louver, actually reads all the books I should have read in high school, and meditates regularly.
The thing is, I attempt all of these things, but sometimes just feel so small, so fragmented, so insignificant, compared with what I dream.
I throw myself into the day, and then blink and it’s over. I made a perfect latte this morning—first time ever. During writing workshop at school, the classroom hummed—pencils scratching, the chatter of kids reading their work to each other, the clack of the keyboard. In the afternoon I caught my breath in the cold, walking to my car. The sky was a frosty, pale orange. The sun was setting. Birds, quiet in the winter twilight, made black silhouettes along the telephone wires. I gathered Bean into my arms. Together we painted, and giggled, and read stories. Then in the dark, I pressed my head against his hair, and inhaled. Just that.
Maybe it’s not so small after all.
(P.S. What is your secret inner superhero like?)