I was ten years old the January morning I bundled up and stepped outside to find more than a foot of snow on the frozen ground. The sky was pitch black, and if not for the light mounted on the pole between the house and barn, I wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. I filled several pails with water from the spigot and tromped toward the barn to begin caring for the menagerie of animals kept there. Cutting a path through a foot of new snow wasn’t easy, and I set my buckets down beneath the yard light to rest. The snow was still falling, flakes like cherry blossoms, and I looked up. As the light reflected off the falling particles, I suddenly had the sensation I was rising off the ground. It was a magical feeling, very real, and I stood there for minutes refusing to look away, fearful of breaking the spell. I soared into the night sky toward the moon and heavens and God, no longer a boy forever ahead of himself, bewildered by a world he didn’t understand, but a superhero propelled by a force willing him to be more than he’d ever been before. It was wondrous, and though I’ve felt that sensation several times since (I’m sure there must be a scientific term for it), I’ll never forget that first time, when life was confusing, and a boy of ten believed he could fly.