Flower Power: No cape required

If pollen could power our cars, we’d all be driving on sunshine this time of year—sneezing at the pump. Like everyone here in the South, there’s a fine yellow layer coating my porch, my car, and just about everything else I own, and it feels only fair that it comes with some kind of payoff. Maybe lower gas prices or a rebate for our collective suffering.

But somewhere between wiping down outdoor furniture and watching my grandson sprint across the yard as Ironman, I started to think spring might already be giving us something better than cheaper fuel.

My grandson is fully committed to his superhero identity. Cape on, chest out, he runs like the world needs saving, and he’s the one to do it. There’s no hesitation, no self-consciousness—just absolute belief. In his mind, the cape isn’t a costume. It’s a signal of who he is.

And watching him, I started to wonder when we lose that. I wanted to be five again, too.

Because at some point, we trade in our capes for responsibilities. We layer on schedules, worries, expectations, and a thousand small distractions that dull that instinct to show up boldly in the world. I doubt any human really stops caring—but maybe some of us get buried in the dust of our worlds, our pollen blanket of apathy. Some do get quieter about it. More cautious. Less likely to see ourselves as someone who could actually make a difference.

     Spring, however, has a way of nudging us back. It doesn’t ask for permission; it just arrives—pushing out buds on branches that seemed lifeless only weeks ago, lengthening daylight into our evenings, and encouraging us outside whether we’re ready or not. It’s a season that sheds things: heavy coats, closed windows, the feeling that everything is dormant and waiting, hard and impossible to grow.

Maybe we’re supposed to shed a few things too.

Not everything we carry is necessary. Some of it is just habit. Some of it is the quiet voice that says, “That’s not your role,” or “Someone else will handle it,” or “It’s too small to matter.” But what if it does matter? What if being a superhero isn’t about saving the world with one big act, but in small, consistent ways we show up for each other and show up for ourselves?

A meal dropped off for a neighbor who’s had a hard week.

A phone call that turns into a real conversation instead of a quick check-in.

Sitting with someone who doesn’t need advice—just presence.

Generating ideas. Making lists of worst-case and best-case scenarios.

Letting a child be exactly who they are without rushing them into the next thing.

There’s no cape required for any of that. No recognition, no applause. No Group photo on social media. Most of the time, no one else even sees it.

But that kind of quiet strength? It’s its own kind of power.

We often underestimate it because it doesn’t seem dramatic. It doesn’t come with a soundtrack or headlines. But if you’ve ever experienced it—if someone has shown up for you when you didn’t even realize how much you needed it—you recognize how powerful it truly can be.

Spring doesn’t just wake up the world around us. It wakes up something in us, too.

It reminds us that we’re not meant to stay bundled up forever—physically or emotionally. That

there’s a time to step back out, to re-engage, to notice who around us might need a little extra care, a little extra attention, a little extra kindness.

We don’t have to do everything. We can’t fix everything.

But we can do something.

My grandson doesn’t overthink it. He doesn’t question whether he’s qualified to be a superhero. He just puts on the cape and runs toward whatever looks like it needs saving—even if it’s just a stick in the yard or an imaginary villain.

He was my superhero this weekend. He reminded me that there is a freeing feeling in that kind of certainty. And maybe that’s the subtle invitation of spring—not to become someone entirely new, but to remember a version of us that was always there. The one who believed in showing up mattered. The one that didn’t wait for permission to care.

We may not be able to turn pollen into fuel. (Though if someone figures that out, I’ll be first in line.) But we can turn this season into something that moves us forward in a different way.

A little lighter.

A little braver.

A little more willing to step into someone else’s story and make it better, even in the smallest way. Maybe that’s what real power looks like.

Not the kind that fills a gas tank—but the kind that fills a moment, a belly, a need, a person.

And maybe, if we’re paying attention, we’ll realize we’ve been carrying that kind of power all along. Turns out, the real superpower was never the cape—it was showing up.