Ten years ago John and I sang for a local gig. John spent half an hour setting up mikes and amps, adjusting knobs and cords. Somehow I had the mistaken idea in my head that we were giving a concert, and that the chairs would be filled with a rapt audience. John had no such illusions, and was content to spend a morning singing songs that we composed under a grove of pine trees. He had no more of a mindset of people listening than the birds above us had as they sang for the joy of being alive. 

But I was grumpy. I felt ignored, and embarrassed. 

It has been a long time until I was willing to try again. 

Yet though the venue was much the same, I felt entirely different. I held it as lightly as a thrush in the branches. I skipped over the part about amplification, and simply plunked down with my guitar. It was a beautiful day and it was my good fortune to have a voice and a tune. As it happened, eight or ten children happened by, and some sang with me. I was part of their morning for a brief time, as they danced and chased their friends and ate muffins. They owed me nothing, and I expected nothing. I even hid the tip jar behind my chair. 

I could not have been happier. 

I thought about what it means to be free. Waiting or hinting for people to fulfill our demands, however reasonable, is fraught before it begins. Dropping those tethers, even for an hour, gave me a nibble of what it would be like to have wings.