One of the children who made doll clothes with me last week asked what super power I would choose. 

"Would you want to be able to fly, or be invisible?" We often chat about important things while attaching buttons. "I want to fly," she answered her own question, in the momentum of aspiring to it. 

I paused. Thoughts of Harry Potter, and a donkey named Sylvester who had a magic pebble fluttered through my mind. Being unseen did not always go well. Several of my own children have tickled at the edges of flight by jumping out of airplanes, an experience I will eschew. 

My aunt once compared love to three invisible forces: gravity, magnetism, and electricity. They have impact, as measured by every power grid in the country. Yet catching a glimpse of that energy on film is beyond my ken. 

In the early years of composing music, credit mattered to me. Who am I kidding. Up until last fall. Having people understand that I had written the song felt like the kickback I deserved. But now the joy has found a new center of gravity: having people sing it. 

In loosening my grip on the desire for ownership of those attributes that attach themselves to my persona like so many buttons, it becomes less about me, and more about the only One worth seeing.