Early one morning the crisp fall air crackled with the voices of a thousand birds announcing their arduous southward journey. Though some will not return, go they must. And so sweet pre-dawn songs of homesteading had given way to the raucous chatter of migration.

I listened intently, wondering, “What song will we sing today?”

But the answer was clear: Lynn’s stroke had set us adrift on a vast, songless sea. While she thrashed about in her unwelcome, scrambled world, I chafed against endless caregiving. Our lives had been reduced to mere numb survival steeped in fear of the unknown. The problem is, numbness also suppresses joy, and with that the music vanished.

Consumed by grief over our wounded marriage, we tiptoed from one therapy to the next, our energy sapped yet on call for another seizure, fall, or burn from spilled coffee.

The advice we had been given – “It’s a marathon, not a sprint; one day at a time, or one hour at a time when things get bad” – probably was reasonable advice early on. But aimless coping is no way to live.

The birds reminded us of the perils and potential rewards that lie ahead. To rebuild our passion and resolve, we must take flight and embrace the journey. Whatever each day may bring, there are songs to sing, and singing them will guide our path forward.

Adapted from a journal entry, September 2011.