I could play a semi-recognizable version of “Michael Row The Boat Ashore”, when my guitar lessons were cut short by an arm breaking crack-the-whip incident at the fifth grade Washington Elementary ice skating party. With my plastered arm, I could no longer hold the guitar. Band lessons were about to begin in our gymnasium. I could somehow still hold the clarinet. I joyfully honked once a week under the direction of Mr. Iverson. When they sawed off my cast, I suppose I could have returned to the guitar, but I stayed with the one who saw me through. 

My “instruments” have continued to change throughout my life. By choice and chance, I have had to let in, and I have had to let go. But I’ve always had my voice. How freeing it is to know. Some things can never be taken away. 

I don’t keep that clarinet in my French home because I still play, I keep it as a reminder. A lesson of change. Of adapting. Of finding joy when the whip has been cracked. 

Perhaps it’s why I speak of the bird song so often. Maybe it’s a bit more refined now, but it all began with a honk, a glorious and joyful honk.