When I lived in the southeastern United States, the end of summer was always the beginning of big changes in bird communities. Some of the early migrants like this geo-tagged purple martin I photographed in South Carolina several years ago begin to leave their summer breeding grounds to head south in order to set-up camp for the winter. Although I still have purple martins around my neck of the woods in northwestern PA this time of year, they are also getting ready for the long journey south. Early migrants like the purple martin take risks, potentially encountering difficult weather or arriving before an adequate food supply exists. Even still, these same early travelers can gain the upper hand by exploiting a food source before other species arrive and by selecting and defending prime real estate for their winter get-away. It can be a precarious dance, with no certain outcome.

It isn’t always easy for someone who enjoys birds to begin to see them leave the backyard for the tropics. Although the fall can be quite exciting for birders who await a flood of migrants moving through from further north, it also is somewhat of a somber time for me for I know that the same feathered friends that have surrounded me all summer will soon be on their way. I hate to see the catbirds and warblers and hummingbirds disappear. There is often a sense of loss that develops.

Just this morning some visitors of the human variety left my house to fly south. I’ve been fortunate to be able to host some of my family from North Carolina over the past few days. After much fun together it was time for them to leave. Like all of us, I feel a sense of sadness when those I love have to leave or are no longer with me. 

Although I believe love is not bound by space or time, there is something beautiful about sharing joy, laughter, and life with others in a tangible way. A hug or a smile, a bolt of laughter, and the warmth of physical presence increase our bonds with each other and expand our lives. And yet it isn’t possible for those we love to be with us all the time. Especially in our global world, I have friends and family in states and countries far away. My love for them remains strong, but I particularly cherish time spent in-person. Similarly, although I have a deep fondness for the purple martin even in the middle of winter, I find far greater joy watching them flap above on a warm summer night in my backyard. 

I guess that’s the flip-side of love. If you choose to love, there is no getting around the fact that sometimes it hurts. When you choose to care, you open yourself up to pain. The Everly Brothers weren’t kidding when they sang “love hurts”. The other option, though, is to not love. I could abandon my interest in birds because of the uncomfortable sense of loss I feel each fall when they leave. I could do the same when it comes to the many people I’ve grown to care about over my lifetime. To do so would likely prevent some pain. BUT, it would also prevent some of the most beautiful, meaningful, and transcendent experiences of my life. It would rob me of the joy I sense when a purple martin arrives in the spring, of the excitement I embrace when a loved one is coming for a visit, or the flutter I get when someone I admire is near. The very things that, at times, cause grief and sadness, are the most wonderful pieces of my life. They add meaning, purpose and so much elation. As such, even when I feel pain in their absence, I give thanks for their presence. When the purple martins return next spring, I’ll be eager to greet them with open arms.