There is an ancient tradition that I read about where when a woman finds out she’s pregnant, the other women in the village would send her off into the forest by herself so she could spend time in the wilderness, until she heard a song. That song would become the anthem of the child. At birth, throughout life, marriage, and death.

I really loved that idea, but I was so crazy busy on the road that I didn’t know how to begin to hear Miles’ song. But when Miles was a week old — all pink and squishy and with that new baby smell — I was rocking him out in the screened-in porch of our house in Nashville. I was using my hand to pat and keep the rocking going together in time. It was a warm July afternoon, and the melody just kind of came to me. It was windy that day, and I almost wonder if the wind didn’t bring it my way.