sparrows and garlic

sensory seasons

Last week I returned home after a month of travel. Home is in Middle TN, about an hour and a half from where I lived on the farm with M. Far enough (and surrounded by community enough) that I feel safe, but close enough for the seasons to pass in the same way.

Before leaving for the northeast in September, I felt grateful that I would not be in TN on October 10th. Even though I can’t say it makes it easier - just different - I am glad that at this point in my life I have lived enough seasons in my body to know how seasonal sensory triggers dredge up both conscious and felt traumatic memories. While I knew my travels couldn’t prevent it, I was hopeful that easing back into TN later in October would be an overall more gentle experience than feeling stuck in my memory all month.

The first morning after arriving home, I walked out into the yard and sucked in air as a white-throated sparrow sang out. It is such a distinct melody, and it cuts so cleanly throat the sharp autumn air. I felt my chest fill, my shoulders lift, and my body stop.

And then I breathed out. I knew exactly what was happening, mumbled something along the lines of, “well, shit.” to myself, and I carried on with what I was doing. The birds kept singing, of course, and I kept listening, feeling, and moving.

White-throated sparrows live in Middle TN during the time of year in which they aren’t breeding, which happens to start right in October. On October 6th, 2022, I visited the farm for the first time and it felt like home. On October 10th, 2023, after nearly a year living on the farm, I finally decided that home was not supposed to feel like this. On October 19th, 2024, my body remembered everything it had felt between those dates, all at once, in a single cycle of inhale/exhale.

It felt like a triumph, honestly. And, it was one that I kept to myself until the comedy of this little pipsqueak revealed itself to me.

Several days later, as I bopped around the house busying myself with who-even-knows-what, I came across a bird in the bathroom. I really had to pee, so instead of going into the bathroom, I slowly shut the door, went into the yard, and I took a squat. It would do me no good to make a new friend with an exploding bladder.

I walked back into the house, and the bathroom door was open. The bird, gone. I highly doubted it had come in and out through the bathroom wall, so I figured it was still in the house and continued on with my little tasks.

I stepped into my bedroom and paused. There was a presence in the room. A flutter. The air was moving ever so slightly. The bird, of course. As I started scanning the room for movement, they flew from the curtain rod to my altar, and it was then that I realized who they were.

A white-throated sparrow… on my altar. Okay, then.

We spent some time together going about our own business in the house as we got to know one another. As with all guests, the right moment arrived for them to find their way out, and I ushered them along on their way.

Their visitation in the first few days of my return to a familiar autumn did not feel like an intrusion. I imagine it very easily could have, had I been in a different headspace, but their arrival first in song and then in body felt gentle and encouraging, despite all they carried with them.

Today, October 25th, 2024, I planted garlic in our backyard garden. Garlic is a meaningful friend to me, as they are and have been to many across time and cultures. Because the previous two falls before I spent planting garlic on the farm - in 2022 with hope and excitement; in 2023 with fear - putting the cloves in the ground of my new home felt like reclamation. Instead of M looming over my shoulder, my best friend of 14 years, Poe the cat, circled and nuzzled me as he chirped and purred. It felt like a much better omen for the year ahead and the lifecycle of this crop of garlic.

I bedded the garlic down in their thick winter blanket of mulch and went inside to wash up for the day. As I turned the corner into the pantry, another visitor crossed my line of sight. I slowly closed the door to contain my guest, as I told the white-throated sparrow I would be right back to see them out.