Madorna

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I listened to the Dawn Chorus on a slow Saturday morning, sunbathing just to warm from the chill in the air. I hadn’t read the description of the recording, as I wanted to be surprised.

And I was.

Not by anything dramatic, but by something subtle. How calming and familiar birdsong is to me. And how it connects me to a place. Or perhaps to a sense of belonging.

 

It took me immediately to my parents’ chácara back in Brazil. A chácara is a kind of rural retreat. In my parents’ case, a modest and warm house with a bit of land around it, some fruit trees, chickens, ducks. The kind of place where nature is always present, where sounds are soft, and days slow.

 

In that moment, I was back there. A place where my son and I always felt at home, surrounded by the gentle presence of my parents.

And I realised how much I miss it.

I miss them too. My parents. That quiet grief, always there just beneath the surface, rose gently with the birdsong.

 

It reminded me how often I say I want to feel more connected to nature here, in this new life. And how much I admire cultures where that connection is deeply lived.

 

I was so comforted, so deep in thoughts and memories, that I drifted into a brief sleep. My father would have called it a madorna, a soft doze in the sun.

 

Then I woke to a sudden sound. A bang. For a second, I wasn’t sure whether it came from the recording or the world around me.

I played the birdsong again.

The sound, I decided, was probably someone moving across dry leaves. Katja, perhaps? Not a bird. But not frightening either. Just part of the world.

 

Listening again, I thought about how birdsong feels familiar to people across the globe. Different birds, different languages, yet the same gentle, universal thread. A kind of shared memory.

 

And I thought of the Finch Girl. Perhaps she too was an immigrant, like me.

I wondered what it felt like for her to be far from where she belonged.

What would she have longed for?