Did the song of the sparrows trigger a genetic memory?

Last Monday morning

I am walking to the bus stop heading to work.  I walk south through the little park on Chilco between Nelson and Comox.   It is a sunny cold morning, so I am bundled up.  My extra long black and grey scarf hangs down the front underneath coat and covers my knees.  The scarf bounces off my knees as I walk.

I turn left onto Comox and I hear sparrows singing. I stop (as I usually do when I see birds) and observe them.  I see a few of them sitting atop branches.  I smile and keep walking.  My eyes are blinded by the sun.  The song of the sparrows combined with way the scarf bounced on my knees triggers something.  A feeling so familiar.

All of a sudden I am not in Vancouver and I am not in 2019.  I am walking along a country road in Sweden.  It is early summer and the Sparrows are singing.  My layers of skirts and my worn apron bounce on my knees as I walk.  It is 1910 and I am on my way to general store.  To my right are birch trees and pine, and daisies grow in the ditch.  To my left farmers’ fields bordered by wooden fences.  Cows are chewing on grass.  I know these clothes.  I know these bird songs.

I feel so peaceful and content.  I keep walking back into 2019.

A genetic memory?  Is there really such a thing?

Pencil drawing detail- spinning wool in Värmland (Katarina Thorsen, 1999)


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