Last year, I heard a birdsong that astounded me with its melody. The Merlin app’s Sound ID told me it was a wood thrush, describing the call as haunting and flute-like. This spring, I was thrilled to hear the trill again: the wood thrush had made it back from his wintering grounds in Central America. I’ve never laid eyes on this bird since he stays in the most forested parts of the neighborhood, heightening the mystery of his wordless ballad.

Observing the return of migratory birds and the awakening of deciduous plants delights me. Over several hectic months, I found balm in seeing the native plants Sergey and I have planted come back to life. Some flowered this spring for the first time: Southern blue flag iris, woodland phlox, foxglove beardtongue, oakleaf hydrangea. A Carolina jessamine vine gave one flower! I planted a Virginia spring-beauty after reading about its pink pollen.

In Auburn, by early February, daffodils and saucer magnolias paint suburban yards yellow and pink. I time-traveled back to late winter over several visits to Indiana to see my sister’s family. As Sergey and I drove through Alabama, Tennessee, and Kentucky, we admired redbud trees in full bloom along hundreds of miles of highway. As we sped further north, they reverted to dormancy. 

This visit coincided with the spring equinox, which for Bahá’ís, marks the start of a new year. We attended the Indianapolis community’s celebration, a potluck dinner. I selected two Persian recipes from my great-grandmother via my mom that I had first tried when working on the Katayoon’s Kitchen project: fried meatballs prepared with vegetarian “ground beef” and beet yogurt salad. The beets dripped with juice, dyeing the yogurt fuchsia.

It seems my forebears’ ruby-hued recipe caught many eyes amongst the dozens of Naw-Rúz celebrants that night. When the emcee started the program, to my surprise, he asked, “Who made the beet salad?” I raised my hand, and to my even greater shock, the crowd began clapping for the salad! Never one to enjoy the spotlight, I blushed deeply enough to rival a beet.

I passed along the simple recipe to several people. I hope Katayoon was watching, feeling pleased that—thanks to my mom’s foresight in documenting her recipes—so many people had enjoyed this part of her legacy, which now may brighten more tables. 

Wood thrushes hide behind leaves,
pouring their spirit into dulcet measures.
Ancestors live beyond sight,
strewing on us their intangible treasures.