Fauna

This week a jaunty forest raven dropped down off a branch to pick up a piece of stale bread. As I watched his “on guard” antics of always checking out where danger might be lurking, my own gaze moved past the bird and on down the path that leads to the Peace Fire. Seeing its smoke drifting lazily in the air, and, with the raven and bread in the periphery of my vision, I was reminded of an encounter with a similar sort of bird, a black currawong (the main difference between the two being their eyes, with the raven’s white whilst the currawong’s are a disturbingly piercing bright yellow). The encounter took place some five years ago and was a key factor (along with constant pestering by my webmaster, Allan Moult) in cracking my resistance to setting up this blog, Life on the Edge.

The time I speak of was a few months after the establishment of the Peace Fire (April, 2002) and a few weeks into my three year daily surf, but not yet into the weekly writing of Life on the Edge which started in January, 2003.

Now, the blog is an established practice, but five years ago, although managing somehow to self publish Earth Links, a small monograph of sculpture and Roaring Beach Stories, I only dabbled in the occasional bit of writing. However, with the advent of the Peace Fire and The Swim, I was tinkering with the thought of doing another small, little book publication tentatively titled, Fire and Water. Being the slothful character I am, though, the act of writing remained just that—a thought.

It was around four in the afternoon and I was in my outdoor studio, not only bent over a piece of wood with chisels flailing, but also doing a bit of ruminating about Fire and Water, rolling ideas around and hoping something would hatch. Did I have the talent? Was there a need for more environmental writing?  Should I commit time to doing this little book when I could be carving? Is the book’s title too cheesy, too new-age?  etc., etc…… In other words, procrastinating.

Suddenly, like a meteorite falling out of the sky, a currawong lands on a saw horse just near to where I was working. Besides startling the day dreaming out of me with his totally crazy, unannounced flapping entrance, in his beak was a large rock whelk sea shell that I recognised as having come off my house deck.

Once I regained my composure, I said: “You cheeky bird stealing from my collection of shells”. Then, with an exaggerated motion, the currawong spits the shell out onto the ground next to my feet, cocks his head and gives me that sideways look. “Do you expect to exchange this for a piece of bread?” I asked. After a few more cocks of the head with those yellow eyes peering inquisitively at me, the bird jumps off the saw horse, picks up the shell and flies off with it into the trees and out of view.

“Interesting”, I said to myself, then went on quietly carving while pondering the possible significance of the shell. Just a coincidence? Or had this feathered augur come with a plan?

Two hours later, I put on my wet suit, went for a surf and stayed until the sun disappeared behind some very black clouds coming in out of the west. Reaching home, instead of going immediately into the shower, I thought it best to stoke up the Peace Fire before the rain hit. So, I dropped off the boogie board and flippers in the yard and walked up the path to the fire. Half way there and what do I find right in the middle of the path?  You guessed it… that very same rock whelk sea shell. “Yes….” I excitedly screamed, “Fire and Water!” The symbolism was too apparent to ignore.

Well, for an hour anyway, because although impressed at the time with the currawong’s visit, a few days later the initial euphoric impact had lessened to just a “lovely” story, had been pushed to the back of my mind and I refused it entry into motivating me to do anything like actually writing.

Back then, my everyday morning breakfast routine would be to go sit with my toast and triple expresso coffee in a corner of the house next to a pair of French doors that swung open to an outdoor deck that, with windows that went from ceiling height to floor, offered an expansive view to the outside. I had finished breakfast and was slowly, very slowly, doing my best to move from the comfort of the cushioned chair to the hard board I sit on in the studio. Yet, despite the high amount of caffeine buzzing through me, my preference was to sit idly and read what others had written about nature and the elements.

When I came to the Mary Oliver poem, “Raven with Crows”, my attention perked up with her description of the crow as “a corn-meddler” as it brought my attention back to what I had witnessed a few days earlier and made me think of the currawong visitor as “a shell meddler” doing its best to mess with my mind. More importantly, it pricked my conscience sufficiently to want to become more constructive in creating the second “little book”.

What should happen next? The currawong is on the deck tapping the bottom of the French door window no more than two feet away from my feet. I look through the window amazed at its reappearance. Never before had a bird been on the deck let alone a big black one tapping on a window as though asking permission to come into the house. All I could manage to do was just look at it. Finally, I said: “Okay, I hear you. You’re trying to tell me to get off my butt and get writing. Done deal.” The bird stopped pecking, gave me the yellow eye, proceeded to peck a few more times and then flew off.

That was five years ago. The currawong never returned, either to the studio or to the house. It’s black winged messenger’s presence seems only to have been needed to spur on the creation of Life at the Edge. With 8,000 people a week now reading about the comings and goings at Windgrove, a return flight was never necessary.

We all owe a bit of thanks to this bird.

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There is always a bit a solid wisdom coming from the cartoon character Hobbes. Yes, happiness can be found in a sun drenched field.

So why do we keep forgetting this?

This morning was sunny, but it was also a cold day with a stiff breeze blowing in from the southwest.
While out and about enjoying its crispness, I came across this Bennett’s wallaby obviously agreeing with Hobbes about where to find happiness. With her back side protected from the wind by the dense foliage of a coastal wattle shrub, she seemed to be definitely enjoying soaking up the warmth of the sun.

For long minutes we just shared the same space, happy in the moment, unconcerned about mortgages, car payments, financial success or power positioning.

And, back at the house, guess who I found trapped in the sink again all shivering and cold unable to climb up, out and over the steep stainless steel walls? Must be the tenth time I’ve rescued this tiny Little Pygmy-possum.

Acting like a big, sunny field, the warmth of my stomach and cupped hands provided this happy creature with a few minutes of solid contentment before she decided to scurry home under the stove where, no doubt, a few tasty crumbs awaited her.

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