The Sounds of Kombumerri Country

The course I'm doing with Grasstree Fellowship is inviting me to reflect deeper upon my connection with nature & wildlife around me. Here are some of my musings of the birdlife around where I live....

The longer I spend here, on Kombumerri country in the Currumbin Ecovillage, the more I notice. Especially the sounds.

Before dawn, the melancholy call of the Fan-tailed Cuckoo drifts through the trees. Then as the sky becomes lighter, the Kookaburras celebrate the start of another day with an exuberance that never seems to fade. 

Some bird songs, however, seem to disappear. I find myself unexpectedly missing their voices, only to discover that new ones have quietly taken their place. 

Curiosity eventually led me to discover that many of these birds are seasonal visitors. The Channel-billed Cuckoo, for instance, arrives with the late spring storms, its loud, raucous call echoing across warm nights like the voice of summer itself. 

One year, the unmistakable crack of the Eastern Whipbird became a constant companion around our home. I woke one morning to hear the familiar call just outside the bathroom window. Looking through the glass, I finally caught my first glimpse of one moving through the undergrowth. I watched the little male throw his entire body into that extraordinary whip-crack, then pause in eager anticipation for the female's answering call.  

It's funny how memory works. A smell, a place or a sound can suddenly take you somewhere else entirely.

One afternoon, while working in the garden, I heard the joyful trill of a Rainbow Bee-eater. I looked up and caught a flash of emerald, bronze and sapphire sweeping across the sky. 

The sound carried me back decades...

My first encounter with a Rainbow Bee-eater was while sitting quietly beside the Katherine River in the Northern Territory. I remember watching them dart through the air, completely captivated by their colours and their sweet call. I also remember how I felt. For no particular reason, everything seemed right. I felt content, like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

 Since then, I've seen Rainbow Bee-eaters beside rivers and creeks along various parts of Australia's east coast. Every time I hear them, those same feelings come back.

So when I heard Rainbow Bee-eaters circling above our home at Shambhala Haven, I was genuinely excited. In choosing to include this place within the map of their own lives, I felt they had quietly blessed ours.

Living here has made me appreciate birds in a way I never expected. Although I enjoy watching their comings and goings, I wouldn't describe myself as a birdwatcher. What draws me is relationship.

The more we watched, the more they begin to shape the way we live.

When we first arrived, we loved seeing the tiny Scarlet Honeyeaters feeding in the Grevilleas. But we also noticed the larger Blue-faced Honeyeaters, with their harsh squawks and boisterous nature, relentlessly chasing them away.

So we started planting differently. More dense shrubs. More places where the smaller birds could feed without being harassed. Over time the garden stopped being just our garden. It became something we shared. 

Sometimes I find myself wondering about the old trees that stand watch over this place. How many generations of birds have rested in their branches? How many songs have echoed through these forests? How many tiny lives have found shelter, safety and belonging beneath their leaves?

And then I wonder what must it be like not simply to observe this living community, but to belong to it completely? To be woven into the fabric of this place so completely that there is no distinction between self and landscape?

Although I feel a kindred spirit with birds like the Rainbow Bee-eater and the Willy Wagtail, I also know that I'm still learning.

I'm learning to create a sanctuary where birdsong can flourish, yet I am still discovering my own voice.

Maybe if I keep listening, with enough patience and humility, I might one day learn not merely to listen to the chorus, but to sing along with it.

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