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. More than anything, I notice the sounds.

Before dawn, while the world still lingers between darkness and light, the Fan-tailed Cuckoo releases its melancholy refrain into the silence. As morning unfolds, the Kookaburras answer with their wild, triumphant laughter, announcing the arrival of another day with an exuberance that never seems to fade.

Some birds stay only briefly. Their songs become part of the rhythm of the days until, without warning, they 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, Australia's largest cuckoo, arrives with the late spring storms, its loud, raucous call echoing across warm nights like the voice of summer itself.

One season, the unmistakable crack of the Eastern Whipbird became a constant companion around our home. One morning I woke to hear the familiar call just outside the bathroom window. Peering 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 felt less like birdsong and more like a conversation—an ancient dialogue that had been taking place long before we arrived.

Memories are strange things. Perhaps that is simply because our brains are strange, forever rewiring themselves, strengthening some pathways while quietly allowing others to fade. Yet it never ceases to amaze me how a scent, a taste, a place—or even a single birdsong—can transport us instantly to another moment, another version of ourselves.

One afternoon, while wandering through the garden, I heard a sound that stopped me in my tracks: the joyful trill of a Rainbow Bee-eater. I looked skyward, searching for its source, until at last I caught a flash of emerald, bronze and sapphire sweeping effortlessly through the air.

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 being captivated by their impossible colours, their playful acrobatics and their gentle, musical calls. As I watched them weaving effortlessly above the water, an unexpected feeling settled over me—a deep contentment, accompanied by the quiet certainty that, somehow, I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Since then, I have encountered them beside rivers and creeks all along Australia's east coast. Each meeting rekindles that same feeling of joy, of peace, of life gently affirming that I'm on the right path.

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

Living here has given me an ever-deepening appreciation for the extraordinary diversity of birdlife that surrounds us. Although I enjoy watching their comings and goings, I wouldn't describe myself as a birdwatcher. What draws me is relationship.

The more closely we observe birds, the more they begin to shape the way we live.

When we first settled on this beautiful piece of land, we delighted in watching tiny Scarlet Honeyeaters feeding among the Grevilleas. But we also noticed the larger Blue-faced Honeyeaters, with their harsh squawks and boisterous confidence, relentlessly chasing the smaller birds away.

So we began making intentional choices. We planted more densely. We created sheltered pockets and layered vegetation that offered refuge and food for the smaller woodland species. Gradually, the garden is becoming less about what we want it to look like and more about what the birds need it to become.

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 another question quietly arises.

What must it be like not simply to observe this living community, but to belong to it completely? To move through it as naturally as the birds themselves? 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 know my understanding remains incomplete. I am in this place, but not yet entirely of it.

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

Perhaps, if I listen long enough, 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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