Kinship, cockatoo calls, and the gift of presence
How winged predators and prey in my suburban backyard remind me to be open and willing to learn
Each afternoon this week my cockatoo friend has arrived right around 4:30pm - she is flying in as I write this now. Cockatoos rarely go anywhere quietly, and I hear her pronouncements, “I am coming, I am coming” for what must be a couple of kilometres. I generally put the last little bit of seed out for the wild birds around 3pm, I want to make sure it is all gone by dark which is early now it is winter. Still, she has trained me well, and when she arrives, off I trot to give her her own little serve of wild bird seed.
Excuse me for a moment while I go do that now.
(This is her earlier in the year, dirty from her nest in a tree-hollow somewhere)
Yesterday she did not come to the feeder, but sat up in the but lemon scented eucalypt and screeched blue murder for nearly 30 minutes straight. There had been a bird of prey (either the resident grey goshawk, or the resident sparrowhawk) coming in and out all day. How do I know that you might ask? An explosion of birds - that is what happens every time. A cacophony of wings and startled squawks and I reflexively squint one eye as I wait for the sound of at least one dove flying straight into the window or door in blind fear. Some days the repetition of this exceedingly dramatic dance between predator and prey is too much to bear, and yet, I have no control at all, so surrender I must (and come to terms with the fact there will be a pile of dove feathers out there later). Yesterday, cockatoo arrived not long after an explosion of birds, so the yard was the kind of quiet that only happens when the prey bird is either enjoying their dove feast, or sitting in the tree deciding what to do next with their murder mittens. These prey birds are half the size of a cockatoo, they are no threat to her at all, and yet their shape invokes that primordial fear that potential prey birds have of their much more bitey counterparts. And so, for 30 minutes, she let the whole neighbourhood know that there was a threat.
If you are Australian and have heard this noise, you know it is not pleasant. It is not sweet or endearing. It does what it is supposed to do.
This girl is not part of a big flock of cockies, she has a partner (who I haven’t seen this week, actually), and last breeding season had a young one as well, so the trio, and sometimes a friend or two, would visit through the day, along with lots of galah and lorikeet, some corella, the ubiquitous doves, a few crested pigeon, sparrows, pee wee, magpie and a few other odds and sods. So I know her alarm call is not actually directed at just another cockie, it was letting everyone know. On a smaller scale, and more frequently, it is the pee wee who signal the death-makers arrival for the other yard inhabitants, a single loud peep and poooof, bird explosion. Everyone clearly knows the meaning of this particular peep. But the peep and the screech got me ruminating further on ‘kinship’ - something you know I have been thinking about if you read my other newsletter about the art I create. These distress calls serve many, not just a few, and that feels like kinship to me. By understanding what drama is unfolding in the yard, and sometimes reacting if I feel there is a need to, I also feel entwined in this relationship, though I already saw each and every one of them as my kin anyway.
The alert call, and also the “I’m here, come feed me” call reminds me of my kinship to these birds, but I feel no less kinship to the goshawk or sparrowhawk. They are pure in their authenticity. Their fierce intelligence, concentration and stealth are awe-inspiring. They play a vital role in the little bit of wild going on in my yard, and I hold such reverence for them. You may have guessed I have a thing for birds, but birds of prey, oh my, they have my heart. I watch her, the goshawk below, and imagine what it might be like to have wings - I move my shoulders as though settling my wings flush against my back, I spread my arms wide and graceful, my chest is open and free, I feel the way my feathers sit on the air, the way I can twist them individually to move in the most incredible ways. I embrace that beingness, the presence, deep and active observation with all my senses.
Robin Wall Kimmerer is one of my most favourite writers, and I have read and listened to Braiding Sweetgrass at least a half dozen times (if you do audio books, I can’t recommend this book enough. Read by the author, there is a richness to the narrative with hearing it in her own voice that is truly a gift). She so eloquently describes kinship and reciprocal relationships with land and other-than-human kin. As a first nations person (enrolled member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation) and distinguished professor of environmental biology she has straddled the divide that is colonial distancing (conquer, plunder, all those things) from the natural world, and the tightly braided existence of native peoples to the land they have been in relationship with for centuries. This book came to me just as I was examining my own understanding of being entwined with our Earth, and almost every paragraph felt visceral and revelatory at the same time, (plus, I held dear that one of her ways to show love is to gift wild strawberries). The simplicity of active and passive engagement holds the key. We just (just) need to be present, to not always be thinking forward or backward in time, and to not be closed off to what is happening around us (and I say “just’ because this is a seemingly mammoth task in this day and age).
“...we ask for open eyes and open minds, hearts open enough to embrace our more-than-human kin, a willingness to engage intelligences not our own.”
Kimmerer, Robin Wall. Braiding Sweetgrass (p. 373). Milkweed Editions. Kindle Edition.
I don’t live in my dream environment (alpine forests, filled with the wild), but until that happens I can still be present to what is happening in my tiny suburban plot. My eyes and mind are open, my heart wide enough for the moon to go through, and I embrace my more-than-human kin with delight and reverence, with wonder and reciprocity, with curiosity and compassion.
These tiny wild creatures who fly in for seed (or who live in the bushes and trees I have planted in my yard) have so much to teach me - even the silly doves - about kinship and living in the world in presence and authenticity. I know some of them by their larger personalities, by their particular quirks, or their own willingness to engage with this human, but I see the personhood of them all. I understand the cadence of their movements by season, when to expect more of one certain group, when I will see the last of another. The black cockatoo only visit in winter, and oh my stars, my heart explodes with joy when that happens. The currawong call is louder this time of year, they love the cool. There are less galah, corella, wattle bird and sparrow, and when I see more of them I know that winter is abating. In October the koel will come back, flying south from Papua and Indonesia and far North Queensland to mate and cuckoo their eggs. Spring is truly here then, and the first of the fig birds will appear at the same time, as they and the koel love to plunder the mulberry, which will be bursting with blackening berries by then. And always, the daily explosions of birds, but even more so in the spring when the predators have their own young to feed (two or three neat piles of dove feathers per day in that season).
I went many many years of my adult life without noticing this movement, the dance of life all around me, but now I see, I will not and cannot look away. There is too much to miss out on, too much at stake for my own self awareness and desire to protect and participate. I want to be forever open to understanding, observing, participating in the wild world around me. I want to learn.
The suburban wild as my teachers, as my constant conduit to the great wild world outside, and a tether to the wild in my heart.
Tell me, who do you share the wild with - who visits your yard, your balcony, your acreage? Who can you see out your window from many concrete stories above the ground? What have they taught you? Give me a little glimpse into your wild world - even better, respond in the comments, and we can all have little virtual visits to each others wild places!
I love the birds too. Crows have just returned to my 'hood after a very long absence. I was so glad to see them. I also have a deep love for squirrels. I don't recall much of my childhood but I have a clear memory of an encounter in the playground with a squirrel. Here in the city they are bold and this one came quite close to me, hopeful. I was very sad that I didn't have anything to share. During the 2020 lockdown I had a special experience when a squirrel chose to build her nest on my fire escape. I got to watch her raise her 5 babies and was deeply touched that she trusted me so close to her children. They were a deep grace during that time, the littles playing on the wire screen of my window. Since then, I have encountered the mother in the park. She knows me and will put her paws on my leg and then sit quite close to eat the nuts I hand over. I feel privileged every time.
The depth of your connection is palpable and beautiful. I’ve read your words in early
morning sitting amongst the birds, and will come back later to read them again more slowly. Thank you.
I remember and love the bird calls of Queensland (Sunshine Coast area), so different to our little songbirds here. Our magpies are always on duty to alert everyone to the neighbour’s cats and in nesting season I’m enlisted for Chasing Duty. Meanwhile the Jackdaws nesting in our chimney reverberate down the flue and send their voices echoing into our living room. We are woven indeed.
I also share your love for a raptor. Here they’re mostly Buzzards and some days I just want to be up there on the thermals with them, seeing forever.
Thanks again for this lovely post. It’s set my mood for the day!