Magpie Dreaming

Known by many of the locals as the ‘Bird Lady’, I was not at all surprised to answer the door to a young lad cradling a battered magpie.  Poor chap didn’t look at all well – the maggie, not the young man, though he was distressed at the state of his patient.  To be expected in an animal lover, when holding something that has been viciously attacked by another critter or gang of unknown beastie thugs.

Whether it was something amiss that instigated the attack (survival of the fittest and all that), I have no idea, but when the bird arrived into my care, I thought he had lost one eye completely in the battle for survival.  With so much swelling, oozing and blood it was difficult to tell.  My immediate thought was to put the poor creature out of his obvious misery.  Maggies can be tetchy and won’t hesitate to peck or lash out if feeling threatened.  This guy was almost a zombie from stress, shock and injuries.

Animals seem to sense when a human is trying to help and not torment.  He allowed me to administer some first aid, though that still didn’t enlighten me about his eye.  I wasn’t prepared to poke around and increase his pain.  Instead, I settled him in the infirmary-come-nursery, aka the spare bedroom.  I hoped after a night of warm, dark and quiet – the three essentials for most ailing wildlife on being brought in – I would be better able to assess the damage and his chances of recovery and rehabilitation, and eventual release.  He  had been through a lot.  Perhaps he would not last the night.  It happens.

The next morning when I checked on him, I was treated to a ‘well, where’s breakfast’ kind of look from his one good eye.  There was nothing wrong with his appetite.  Out in the aviary, he at first stayed on the ground, a definite worry, but as the day progressed, he discovered that he could climb, if not fly.  There seemed to be nothing wrong with his wings, so perhaps disorientation was keeping him branch-bound.

Over the next three weeks, as he regained his strength and interest in life, I was assailed by doubts.  Had I ’saved’ this guy only to euthanase him in the end?  Of what use are a pair of working wings on a bird, if it won’t in future know the joy and freedom of flight?  The purpose of being a wildlife rescuer and rehabilitator is to release recovered wildlife back into the wild.  That’s where the creatures belong.  Not in an aviary, no matter how comfortable or well-stocked with food and water.  I did not want a ‘pet’ magpie.  That’s not what it’s all about.

By the end of last week, I was even more concerned – the maggie wanted his freedom.  Who could blame him, with others in the neighbourhood coming around to warble at him from the branches of the oak tree above the aviary, only to say g’day and fly off.  Ah, dear.  My patient was still eating well and making short forays by air from the enclosed part of the aviary to perches in the sun, and rain.  His wounds had healed well.  He was in possession of two eyes, but one was a milky grey and merely there for the sake of symmetry.  My main concern was that he was not happy.  Ridiculous as it might seem, after being a wildlifer for some time, I know without a doubt when a critter’s longing for freedom becomes overwhelming.  It’s as if they pine.  They eat and recover, but they do not thrive.

I decided to give Col (he had to be a one-eyed Collingwood supporter) the choice.  I opened the aviary door.  By the time dusk and Col’s tucker time arrived, he was there, in the aviary, waiting.  I wasn’t too stressed.  There are times when the critters choose their own time to leave.  I’d try again Tuesday, after the weekend influx of holiday-house-stayers, and a visit from an artist friend, Keron Lee whom I’d met through Paper Traders, an on-line paper arts group.  If, after several attempts, Col refused the option of freedom, I would have no choice but to consider the painful (for me) alternative.

Keron and I spent a wonderful few hours playing in the studio, talking art and doing some printmaking.  I was enthralled with the book she was working on, as a gift for a friend, and her skill with etchings, one of which she presented to me, a special treat.  We are both printmakers but work very individually, using different techniques.  To do etchings, one needs access to a printing press.  I have a book press, not the same at all, so I compensate to feed my passion for printmaking by doing, and thoroughly enjoying, woodcuts.

Several times during Keron’s visit, Col attracted our attention by warbling, calling to his kind.  She commented on the beauty of the sound.  I agreed, but couldn’t help wondering what he was communicating.  Was it: ‘Good accommodation and regular meals at this place’, or ‘When are you and your mates coming to break me out of here?’

Tuesday rolled around.  The aviary door was open.  Busy in the studio, I was brought back to the real world by agitated squawks.  Horror of horrors.  Col had ventured out of the aviary, only to be ambushed by one of the local yobbos while another looked on.  No doubt two of the maggies he had been chatting to for days, safely behind the wire.

I often wonder what the neighbours think about the mad woman who’s always talking to ‘herself’ out in the backyard.  I’m surprised they didn’t call the police because of my antics, vocal and physical, on Col’s behalf.  However crazy I might have seemed, it worked.  The yobbo maggie took flight.  Though, I kept a keen eye on the other one, happily eating the meat I’d fetched for Col, who meanwhile climbed his way up the oak tree.  Lousy with heights at the best of times, I watched and waited before getting the ladder.  The pacifist maggie, having gorged on the free meal, took off.

Mother Nature never ceases to inspire awe.  She instills such tenacity and gumption in her critters.  And intelligence galore.  Col, having worked his way up the tree, descended to a lower branch.  His head cocked, he sussed out his options and adjusted his position to another branch.  After checking again, Col flew, swift and strong, through a large gap between branches.  He had compensated for his skewed perception of his environment.  Fantastic!  Despite my doubts, by persisting with his recovery I had given him time and opportunity to work with his disability.

Maybe I’ve only prolonged the inevitable in magpie world, the eradication of the weak.  I hope not.  I’d rather think Col has a fighting chance at freedom and survival.

Tortoise - wood engraving

Last week, I was ready to give up the cyber world entirely, thanks to some anonymous yobbos out there whose very existence seems to be to cause mischief for others.  There’s no doubt the Internet is an amazing thing.  But why folk spend their time and occupy their precious brain cells in creating cyber diseases, completely baffles me.

Thank the Universe for a patient and knowledgeable son, who spent his equally precious free time in sorting out my machine.

Like the little bloke pictured, I’m still a bit nervous about poking my head out of my shell, though have to admit it is good to be up and running once more.

An upside to having enforced downtime was more hours in the studio.  After an initial session, learning the basics of wood engraving with artist Rhyll Plant, it took me ten days to find the courage to make the first mark on the wood.  The super-smooth slice of tree was so perfect, I was hesitant to deface it.  After cutting the first groove, it was less scary.  After several marks, I was hooked.

Okay, so my first attempt isn’t perfect.  My little tortoise still needs a bit more work, more highlights to give him depth and dimension.  Even so, there was a sense of anticipation followed by pleasure at seeing what he truly looked like when run through the press.

I realise I still have miles and miles to go with this new art form, but the journey is proving to be exhilarating.  Added to the thrill of learning wood engraving, is knowing that in my own small way I am also preserving the past, in carrying on an old skill.

Abundance ATC

Often, in the bustle of getting on with life, paying bills, and fulfilling responsibilities, gratitudes get lost in the mish-mash.

A recent birthday – I think I’ll stop counting – had me reviewing my life and looking ahead to what I want to accomplish in the coming year.  It’s a tradition I began some years ago, a chance to pause and review my goals, as well as count my Blessings.

Regrets are less frequent than when I was younger, which is a blessing in itself.  There is nothing worse for the spirit than dwelling on ‘mistakes’ or less than perfect choices.  We all make decisions based on the knowledge and circumstances we have at any given time.  Okay, so not all choices turn out to be what we anticipated, but that’s a fundamental of life.

As I’ve matured, and aged, I’ve allowed fewer opportunities for small adventures to pass by.  There are moments when I think a more adventurous spirit would have been beneficial when I was younger.  Then, I cared too much about what other people thought.  It held me back.

With age comes wisdom, or so it seems.  I’m so busy getting on with and enjoying my own life that I have neither the time nor inclination to study others’ doings with a critical eye.  And perhaps that’s how it should be, and mostly is.  Too often I have attributed too much power to ‘imaginary’ critics.

I’m learning wood engraving, by doing and with the aid of a mentor.  Old habits die hard.  It took me over a week to make the first mark on the wood.  What if I can’t do it properly?  What if it’s a disaster and I waste the precious block?  What if my eyes are too dim to even see what I’m doing?

Who needs outside critics with such a vocal inner gremlin?!

Like the adventurous Thomas Edison, I learn many ways how not to do things until I achieve something verging on success.  After that, I either continue to hone the skill, or I am content with having at least given it my best shot.

Although others’ opinions are no longer paramount for self-worth, it’s always a buzz when something I do or create inspires favourable comments.  During recent art shows, two of my works received notice by the judges.  They were works which I was pleased with.  They made me smile.  They also made others smile.  What a blessing.

Ah, yes, the wood engraving.  My first attempt is not ‘perfect’, but why would it be?  Like all creative endeavours, it’s a journey.  One which I  have begun.  Today I will see how it prints.  I’ll let you know.

Mumma Poss Ink Sketch

Life rarely goes quite as planned, and dealing with wildlife is even less predictable.  Still, at least I’ve benefited in the past couple of weeks from added exercise, in getting up and down the ladder.

Having blocked up three sections between the rafters, I’d left Mumma Poss with only one way in and out of the studio ceiling.  At least that’s what I hoped.  The iron on the roof is none too secure in places, but without risking a severe case of vertigo by climbing up onto the roof, I had no way of checking the side that butts up to the neighbour’s property.

Fingers crossed and eyes drooping, I stayed up past my bedtime to close off Mumma Poss’s front door.  Shutting the dog inside, armed with new batteries in the torch, hammer, nails and board already prepared, and with as much stealth as I could muster while bashing nails into wood, I did the deed.  That night I slept the sleep of the righteous and relieved.

My relief was short lived.  The next morning there was another puddle of possum piddle on the studio floor.  Up the ladder again to  check the board.  Mumma Poss had either head butted or karate kicked her way out!

The next night, I left it until after one in the morning to repeat the process, with the same piddling result.  This time, the board was secure, but I’d closed the door before the possum had bolted, obviously.  Believe me, there is nothing worse than the pong of dead possum.  Besides, I’m a wildlifer, I rescue possums, I don’t starve them to death in a ceiling.  So, here I go again.  Up the ladder, wrenching out nails, I envied Mumma Poss’s muscles.

Two days later, I tried a different tack.  After shutting off the alarm before the neighbours lynched me for waking them at five in the morning, I dragged on clothes and boots and repeated the process.  The next day yet another puddle of piddle on the floor.  Fudge.  Possums are supposed to be nocturnal, so why wasn’t she nocturning?  Was the weather too cold?  Had she gorged herself on leavings in the compost heap, enough to last a week?  Up the ladder I went again, to remove the board, groaning at the thought of having to construct an apparatus with springs and hinges to fill a two-inch gap with a one-way door.

A few days away from home reduced stress levels – mine, and I’m sure, Mumma Poss’s.  It couldn’t have been pleasant for her, huddled in the ceiling with so much crashing and banging going on.  Home again to find fresh puddles soaking into the floor, I issued an eviction warning to the ceiling.

Possum cages are a marvel.  Primed with a juicy quarter of apple, it sat like some sort of boxy antenna on top of the carport roof.  Mumma Poss couldn’t miss it, surely.  She didn’t.  Though she did come close to falling off the roof, cage and all, in her agitated but futile attempts to escape.  No need for an alarm that morning!  Up the ladder in the pre-dawn light, I almost mistook Mumma Poss for a Tassie Devil.  Teeth bared, hissing and spitting, claws trying to shake apart the cage, she was not a happy girl.  Not that I blamed  her.  I’d be pissed off too, in the same situation.

There’s nothing like communing with nature.  Sure, it was a one-sided conversation, but I could tell she was listening, as I apologised and explained why she would have to find a new home.  With us both safely on the ground, I took her up the yard and opened the cage.  It took her a full half-second to disappear over the back fence.

Here in Oz, it’s illegal to release an evicted possum further than fifty metres from where it is caught.  I can only hope Mumma Poss has found herself a nice cosy hole in a tree, and not in the ceiling of neighbour’s house.  I also hope she hasn’t made nice with the possum that lives in the ceiling of my house, which is next in line for eviction.

Brushtail Possum Baby

When converting the garage into a studio, little did I realise I would be constructing luxurious accommodation for beloved Aussie wildlife.

Prior to the ceiling being lined in the recent conversion, Mumma Poss and her bub were often to be seen huddled together on the rafters above the roller door.  Now, with pine lining boards holding up lovely wads of fibreglass insulation, the critters are nestling in what must be to them like a bed of down.

I dread thinking about the state of the insulation – especially with the odd puddle of possum piddle leaking through the boards onto the studio floor.  So far, they have missed soaking anything vital, but today, on discovering yet another puddle, I decided to take action.

Is it only me, or do other people decide to take a certain course of action, only to discover that fifteen other tasks need to be accomplished to make it possible?

Last week, I’d blocked up one possum entrance-exit.  So far, the Noise Police haven’t knocked on my door about the hammering, past midnight.  Well, I didn’t want to block the possums in the ceiling and had to wait for their nocturnal nuisance time.  My effort made absolutely no difference to the critters’ comings and goings.  I had my suspicions about a possible trouble spot, but to investigate fully I had to first move ten boxes of books left over from a garage sale… um, from a couple of  months ago.  To move the books, I had to first find out whether the owner of the books (they’re not mine) wanted to collect them.  No, they were to be donated to a ‘worthy’ cause, as against turfing at the local tip.

Muttering and mumbling at the roadblocks to progress while being taken for a walk by Finn, my Irish rebel wolfhound, I noticed the local library was open.  An Aha moment. Perhaps there was a dearth of reading matter in the stately old building.  It turned out that there is a dearth of shelf space, but they would take the books anyway.  Any books they aren’t interested in keeping, they will sell off at the next fundraiser book sale.  Everybody wins.

It was just on dusk when I finally positioned the ladder where once ten boxes of books gathered dust, and one or two pellets of possum poo.  Another aha moment, discovering the poo.  I was on the right track, or rung of the ladder, as it were.

One of life’s mysteries is how a fully grown possum can squeeze through a gap as wide as a modern ruler.  Judging from the way they raid my fruit trees, and steal anything remotely edible and vegetable from the compost heap, I’d have thought my resident possums would need an expanding doorway to accommodate their bellies.   After scrounging through the wood pile in near dark, and sawing after dark, as much as I achieved was blocking off a quarter of the garage-wide possum entrance.

Foiling possums is much like writing – we can envision what we want to achieve, but getting there is very often a convoluted journey.  Rarely does a piece of writing flow easily from start to end, and make perfect sense when reading it.  Passages may slide from the creative brain, down the fingertips and onto the page or screen.  More often there is agonising, questioning, and getting up to make another cup of tea while possibilities wreak havoc in our minds, much like my resident possums after midnight.

The point is, not to give up.  Instead of worrying the problematic protagonist to death, get up, make that fifth cup of coffee that you just know will get the synapses firing, and take it outside.  Lean over your apartment balcony, or wander around your beautifully manicured garden beds – or, as I do, skirt the fallen branches and swear at the acres of oxalis smothering every plant – and breathe.  Let your subconscious come up with the solution.  But, don’t push it.  Don’t let your pesky critic  – you know, the part of you that thrives on doom-mongering and failure – hold you to ransom.  Water the cactus, see how many faces you can find in the clouds, pull a few weeds, or even do some housework.  While you’re otherwise occupied, your subconscious will be working on the problem, and will deliver the answer.

It might be in the middle of a dream two nights later, or it could well be when you see the first face in the clouds, pull the first weed, or put the first clean dish in the rack, but it will happen, if you let it.  Of course, the solution might be to scrap the beginning of your story, or discard the first three chapters of your novel.  It could be well worth it.  Why?  Too often, when it is a HUGE labour to write, the flow will stall for the reader.  And isn’t that what writing is all about?  To tempt readers into losing themselves in the flow of the writing and story.