After twenty-three years in one house, I’ve discovered that stuff breeds quietly in cupboards when you’re not looking. Some of it’s mine, some inherited from my late parents, and some… well, I have no idea where it came from.
There are the “too good to use” things that have spent decades waiting for their grand debut — linens, crockery, candles — and are now destined for the op shop, still pristine and slightly offended. There are sentimental items that tug gently at the heart, and others that make me wonder why on earth I ever kept them. I like to think of this as a “pre-emptive death clean.” It’s a kindness for the kids — I’m clearing out the clutter without actually dying. A generous gesture, don’t you think?
Packing up has its moments of nostalgia, but it’s the thought of the farewells to my feathered friends that bring the real lump to the throat.
On the eastern side of the house live the big personalities — Mr and Mrs Magpie, who proudly introduced their babies every spring before leaving them on my deck like daycare drop-offs in the days before we adopted the dog.
Then there are the raucous Currawongs, cheeky Cockatoos, Magpie Larks, and the 
occasional Butcherbird or King Parrot and more recently a pair of nesting Crows. The Indian and Noisy Mynahs, of course, never miss a chance to check for leftovers — self-appointed quality control. This year we had another unexpected visitor – a Pacific Duck – who decided to have an extended sojourn on the deck one afternoon. The only bird that Lucy the Labrador has showed any interest in!
The western side is a gentler crowd. The feathered friends that gather around the birdbath are Wattlebirds, Eastern Spinebills, Doves, Mr and Mrs Blackbird (who constantly rearrange the mulch in the garden) and my ever-curious Spotted Pardalotes — who like to tap on my window as if to remind me they’re the real landlords here. I had thought that the neighbour’s cat had wiped out their little colony, so it’s a delight to see them back again.
The birdbath itself is a scene of daily theatre: splashy enthusiasm, queue-jumping, feather-fluffing, and the final triumphant shake before take-off. Doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of winter — the show must go on.
As I sort, box, and donate, I’m realising that letting go of things isn’t the hard part. It’s saying goodbye to the small rituals and the creatures that became part of my everyday story. It’s realising that I will never see fruit on the pomegranate tree outside my window, grown from a seed and entering it’s eighth year, although it will eventually fill the space where the bird bath is. This year the mandarin and apple trees are putting forward their best blossom show in years, so the new owners should have a bountiful crop of fruit when its ready.
Still, new skies await towards the end of November — and I like to think that at the new house, the local birdlife will soon get word that there’s a soft-hearted human who keeps a well-filled birdbath and an open heart. There’s nectar filled trees to plant and rest on already planned!