by Alexandra Guhde, PsyD

LAUGH, KOOKABURRA, LAUGH

Here, in Sydney, Australia—on the eastern shore of this otherworldly landscape I now call home—springtime has officially begun. Australians are so confident of the arrival of warm weather that they don’t bother waiting for celestial alignment. They simply declare spring has sprung on the first of September and head outdoors.

This year, I decided to prepare for spring by shopping for recliners for our balcony. In the evening, when traffic dies down and construction sites go still—the cacophonic forces of gentrification are omnipresent here too—my partner and I like to sit on the balcony, watch the tufty tops of the gum trees, and listen.

As much as I enjoy the euphonious, reedy melody of the Australian magpies, and the gossipy chitter of the just-waking grey-headed flying foxes, my favorite sound is the evening call of the kookaburra. Kookaburras mate for life. And, to me, their conversation, which often begins as raucous laughter before softening into throaty, in-the-know chortles, sounds full of sly wisdom. As if kookaburras get that life’s joke is on us, and the best we can do is to pick someone to laugh with.

At the furniture shop, the young, flaxen-haired saleswoman—Becky—assigned to help me pick out the perfect recliners for eavesdropping on the wisdom of nature, had, herself, a warm laugh. Becky smiled and chattered as she helped me shop. “So you’re wanting lounge chairs for two?” She motioned toward a wrought-iron recliner, then shook her head. “No, too metal-y, isn’t it? You want something more inviting.”

“You have a balcony, not a courtyard, yes? Then these will be too big.” She waved away the faux-wicker sectionals plumped with water-resistant pillows. “I have a balcony too. So I know it’s important to get furniture that fits the space.”

“Actually,” she paused, turning toward me, “My boyfriend and I just moved in together. You know how it is, right?” She grinned. “Believe me, I love him heaps—but it’s been the worst six months of my life!” Becky laughed, a big, wholesome laugh, as if the worst months of her life were something quite jolly.

“You won’t believe what he said to me last week about the hoovering.” She leaned in, confiding, “he literally said, ‘Isn’t that women’s work?’”

“Can you believe the cheek? Truth is, he is kind of a mummy’s boy.” She slapped a chair cushion as she went on. “So, I said to him, ‘You and me, we’re going to have a chat, straightaway!’”

“Do you think that was the right thing to do?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “My mum told me: ‘You start the way you want to finish!’”

“Sometimes,” she smiled as she walked, her gaze softening, “in the morning, I sit out on the balcony, and I look out over all the trees, and I wonder… Which one am I going to throw his body onto?”

“Ha!” Becky stopped in front of a beanbag approximately the size of a compact car. “It would feel so good! You know what I mean?” She gestured toward the oversized bean bag. “Look here, this is perfect, no? It’s like a giant nest. You and your husband could sit in it together!” The smile on her face was sincere.

In my head, I could hear the kookaburras laughing.