My last twenty five years have been lived in a little cottage nestled into a steeply sloping, tree filled valley on Waiheke Island. In those early days there were not as many houses and you could look out from the verandah and see nothing but native bush. On a new moon, the valley would be wrapped in darkness, no lights from other houses to be seen. On a full moon, the silhouette of the native bush against the milky light of the moon.

On stormy nights, the electricity would inevitably fail for the rest of the night meaning candles and cooking dinner on the pot belly. On still nights, it was darkness, silence and the sound of a lonely Morepork. All our water we had to collect from the rain that fell on our roof. The sound of rain was something I came to love. In that quiet valley of few houses and no traffic, my awareness of sound - rain on a tin roof, different strengths of rain on vegetation, Ruru on a quiet night - these etched

their way into my consciousness.

In my early thirties I became unwell and for many months I spent recuperating on my verandah. This is the time where the birds in the valley really captured my attention. I was very lucky to have the time to look and listen, and began to recognise routines and relationships among the birds in the valley - even their individual personalities! I was hooked. From then on, birds have captivated and intrigued me. Reading journal entries from people in the late 1800’s describing the remarkable sounds of birds that I had never heard of and that we will never hear or see, had a deep effect on me. I needed to find a way of bringing them back into our thinking. Honouring them in some way which enables us to imagine them as living, singing individuals to complement the stuffed specimens in our museums.