Long before Currawong Publishing had a name, I was drawn to the currawong by its call.

There is something hauntingly beautiful about it — loud, ringing and unmistakably Australian. It carries across the landscape, often before you ever see the bird itself. I would hear it and stop to listen.

I later came to appreciate that birds have held profound places within the many First Nations cultures of Australia for countless generations — woven into story, song, ecological knowledge and relationships with Country. Those traditions and their particular meanings belong to the communities from which they come, but learning of this much older relationship with Australia’s birdlife deepened my own respect for the currawong and the land it inhabits.

Then the currawong became personal.

A pair had built a nest in my backyard and were raising a fledgling when the young bird was attacked by a territorial magpie. I found it injured and took it to a wildlife vet, but sadly, it did not survive.

What stayed with me most was watching its mother afterwards, searching for her little one.

When I began thinking about a name for my publishing business, Currawong Publishing came to me naturally. In part, it was a way of remembering that small life. But the more I considered the bird and its nest, the more meaning the name seemed to hold.

A currawong’s nest is built from gathered sticks, lined with softer material to shelter the next generation. To me, it became an image of the family tree itself — pieces left by those who came before us, gathered together to form part of the place from which another generation can grow.

The fallen twigs of the past become part of the nest of the future.

That idea sits at the heart of Currawong Publishing.

Family histories contain both light and darkness. There are successes and failures, dangers and discoveries, grief and joy. Those who came before us endured their own uncertain seasons, and yet something of their lives travelled forward.

The story in my backyard did too.

The currawong pair remained, and I have since watched them raise more young. The territorial magpie still makes the occasional appearance. Their story continues through danger and survival, loss and renewal — much as family stories have always done.

Perhaps that is why the currawong feels so right.

Its call first made me listen.
Its loss made me care.
Its nest made me think about where we come from.
And watching another generation take flight reminded me why we preserve what came before.

Currawong Publishing gathers those scattered twigs — old stories, new stories, research, memories and imagination — and makes something from them for the generation that follows.