Andrew Miller: The routine of seasons and our ‘unbelievably’ lucky country

It’s the time of year when we welcome the best season, with its cooler, darker mornings and shy-at-first clouds shooed in by fresh ocean winds.

The summer grasps for attention as it leaves, talking big about 34C, but we all know those peaks will fade quickly after dark and we have months ahead now to walk outside without burning.

It’s the season when immigrant species of trees start disrobing to let more light into the parks, and the dogs, ignoring rumours of human wars, catch up on the smell of one another with more energy than they had on sweltering summer days. And here comes the cleansing rain, to bring renewal.

With all that excitement, the calendar also says another kerbside bulk rubbish collection is coming around. Bring out your dead.

The quarterly trash festival, when formerly prized acquisitions are abandoned in all their worthless shame, is difficult to explain to young children.

“So, we can just throw things out the front?”

“Well not just anything, only certain items. No mattresses, for example” I replied.

“There’s mattresses everywhere,” she pointed out.

“Well, that might be more of a guideline than a rule,” I shrug. She eyes me acutely, already suspicious that all my fatherly rules are an arbitrary house of cards.

The adult world in its entirety, including the sovereignty of its nation states and their democratic institutions, has perhaps been more of a vibe all along.

Stories to help us sleep on hot, cloudless nights, while the white-ants eat the framework.

The hoarder cars started sniffing around early in the morning, torches shining from the windows.

This is the pinnacle of recycling.

Occasionally the collection of domestic exhibits requires curation regarding provenance.

“’Scuse me mate, does that telly work?” asked the old van-man as I placed the TV on the verge.

“Yep,” I said.

“Why are you chucking it out then?” he logically enquired.

“I have an even flatter one now.

It’s 4K apparently, but my eyes are 2K at best, I think.”

My voice trailed off into uncertainty.

He looked sceptical, but there is usually no harm in picking up the cards that life deals.

The real skill is in deciding what to throw away.

He loaded it up.

Default optimism, covered with the hide of a rhino, forms a good part of the mythological Australian character.

An intrusive neighbour — there’s one on every street — was one of those wrong-font real estate agents who never seem to be selling any property other than their own.

He dropped in to offload his fridge magnet, so I could admire his face every morning, and to complain that some discarded windsurfing gear he had picked up from my verge was broken when he got it home.

Firstly, I told him, there’s no warranty on kerbside rubbish, and secondly it was not even mine but had been dumped there by someone else.

None of that seemed interesting to him, he just wanted to complain. Is that all we need sometimes, intimacy through conflict?

Later I bumped into a medical friend, who started our brief shopping centre interaction with “you know the problem with you, Andrew?” Naturally I was keen to find out before getting to the supermarket.

“You don’t really get anything done, because you have no moral courage.”

Terrific.

I pondered this while squeezing the nectarines — good fruit being one of the other delights of the season. Is it enough to complain about injustices without sacrificing the comforts of the life we have built? Can we simply share ideas about values, and bear witness, or must we sacrifice more?

Perhaps there are seasons for both. It’s seems reasonable to enjoy our good fortunes, but the day will come for taking out the trash.

Our job during the good times is to ensure we take nothing for granted, and that we have leaders with the right values running our unbelievably lucky country, for when the storms arrive.

Happy autumn.

Andrew Miller is an anaesthetist and director of the Federal AMA