My spark dog

This week I learned that every birder has a “spark bird.” A spark bird is the bird that sparked their birdy passion. The bird that opened their eyes to birds. It’s the hawk you see carrying a dead squirrel, or the family of sandhill cranes that lets you peacefully pass them by, or the owl that gives you a piercing gaze when you cross the street at night. It’s the bird that makes you understand humans are ants stuck to the ground in a world owned by ancient beings controlling the sky: birds.

I’ve always been a “cat person,” but on the other hand, I’ve long struggled with my sense of self, so am I any “kind of person” at all? I feel so easily moldable. This used to scare me, but more recently, I’ve found it interesting, and that it might not be due to an empty self but a selfness that’s more like a prism, able to reflect and refract whatever it takes in. Unlike Shrek’s onion, there’s no single core once you peel back all the layers; rather it’s more like a pond or a lake, that creates a double sky when still, and ripples when you throw things in, but is filled with life and movement beneath the surface. Or it’s like Schrödinger’s cat, who only becomes fully alive (or fully dead) when someone gazes upon it. Or maybe it’s none of this, and no one will ever be able to describe what a mind is except the mind itself.

Anyway, I might be a “dog person” now.