Decisions of a Dilettante Divabird are numerous and complex. There are different definitions for the word 'dilettante', but I chose the "lover of the arts" and "someone who dabbles in a bit of everything". Hence the problem, who am I today and what, of all the various interests I have, will catch my fancy today. And if you've noticed a lot of "I's", well, divas are a bit self-obsessive. That being said, in a scientific world of birding, the pressure is on to know everything about everything. Not just identifying birds correctly by visuals, now one must also know the songs, calls, even chip notes. Not to mention the distribution of the avifauna, it's behaviour, it's year and color phases, what it eats, what it's crap looks like (yes, I've seen the shirt), it's nests, it's eggs, it's Latin name, it's historical names and distributions, where it summers and winters, and I know once I was told that it would be good if I knew the soil content of the plants it eats. Really. Really.
I will never ever ever at this later stage in my life be more than a dilettante divabird, having a brain full of books, films, history, fashion, and the other detrious that needs a good defragging in my noodle. I frequently am surrounded by insanely talented and knowledgable birders and scientists, and formerly beat myself up for my lassitude and reluctance to bird in 100+ weather, common where I live in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas. Nor do I care for mosquitoes or frigid birding. I have about a 50 degree span of birdability. When it falls outside that range, my thoughts stray to French cinema, decorating our silly church we live in, or READING great books about birding.
.I took to the birds 15 years ago, after a fallout in Laguna Vista and my fury about not knowing a single bird made me start reading the sweet Golden Guide! Fine arts were always my forte, so this nightly reading of field guides was so new and required a different part of my brain. Reading, reading, yet when I went out alone, not a single bird could I ID for sure. Until one morning, when a raptor sat on a pole long enough to be my first love....the then Black-Shouldered Kite, with it's glowing red eyes! Then I met my first "real birder", Gary Waggerman, out on a dove site in Rangerville. He laughed when I asked if he was a real birdwatcher! I miss Gary. He told me there were tons of birdwatchers around here, I just had to find them. And I did. The nicest people I have had the pleasure to meet with a passion for birds. There is something terrific about them all. Benton Basham, my guru. Red and Louise Gambell, mated and happy for life. I love to meet the hard core birders whose tongues drip with the honey of Latin, whose glinty eyes and supersharp ears provide the information to tick off a list of everything going on in a mile circle (or more?). Birders are fascinating, all of them, old, young, good, bad, even those who dance and sing Karioke (especially them!). Letting me admire your behavior, preening, and intelligence, it's all good with me. Everyone needs an audience and I raise my hand to tell you that I am here with my cell phone in the air, waving it high. And maybe, maybe, my brain will let more birding knowledge in, little by little. Even though I worry what might be sacrificed....will I have to lose to learn? Advise me, birdgurus!
