For six months, I’ve been listening to the birds sing every morning. Sitting in the backyard, reading a book, I often see birds perched on nearby plants, probably curious about my presence. We would size each other up, trying not to move as if we could make time pause as we meet eye to eye—then the bird flies away.
Sometimes, when my cat Novo is around, lying on top of the table, his ears twist and turn toward the music. There was one time when a bird was two meters away from us, and Novo chirped at it, his whiskers quivering in sync with his moving mouth. It was a sight to behold—the bird singing and Novo quietly plotting its end.
These kinds of mornings felt slow as the sun grew hotter and hotter, so we were pushed to go back under the shade of the house, still listening to the birds sing, coming and going about their plans for the day. Still, a serene kind of morning that reminds you there’s a life beyond your own.
Being back in the metro for a week-long stay, and closer to the train station, my mornings felt different—alive but mechanical. I get woken up by the sound of train wheels grinding on metal, its wires whirring in electric noise, and the honking of cars that scream for a busy day ahead. If the bird songs back home felt like lo-fi jazz, the mechanical activity of the city street is synthpop. While synthpop reminds me of the fun and adventurous city vibe, it also gives me the feeling of always rushing on repeat without that space for pause and rest. It sounds fun in my 20s.
But now in my 30s, I’m excited to go home and finally listen to lo-fi jazz in the morning again.
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