Latest / Style, Actually: Fashion, Beauty & Personal Style / Learning to Identify Birds by Their Calls During Breakfast | Style, Actually
Transcript
- I used to think my morning silence was empty, until I realized it was actually a conversation I was too busy to hear. Let’s breathe into that for a second. You know that moment right after you pour your coffee? The one where the house is still settling, and the light is just starting to cut through the blinds in those long, dusty beams. For years, I treated this time as a gap between sleep and the rest of my day. A buffer zone. I’d scroll through emails before my feet even touched the floor, letting the world rush in through the screen while I stood there, half-awake, holding a mug that was already getting cold. It wasn’t really breakfast. It was damage control. I was trying to outrun the day before it had even begun. But lately, something shifted. And it didn’t happen with a grand gesture or a new resolution. It happened because I stopped looking down. I started looking out. Specifically, at the oak tree in our backyard. You know the one—it’s got that twisted branch that always looks like it’s reaching for something it can’t quite grasp. Last Tuesday, instead of checking my phone, I just sat at the kitchen table and listened. Really listened. Not the passive kind of listening where you’re waiting for someone to talk over you, but active, hungry listening. And that’s when I heard it. A sharp, metallic trill. Chirp-chirp-trip. It wasn’t random noise. It was a signature. It was a name. Let’s talk about what we’re missing when we treat nature as background wallpaper. We walk past fields, past trees, past skies that are performing daily miracles of color, and we see nothing more than scenery. But birds, especially in the early morning, are broadcasting their lives in high definition. They aren’t just making sound; they are communicating territory, partnership, alarm, and joy. When you learn to identify them by their calls, you stop seeing a blur of feathers and start seeing individuals. You start recognizing personalities. I remember spending my twenties in those dusty museum basements, restoring fragile garments from centuries ago. I learned to listen to the fabric. I could tell you if a silk dress had been worn by a dancer or a queen based on the wear patterns, the tension in the threads. It was emotional archaeology. I felt the history of the person who wore it. Listening to birds is exactly the same practice, just with different senses. You are listening to the history of the season. You are hearing the resilience of life continuing despite the concrete, despite the chaos, despite us. When you identify a bird by its call, you are acknowledging its existence. And being acknowledged, even by a small sparrow, is a profound act of validation. Here is the thing about bluebirds. They are deceptively simple. You see the flash of electric blue, and you think, 'Ah, yes, bluebird.' But if you only look, you miss the soul of the creature. The Eastern Bluebird has a call that sounds like a question mark drawn in air. 'Tsee-ee-tu.' It’s soft, almost hesitant, like it’s afraid to be too loud. I spent an entire week just tracking that sound. I’d sit with my coffee, close my eyes, and wait for that specific frequency. When I finally saw the bird that made the sound, it changed everything. It wasn’t just a blue dot. It was a creature with intense, dark eyes, standing on a fence post, surveying its domain with a quiet dignity that mirrored how I want to carry myself through my own days. I realized I was projecting my need for clarity onto this tiny, singing animal. But the bird didn’t care about my clarity. It cared about its worm, its nest, its mate. Style is just confidence made visible, and that bird was living its style without apology. It wasn’t trying to be a robin or a crow. It was fully, unapologetically itself. And in that recognition, I found a strange comfort. If a bird can claim its space with such certainty, maybe I don’t need to shout to be seen either. Then there’s the Northern Cardinal. Oh, the cardinal. That red flare against the gray winter sky is iconic, sure. But the sound? The sound is a burst of energy. 'Cheer-cheer-cheer!' or sometimes a harsh 'chuck-will’s-widow' variant depending on the region, but usually, it’s bright and brassy. It cuts through the fog. I love cardinals because they remind me of the women in my life who speak up. Who take up space. Who refuse to be muted. When I first learned to distinguish the cardinal’s call from the jay’s cackle, I felt a surge of pride. It felt like learning a secret language. It felt like insider knowledge. But here is the gentle correction I offer you: don’t let this become another metric of your worth. Don’t let identifying thirty species become a source of anxiety if you only know three. The goal isn’t perfection. The goal is presence. The cardinal doesn’t sing because it wants to win a competition. It sings because it is alive, and it wants to say so. When you hear that bright note, let it punctuate your morning. Let it remind you that your voice matters, even if it’s just a whisper. Even if it’s just for yourself. I want to ask you a question that might feel silly at first. What does this fabric feel like in your soul? I mean that metaphorically. Think about the routine of your mornings. Is it stiff? Is it fraying at the edges? Or is it soft, worn-in, comfortable? Learning to listen to birds is a way of softening the edges of your day. It introduces texture. In my line of work, I’ve seen countless women come to me feeling trapped by their wardrobes, trapped by expectations, trapped by the idea that they must perform productivity every single second. We treat our time like it’s a resource to be mined, not a landscape to be walked through. But when you sit with your breakfast and wait for the thrush’s flute-like song, you are reclaiming that landscape. You are saying, 'This hour belongs to me. This attention belongs to me.' It’s a radical act of self-care. It’s not about adding another task to your list. It’s about subtracting the noise so you can hear what’s already there. The world is speaking to you constantly. You just have to tune the dial. So, here is my invitation to you. Tomorrow morning, do not check your phone for the first ten minutes. Keep it in the other room. Put your coffee in your favorite mug—the one with the chip on the rim that you love anyway—and sit by a window. Or go outside if you can. Close your eyes for two minutes. Just listen. Don’t worry about knowing the names yet. Just notice the rhythm. Is it staccato? Melodic? Urgent? Quiet? Notice how the sounds layer over each other. Notice how the wind moves through the leaves, creating a rustle that accompanies the chorus. This is not a test. There is no grade. There is only the experience of being awake in a living world. Over time, you will start to recognize the voices. You’ll learn that the chickadee is the gossip of the yard, quick and chatty. You’ll learn that the owl, though rare at dawn, carries a weight of ancient wisdom in its low hoot. Each bird teaches you something about patience, about timing, about the beauty of distinct voices in a crowded choir. And if you can’t find a bird? That’s okay too. Listen to the refrigerator hum. Listen to the traffic far away. Listen to your own breath. The practice is in the noticing. The practice is in the return to the present. Because the present is where life happens. Not in the inbox. Not in the future tense. Here. Now. With the coffee in your hand and the sky above you. Thank you for sitting with me today. For choosing to listen, rather than just hear. I’m Claudia Baxter, and I’ll leave you with this: may your mornings be full of clear signals and soft silences. Take good care of yourself, and your closet, and your heart. Until next time.