A few years ago, I watched a documentary about the December 2004 tsunami in the Indian Ocean. As many may recall, the tsunami caused tremendous loss of life and property. Witnessing the destruction unfold in real time through video footage gave the tragedy a sense of immediacy. I felt as if I were there with the survivors, trapped in an upper-floor house or hotel, hoping that the floodwaters wouldn’t rise any higher and sweep us away.
One scene in particular left a lasting impression on me. Dark, muddy water surged through the streets of a small village, sweeping away everything in its path that wasn’t anchored to the ground. Houses collapsed, cars were tossed around like toys, and those unfortunate enough to be caught in the flood struggled for survival amid the debris-filled, tumultuous water. Amid the chaos, a man and a woman clung desperately to a broken tree, searching frantically for something more stable to hold onto, hoping for a chance of escape.
As the couple fought to survive, my attention was drawn to two birds perched calmly on a power line directly above the disaster. The contrast between the two scenes was striking. The birds, seemingly unaware of the devastation unfolding below them, surveyed the scene, determined that there was no threat to them, and continued their peaceful pause. Meanwhile, the human struggle below continued unabated.
I have never been able to forget the image of those two birds. Not because it explained anything, but because of what it stirred. Even while watching destruction unfold, something in me noticed the contrast. The difference between being caught in the current and being held in stillness.
Most of us have known moments like that, even if we’ve never named them. Times when life was loud, chaotic, or painful, and yet something within us felt strangely untouched. The body was tense. The situation was real. But beneath it all, there was a steadiness that didn’t seem to rise or fall with events.
You may recognize it in small ways. A pause after bad news, a breath taken without effort, a brief sense of perspective when everything else feels overwhelming. These moments don’t remove us from life’s storms, but they hint that not everything we are is swept up in them.
I don’t know if this inner stillness can be fully described, or if it needs to be. What I do know is that noticing it, even briefly, changes how we move through difficulty. Like the birds above the flood, it doesn’t deny the chaos below. It simply isn’t carried by it.
