This week, I took part in a special experience at Studio Why: a virtual simulation called VCR (Virtual Conflict Resolution), where we were invited to look at Earth from space. From that quiet, distant vantage point, I saw our planet not as divided, noisy, or overwhelmed—but as one whole, luminous sphere. A delicate, moving, breathing system suspended in vast darkness.
Up there, borders vanish. The constant buzz of human life fades. No noise. No borders. No conflict of any kind. Just our planet Earth—alive with movement, cloud patterns, oceans, forests, the soft curve of land and sea.
From that distance, you wouldn’t guess how much strain this planet is under. You can’t see greenhouse gasses, rising temperatures, melting ice, desertification.
What you do see is beauty. Fragility. The paper-thin layer of the atmosphere that protects all life here. You see this small colourful marble in vast darkness, a living system. A place where everything and everybody is one; no winners or losers.
And yet we know: that system is under pressure. This week we learned that yet another planetary boundary is about to be crossed: the acidity of our oceans is reaching a dangerous threshold—one that puts marine life, and the balance of life itself, at risk.
This contrast – between what we see and what we know – really moved something in me, deepening awareness. It reminded me of the power of the pause and how much we miss when we stay caught in the noise. When we stay trapped in the distraction and numbing of so many things that want our attention.
A Different Kind of Listening
Floating in that stillness, I felt an invitation to pause. Not to withdraw, but to listen in a different way. To let go of urgency and allow presence. To be still enough to feel connected. Still enough to remember what we already know, deep down.
Stillness as a Practice
In a world that often equates speed with progress, stillness is easy to dismiss. But for me, stillness is not a break from life—it’s the foundation of how I live and lead, my life’s work. It brings me back to what matters. It helps me see clearly when the path feels crowded or unclear.
Stillness reconnects me with something older than strategy—something wiser. It’s what reveals truth when decisions feel overwhelming. Stillness reconnects me with a primordial wisdom we’ve lost along the way—a wisdom that knows we are not separate from Earth, but part of her living fabric.
When I slow down, I stop reacting to the surface ripples and begin to sense what moves underneath. That deeper current—that’s where clarity lives. That’s where I find the energy to move in alignment, not just in response. In stillness, I remember: I don’t need to do it all. I need to do what is mine to do—with presence, with care.
Learning from Nature
Stillness also helps me observe. And in observing nature, I see how life moves: not with force, but with rhythm. How during spring every living being springs back to life, taking turns – not all at once, all at their own pace. Life finds balance not through control, but through relationship.
There’s deep intelligence in the way nature works. And in our efforts to “solve” the climate crisis, at times I wonder – are we at risk of sometimes forgetting that? Even with the best intentions, there’s a risk of thinking we know better—of pushing an action too hard, too fast. But nature doesn’t need fixing. It needs space to restore itself, to regenerate. The Ojibwe in Michigan helped me understand that it needs us all to be in relationship—with humility and respect.
A Different Kind of Leadership
What I carry with me from this week is more than a striking view of Earth. It’s a reminder. A call to lead from a different place – not from urgency alone, but from presence. Not from knowing it all, but from listening deeply. Valuing the questions considerably more than the answers.
What if stillness isn’t slowing us down? What if it’s what helps us move forward more wisely?
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