The kingfisher and the splash: what you can't force comes in the stillness

Some things only come when you stop chasing them. I learned that on a spring morning by the water — with a camera in my hand that was no use to me, and a sound that changed everything: a splash.

The morning I tried to force it

It was a sunny spring morning on the river Erft. I was following one of the old side-arms — surprisingly full of water — and stopped because a spectacle opened up in front of me that I have never seen since: a whole troop of birds hunting insects right above the surface of the water. I sat down on the bank to watch and to photograph it.

I failed. The birds were too fast, too unpredictable. I lifted the camera, turned, aimed, pressed the shutter — and in the end had nothing but blur. The more I wanted it, the less I got.

Eventually I gave up and simply sat there. Still.

And that is exactly when I heard it: a splash, as if someone had thrown a stone into the water. I looked — and there he was, enthroned on a branch reaching out over the side-arm. The kingfisher. His hunt had failed too. And because he felt discovered by me, he tried his luck a little further off — so I got to see his bold dive a second time.

The loveliest thing about that morning wasn’t the bird alone. It was that he came after I had stopped looking for him.

The others walked past — and saw nothing

While I sat there, cyclists and walkers passed behind me. Not a single one noticed the kingfisher. They were in motion, in their thoughts, in the next appointment. The flash of blue over the water simply wasn’t there for them — not because he was hiding, but because they were in a hurry.

That is the quiet lesson of that morning: whoever rushes walks past the wonder. Not out of malice, not out of foolishness — simply because a mind that is already at the next step can no longer see the now.

I only sat still because I had failed first. My forcing had run itself into the ground. And in exactly that pause, in that letting-go, my sight opened.

What this has to do with your life

Perhaps you know this chasing. You want something to finally work out — a decision, an answer, a good feeling. And the tighter you grip, the more it slips away. Like a sharp photo of a bird that’s too fast.

There are things that cannot be forced. Clarity is one of them. Calm is one of them. Sometimes even the solution to a problem you’ve been turning over for weeks. They don’t come when you hunt them. They come in the pause you allow yourself after you let go of the grasping.

This isn’t giving up in the sense of resignation. It’s a different kind of giving up: releasing the clench. You stop beating the river — and sit down on the bank.

Your mini-exercise for today

Find one single moment today where you would normally rush on — at the red light, in the queue, while the kettle boils. And then deliberately do: nothing.

No phone. No planning. No “just quickly”. Two minutes of only looking, breathing, being there. Notice what you perceive when you’re not in motion — a sound, a light, a thought that otherwise never shows itself.

You’re practising exactly what gave me the kingfisher: growing still instead of grasping. And you’ll be surprised what is suddenly there once you stop searching for it.

Frequently asked questions

I can’t just “grow still” — my head never stops racing. Then you’re like most people — and like me on that morning, before I gave up. Stillness doesn’t mean the thoughts disappear. It only means: you stop grasping. You don’t have to empty your head. It’s enough to want to force nothing for two minutes. The rest comes on its own.

Isn’t this just doing nothing — a waste of time? From the outside it looks like doing nothing. But it’s the opposite of idling: you switch from doing to perceiving. And the better decisions come from perceiving — not from frantic paddling onward. Those two minutes on the bank were the most valuable of the whole morning.

How do I start when I’m permanently wired? Small. Not half an hour of meditation, not a weekend of silence. One single moment a day where you deliberately don’t rush on. One moment becomes more over time — but the first is the most important.

Do I have to go out into nature for this? No. Nature makes it easier, because it wants nothing from you — that’s why I tell these stories. But you can grow still anywhere: in the kitchen, in the car before the driveway, at the window. The place is secondary. It’s about the stopping, not the scenery.

“This piece speaks straight to my soul, and I think it’s extremely well written. A heartfelt compliment for something so beautiful!”

— Barbara, newsletter reader

Where to go from here

If you know the feeling of constantly grasping and still never arriving, then that is a good place to start a conversation. In my free first conversation we look at it together — about 30 minutes, at your own pace, without you having to force anything.

And for the moments in between, when your head won’t settle: my Emergency Kit gives you five instant helps to reach for. It’s free, and you can open it for the first time tonight.

A kingfisher gave me one last story — on a winter morning in the snow, when he flew ahead of me like a blue jewel. I’ll tell you that one in the next post.