The Veranda View

Ian`s veranda view

Finding Stillness in a World on Edge

I am currently sitting on my veranda, tucked away in the wooded embrace of Praia Vermelha do Sul in Ubatuba. The beach is only 450m away and the air is thick with the scent of blooming tropical flowers, aromatic woody resin and damp earth. Yet the noise is of a much older, kinder variety.

The cicadas are in full chorus today, a shimmering wall of sound as they call for their mates. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing energy that feels like the heartbeat of the forest itself.

I’ve been honoured by two specific guests this morning.

First of all, the Tiê Sangue (Brazilian Tanager): Its plumage is a red so intense it looks like a stray spark of fire against the deep green foliage.

Then came the Great Kiskadee. Known here as the Bem-te-vi. Its bright yellow breast catches the light, but it’s the call that commands attention. A loud, three-note phrase that gives it its name: ‘Bem-te-vi!’ literally, ‘I saw you well!’

There is something humbling about being seen by nature. It demands you stay present.

This stillness feels like a world away from the headlines. As I sit here, it is difficult to reconcile the rustle of trees with the jagged reality of the Ukraine-Russia conflict, or the escalating tensions involving Israel, the US, and Iran. The ripples of these wars, economic instability, the rise in the cost of living, and the sheer human toll, reach every corner of the globe, even here.

It is easy to mistake distance for immunity, to feel safe because I am surrounded by birdsong instead of sirens. But being far removed isn’t the same as being disconnected; the world's tremors still reach these woods.

Seeing the beauty of the Tiê Sangue reminds me of what is at stake when the world chooses destruction over preservation.

Just as the cicadas rely on the health of this forest, our global stability relies on a fragile web of diplomacy and humanity. When one part of the world suffers, the financial effect is just a symptom of a deeper, collective wound.

The Bem-te-vi screams "I saw you." Perhaps that is our most quiet, vital duty to those caught in conflict. To continue to look, to continue to acknowledge their reality, and to refuse the comfort of forgetting.

The peace of Ubatuba is a gift, but it is also a reminder. We can be far removed in distance, but we must remain close in spirit. We cannot forget the world beyond the trees, and honestly, we shouldn't.

As the Bem-te-vi takes flight, leaving only the echo of its "I saw you" behind, I find myself wondering: In the safety of our own silences, how do we choose to look at the world’s noise? Is our peace a wall we build to keep the suffering out, or is it a lens we use to see the value of human life more clearly?

The sun begins its descent now, filtering through the dense canopy in long, golden shafts of light. This is the optic of the forest, where light must fight through layers of shadow just to touch the ground.

Maybe our consciousness should work in the same way. We must allow the light of these peaceful moments to filter down through the heavy shadows of global conflict. We don’t look away because the light is beautiful; we look harder because the light reminds us exactly what the shadows are trying to hide.

In the end, to "see well" is not just to notice the bird on the branch, but to recognize the humanity of those we will never meet, across oceans we have yet to cross.