☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil
Morning light slips across the conference room wall and lands on three small framed prints. Three cartoon monkeys, one with covered eyes, one with covered ears, one with covered mouth. The artwork hangs beside a whiteboard, a quiet joke from some past training. Chairs sit in a loose circle. A stack of agendas waits on the table. The building hums with vents, elevators, distant footsteps. Inside this room, everything holds its breath.
A woman settles into one of the chairs. A notebook rests on her lap, pen aligned along the spiral edge. Coffee cools near her feet. Her posture looks calm. Inside, thoughts move in steady currents. Today’s meeting carries a subject the team has avoided for weeks, an undercurrent of unspoken friction and subtle harm that everyone feels but rarely names.
Her eyes drift back to the three prints. The old phrase rises with them. The message she grew up hearing. Keep your eyes on your work, ignore what disturbs, stay pleasant, stay quiet. As a younger woman, she followed that rule like an unspoken oath. It kept her out of arguments. It also kept her silent when truth pressed against her ribs.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
On the agenda in her lap, a line reads, “Recent concerns and team culture.” Polite words for the sting of raised voices last week, for the way someone’s face shut down mid sentence, for the silence that followed. People saw the impact. People heard the tone. Conversations in the hallway afterward carried more truth than the room that caused it.
She remembers how her chest tightened that day. How her gaze dropped to her notes as if ink could shield her from discomfort. How her breath stayed shallow until the meeting ended. Later that evening, clarity arrived too late, offering sentences that might have helped if spoken in the moment.
This morning, clarity arrives earlier. Her shoulders feel aware instead of braced. The mind studies the three monkeys again and questions the lesson that once seemed wise.
Maybe seeing clearly is an act of care. Maybe listening fully is a form of courage. Maybe speaking from a steady place can shift a room’s entire direction. These thoughts gather slowly, like chairs being moved into a new formation.
Others drift in and take their places. Laptops open. Pens click. Someone writes the date on the whiteboard. Light conversation floats across the table. Beneath it, something heavier moves, shared and unnamed.
The leader clears their throat. “We need to talk about how things felt last week,” they say. “There has been feedback that our conversations carry more heat than they need.” A few eyes lift, then drop. Someone offers a short laugh to soften the moment. Expressions flicker and vanish.
Her heart picks up pace. Hands rest on the notebook, palms steady. Two familiar pathways appear. One leads back to silence and a polite sentence to keep peace on the surface. The other leads straight into the discomfort, toward words that carry both risk and possibility.
Awareness drops into her body. Breath travels deeper into her ribs. Feet anchor into the carpet. She notices the curve of her spine, the way her jaw prepares to tighten. She loosens it with intention. She allows herself to feel how much she cares about the environment she works in, the culture shaping every conversation.
The leader asks, “How did that meeting land for everyone.” Air stills. People glance at one another. A gentle “It was fine” rises toward her throat. Then something quiet and decisive meets it there.
She chooses to see, not to judge, but to acknowledge truth. She chooses to hear, not in fragments, but in full. She chooses to speak, not to rescue or smooth, but to invite alignment.
Her hand lifts from the notebook. The gesture catches the leader’s eye. “I would like to say something,” she begins, voice steady. “When the disagreement happened last week, I felt my chest tighten. I heard the volume rise and watched someone shrink into silence.” The words come from sensation, not analysis. That changes the tone in the room.
Attention turns toward her, then toward the colleague who had gone quiet. Nobody rushes to contradict her experience, because she speaks from impact instead of accusation. She continues. “I care about this team. I care about the work we share. I want our conversations to leave people feeling strong enough to contribute, even when we disagree.”
The colleague exhales, long and slow. Shoulders soften. When invited to share, their voice starts low and gains steadiness. They describe how the moment felt inside their body, how their thoughts disappeared the instant the tone shifted. Sleep had been light all week. Hearing this brings an ache into the room, and with it, deeper honesty.
The leader listens. Hands loosen around the marker. “I thought I was being direct,” they say. “I see now that my pace and volume created something else.” Rather than defend intent, they begin to inquire about impact. That single pivot opens space. More voices join, sharing what they observed, what they felt, what they hope for in their shared work.
The woman stays present inside her body as the discussion unfolds. Her heart still beats quickly, yet the rhythm feels purposeful. Her vision feels clear. She studies the room without turning away. The proverb on the wall shifts in her mind. It becomes guidance for perception, not avoidance. Turn your sight toward what matters. Listen until understanding forms. Speak to support alignment.
By the end of the meeting, the team adopts a simple practice. During heated moments, anyone can request a brief pause to check impact. Three questions guide the pause. What did we just see. What did we just hear. What effect did we just create. They write the questions on a small card and tape it beside the whiteboard, beneath the monkeys.
Chairs scrape softly as people stand. Small conversations unfold, voices warmer, attention more deliberate. The woman remains seated briefly, watching the prints one more time. They appear less like instructions to stay quiet and more like reminders to choose awareness with intention.
Later, near a window with late afternoon sun on her hands, she opens her notebook. On a fresh page she writes three headings. What I allowed myself to see today. What I truly heard. What I chose to say. Words begin to fill each space. She describes tension in colleagues’ shoulders, courage in a quiet voice, relief in her own body when aligned speech finally rose.
As she closes the notebook, a calm steadiness settles through her. The world still holds sharp edges. Work culture will still require patience to shift. Yet something inside her feels clearer. Seeing, hearing, and speaking have become intentional acts. Each new situation will offer another moment to practice living that way.
Walking out of the building, she passes a glass door and meets her reflection. There is fatigue there, and something gentler beneath it. It looks like a woman learning to trust what her senses reveal and to give those perceptions a voice that honors both truth and care.
The Truth Beneath
Every day offers scenes where awareness must choose between comfort and clarity. When sight turns toward what truly unfolds, when listening becomes complete, when speech rises from a grounded center, culture shifts in small steady ways. The deepest integrity grows where perception, emotion, and language move together, guiding each step toward aligned living.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil
Morning light slips across the conference room wall and lands on three small framed prints. Three cartoon monkeys, one with covered eyes, one with covered ears, one with covered mouth. The artwork hangs beside a whiteboard, a quiet joke from some past training. Chairs sit in a loose circle. A stack of agendas waits on the table. The building hums with vents, elevators, distant footsteps. Inside this room, everything holds its breath.
A woman settles into one of the chairs. A notebook rests on her lap, pen aligned along the spiral edge. Coffee cools near her feet. Her posture looks calm. Inside, thoughts move in steady currents. Today’s meeting carries a subject the team has avoided for weeks, an undercurrent of unspoken friction and subtle harm that everyone feels but rarely names.
Her eyes drift back to the three prints. The old phrase rises with them. The message she grew up hearing. Keep your eyes on your work, ignore what disturbs, stay pleasant, stay quiet. As a younger woman, she followed that rule like an unspoken oath. It kept her out of arguments. It also kept her silent when truth pressed against her ribs.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
On the agenda in her lap, a line reads, “Recent concerns and team culture.” Polite words for the sting of raised voices last week, for the way someone’s face shut down mid sentence, for the silence that followed. People saw the impact. People heard the tone. Conversations in the hallway afterward carried more truth than the room that caused it.
She remembers how her chest tightened that day. How her gaze dropped to her notes as if ink could shield her from discomfort. How her breath stayed shallow until the meeting ended. Later that evening, clarity arrived too late, offering sentences that might have helped if spoken in the moment.
This morning, clarity arrives earlier. Her shoulders feel aware instead of braced. The mind studies the three monkeys again and questions the lesson that once seemed wise.
Maybe seeing clearly is an act of care. Maybe listening fully is a form of courage. Maybe speaking from a steady place can shift a room’s entire direction. These thoughts gather slowly, like chairs being moved into a new formation.
Others drift in and take their places. Laptops open. Pens click. Someone writes the date on the whiteboard. Light conversation floats across the table. Beneath it, something heavier moves, shared and unnamed.
The leader clears their throat. “We need to talk about how things felt last week,” they say. “There has been feedback that our conversations carry more heat than they need.” A few eyes lift, then drop. Someone offers a short laugh to soften the moment. Expressions flicker and vanish.
Her heart picks up pace. Hands rest on the notebook, palms steady. Two familiar pathways appear. One leads back to silence and a polite sentence to keep peace on the surface. The other leads straight into the discomfort, toward words that carry both risk and possibility.
Awareness drops into her body. Breath travels deeper into her ribs. Feet anchor into the carpet. She notices the curve of her spine, the way her jaw prepares to tighten. She loosens it with intention. She allows herself to feel how much she cares about the environment she works in, the culture shaping every conversation.
The leader asks, “How did that meeting land for everyone.” Air stills. People glance at one another. A gentle “It was fine” rises toward her throat. Then something quiet and decisive meets it there.
She chooses to see, not to judge, but to acknowledge truth. She chooses to hear, not in fragments, but in full. She chooses to speak, not to rescue or smooth, but to invite alignment.
Her hand lifts from the notebook. The gesture catches the leader’s eye. “I would like to say something,” she begins, voice steady. “When the disagreement happened last week, I felt my chest tighten. I heard the volume rise and watched someone shrink into silence.” The words come from sensation, not analysis. That changes the tone in the room.
Attention turns toward her, then toward the colleague who had gone quiet. Nobody rushes to contradict her experience, because she speaks from impact instead of accusation. She continues. “I care about this team. I care about the work we share. I want our conversations to leave people feeling strong enough to contribute, even when we disagree.”
The colleague exhales, long and slow. Shoulders soften. When invited to share, their voice starts low and gains steadiness. They describe how the moment felt inside their body, how their thoughts disappeared the instant the tone shifted. Sleep had been light all week. Hearing this brings an ache into the room, and with it, deeper honesty.
The leader listens. Hands loosen around the marker. “I thought I was being direct,” they say. “I see now that my pace and volume created something else.” Rather than defend intent, they begin to inquire about impact. That single pivot opens space. More voices join, sharing what they observed, what they felt, what they hope for in their shared work.
The woman stays present inside her body as the discussion unfolds. Her heart still beats quickly, yet the rhythm feels purposeful. Her vision feels clear. She studies the room without turning away. The proverb on the wall shifts in her mind. It becomes guidance for perception, not avoidance. Turn your sight toward what matters. Listen until understanding forms. Speak to support alignment.
By the end of the meeting, the team adopts a simple practice. During heated moments, anyone can request a brief pause to check impact. Three questions guide the pause. What did we just see. What did we just hear. What effect did we just create. They write the questions on a small card and tape it beside the whiteboard, beneath the monkeys.
Chairs scrape softly as people stand. Small conversations unfold, voices warmer, attention more deliberate. The woman remains seated briefly, watching the prints one more time. They appear less like instructions to stay quiet and more like reminders to choose awareness with intention.
Later, near a window with late afternoon sun on her hands, she opens her notebook. On a fresh page she writes three headings. What I allowed myself to see today. What I truly heard. What I chose to say. Words begin to fill each space. She describes tension in colleagues’ shoulders, courage in a quiet voice, relief in her own body when aligned speech finally rose.
As she closes the notebook, a calm steadiness settles through her. The world still holds sharp edges. Work culture will still require patience to shift. Yet something inside her feels clearer. Seeing, hearing, and speaking have become intentional acts. Each new situation will offer another moment to practice living that way.
Walking out of the building, she passes a glass door and meets her reflection. There is fatigue there, and something gentler beneath it. It looks like a woman learning to trust what her senses reveal and to give those perceptions a voice that honors both truth and care.
The Truth Beneath
Every day offers scenes where awareness must choose between comfort and clarity. When sight turns toward what truly unfolds, when listening becomes complete, when speech rises from a grounded center, culture shifts in small steady ways. The deepest integrity grows where perception, emotion, and language move together, guiding each step toward aligned living.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
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