The Stillness That Does Not Flinch
There is a strange joy in sitting at the eye of a storm.
Not the Hollywood joy. Not triumph, or dopamine, or the delusional rush of “everything will be okay.” No, this joy is harder to name. It doesn’t rise with achievement or descend with failure. It waits. Watches. And then roots.
It’s the joy of knowing the world can burn, and you’ll still be here when the smoke clears.
I am sitting on my parents’ deck. Rain is falling. Birds are arguing about who gets the good branch. And inside, two people who have buried businesses, lawsuits, betrayal, friends, cancer, and hope — are making coffee.
This isn’t a metaphor. It’s a practice.
Because when you’ve lived long enough, and lost enough, and rebuilt more than once, you start to notice that the world doesn’t care what you built. It cares what you can hold.
And some people were born to hold more.
Don and Carolyn Beveridge didn’t build an empire. They built a table.
Not a business. Not a legacy. A table.
It started in the dirt in Cypress Hills, Saskatchewan. It survived the transits of continents and careers. It outlasted courtrooms, RM councils, and more than one crooked partner. And now it sits quietly in Watrous, where people keep arriving, not because of marketing — but because they can breathe here.
That’s the part nobody teaches you.
You can’t scale breathability on Instagram. You can’t productize presence. You can’t pitch safety.
But you can be it.
Last week, a friend came to visit. Then he died, suddenly, unexpectedly. So we held space.
Then another friend came. He’d just gone through losing a business, his parents, and his purpose. Dad invited him in. He’s here. 10 days later he bought a house. Started a new business. Moving forward. I’m Sherlock’s quiet brother now. Apparently. -M
A few days later, a woman I care about was assaulted by a rent-a-cop with too much ego and too little oversight. Now we’re helping to manage the legal process, while raising kids, running companies, and watching our town try to grow up without collapsing.
If you've been following the stories, the Stillman play is going to get very interesting this week too lol.
That's a typical week around here. My parents, their kids, and grandkids, and friends, and neighbours, and business, and music, and life, and anything you can imagine. People show up from all over the world. My brother runs a recording studio here, and most of the artists and musicians want to stay here while they record. People come and stay for a coffee, or a day, a week, a month, a year. People have stayed for a decade with them off and on. You never know if there will be 5 people for dinner, or 30. It's amazing to get to be here and just watch as people move through the space.
Also, I started three companies this month. This is the fun stuff :)
Good Hands — originally for Greig, but now I run it. Spinning it up so it will support him.
Sonovor — to create revenue space for my parents, and others like them. Music, but it works for art, and business, and people, too.
Ben Beveridge
Arthur Investigations — with Davin, who sees angles most people miss. I started out just answering questions, and helping out. Now, I am in full support, and this business will capture market share and deliver results. *Davin has an intellectual gear that is beyond me. It's fun to watch, and wonder. :)
Ben Beveridge
And... because some asshole who thinks he's a developer tried to belittle my Mom, I’m building a 100-unit senior living complex. The mayor wants it. Council is in. Land is moving. I’m doing it. Because I can.
I'm writing through all of this. And writing songs. Writing more music the last month, than the last ten years. And got a solid compliment from my brother :)
There is a joy in this.
Not the joy of peace. The joy of pressure survived.
You don’t find it in a cabin with a journal. You don’t meditate your way to it. You earn it in the field. You earn it by watching the storm, and not flinching.
This isn’t stoicism as detachment. It’s sovereignty as service.
It’s what happens when you stop trying to control the weather — and build a house that can hold the wind.
I’ve seen people try to skip this part. They optimize. They hire mindset coaches. They sign up for dopamine hacks and “executive reset” weekends. And when the world collapses again, they look confused. As if the storm is unfair.
The storm is not unfair. It’s the test.
You don't pass by avoiding it. You pass by enduring it, and remaining useful.
Don doesn’t talk much about pain. But he knows every inch of it. You can see it in the way he walks. In the way he puts his boots on before daylight. In the way he looks at people like puzzles, not problems.
Carolyn doesn’t hide from grief. She wears it like a scarf. Light enough to move with, heavy enough to remind you it’s there.
Together, they have built a gravitational field. Not out of strategy. Not out of story. Out of survival.
And people come.
They come when their marriages fail. When their kids run away. When their faith breaks. When they don’t know if they’re crazy, or just awake. And somehow, by the end of a cup of coffee, the world feels possible again.
That’s the real magic.
Not fixing people. Holding them, while they fix themselves.
This table does not demand answers. It doesn’t even ask for questions. It just exists. Quietly. Patiently. Waiting for someone to need it.
And they always do.
The world has speed, but it lacks stillness. It has ambition, but no aim. Everyone is building something... but few know why. So they burn out, blow up, and break down.
And then they come here.
To a house in the trees. In a town that most maps skip. Where a cowboy and a city girl once bet their lives on something nobody could see.
Now people see it. Because now it’s unavoidable.
It’s not a brand. It’s not a system. It’s not a pitch deck.
It’s presence. And you can’t fake that.
This is not a retreat. It’s not an escape. It’s not a refuge for the fragile.
It’s a forge.
Because when you sit long enough in the presence of people who have survived everything, your excuses die. Your trauma doesn’t disappear... it just stops being the lead actor.
You start to see your life for what it is. Not a sentence. Not a punishment. Not a project.
A place.
And like this deck I’m sitting on, it’s meant to hold others.
Not carry them. Not solve them. Hold them.
That’s the joy.
To live in a world you don’t control, and choose to build something anyway.
To bury your friends, catch your breath, start again, write songs, feed the kids, stand in court, launch ventures, hold space, and watch the birds argue about breakfast, all in the same week.
Not because you’re strong.
Because you’re sovereign.
You can stand.
And that’s what this place makes. Not influencers. Not operators. Not heroes.
Humans. Who remember how to hold.
So if you’re spinning — stop in.
If you’re winning — share the story!
If you’re burning out, breaking down, or building back — sit.
Not because we have what you need. But because you already do.
And sometimes, you just need a table where you can set it down.
The coffee is on. The door is open. The storm is fine.
Come sit with us.
You’re home now.