Watching the Fish Tank

A Small World at Grandmother's House

When I was young, my grandmother had a small fish tank in the corner of her living room. I could watch the fish swimming slowly through the clear glass for hours without noticing time passing. The way their fins created ripples in the water and bubbles rose to the surface felt like peering into a tiny universe.

The tank wasn't very large—maybe about the length of my arm back then. But to me, it was an infinite world. Two goldfish with a reddish tint and one black fish moved leisurely, each following their own rhythm throughout the day. The bottom was lined with colorful pebbles in shades of blue, green, and white, and there was a small plastic castle decoration that I thought was the most magnificent structure.

I would sit cross-legged on the floor in front of that tank, my face pressed close to the glass. Sometimes I'd tap gently on the side, wondering if the fish could see me as clearly as I could see them. My grandmother would bring me a small cushion to sit on, saying the floor was too cold. She never told me to go play outside or watch TV instead. She understood that this was my way of playing.

I learned later that overfeeding was one of the most common mistakes in fish keeping, but back then, I just thought my grandmother knew everything about taking care of living things. She probably did.

The Colorful Fish at the Dentist's Office

The dentist's office was always a scary place. The sound of machinery, the white corridors, the smell of disinfectant—everything made me tense. The waiting room had hard plastic chairs that squeaked when you moved, and the receptionist's phone kept ringing.

But the large fish tank near the entrance was an exception. It was completely different from my grandmother's tank. Here lived big, vibrant tropical fish—the kind I'd only seen in picture books or on educational posters. Blue, yellow, orange, and red fish gliding between coral structures and swaying plants looked like underwater scenes from nature documentaries.

While waiting for my appointment, staring at the tank made my fear gradually fade. I'd pick a favorite fish and follow it with my eyes. A striped fish that looked like it was wearing a prison uniform. One with long flowing fins that reminded me of a fancy dress. Another that shyly hid behind rocks, peeking out occasionally as if checking whether the coast was clear.

I wouldn't leave that spot until I heard "Next patient, please." And even then, I'd glance back one more time, as if the fish might give me courage for what was coming.

My Fish-Keeping Attempts as an Adult

Even now as an adult, I often think about keeping fish. I frequently imagine having a tank in my apartment—something elegant in the corner of my living room or perhaps on my desk. Coming home from work to fish greeting me with their gentle movements, leisurely weekend mornings sipping coffee while watching the tank, the soft bubbling sound providing a natural soundtrack to my quiet moments.

I actually tried several times. The first attempt was right after I moved into my first solo apartment. It felt like a rite of passage. I bought a small tank and brought home three goldfish, convinced that my childhood experience had prepared me for this.

But the results were always the same. Water maintenance was much harder than I expected. pH levels, ammonia concentration, maintaining proper temperature—I understood the concepts intellectually, but putting them into practice while juggling work and life was challenging. I worked late on weekdays and often left town on weekends for trips with friends. When I missed water changes and delayed filter cleaning, the water would become cloudy before I knew it.

After the third attempt, I finally accepted the truth: I lacked the consistency and dedication that fish keeping required. The tank went into storage, and I stopped trying. It wasn't just about the money or the effort—it was about the guilt. These were living creatures that depended on me, and I kept letting them down.

The Joy of Simply Watching

I've come to accept it now. I'm more of a fish watcher than a fish keeper, and that's perfectly okay. So I've decided to be content with just observing, and surprisingly, this realization has brought me a sense of peace.

When I think about it, keeping them isn't the only source of joy. The pleasure doesn't have to come from ownership or responsibility—it can simply come from presence and observation. Even without raising them myself, simply watching a tank that someone else has carefully maintained brings me genuine happiness. There's no guilt, no pressure, no worry about whether I'm doing everything right. Just pure appreciation.

There's something profoundly special about time spent watching fish. In a world that moves so fast, demanding our constant attention and quick responses, observing creatures that move slowly and deliberately feels almost revolutionary. Witnessing life that simply exists without words, without agenda, without rushing toward anything. During those moments, the complicated thoughts that usually crowd my mind pause for a while. My breathing slows down. My shoulders relax.

The Café Tank and Today's Moment

Today, I walked into a café I'd never visited before, drawn in by the warm lighting and the promise of good coffee. While waiting for my order, I noticed it—a medium-sized tank tucked into a corner, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. I immediately gravitated toward it.

As I gazed at the fish moving slowly through the water, I thought of my grandmother. I wondered if she still had that little tank in her living room, or if those fish had long since been replaced by others. I wondered if she remembered those afternoons when I'd sit on the floor, completely absorbed in that small underwater world.

The fish in the tank don't know what kind of day I've had, don't care that I missed a deadline this morning or that I had an awkward conversation with a colleague. They don't know what I'm worried about or what keeps me up at night. They simply swim in their own world, following currents I can't see, responding to instincts I can't understand.

Somehow, that's deeply comforting. Their indifference is not cruel—it's liberating. In their presence, I don't have to be anything other than an observer. I don't have to perform or explain or justify. I can just... watch.

Maybe someday I'll try keeping fish again. Or maybe I'll continue being what I am now—a watcher, an appreciator, someone who finds these small portals to peace wherever they appear. Either way, I'm grateful for every fish tank I've ever encountered. Either way, I know where to find my moments of quiet in a noisy world.