Fish tanks are calming, the studies say. But they also say pretty much anything you want them to. Often to the dismay of the scientists who performed them. In this case, though, it's not an especially controversial finding. The aquarium lobby is not to be vilified. Because it’s true.

On a recent trip to a storied aquarium on the edge of the ocean, we were lucky enough to observe all manner of sea animals over the course of a day. They are all remarkable for their colors, the texture of their skin, their intelligence, and their adaptations.

The jellyfish room was labeled “deep ocean” and the lights were dimmed so that each tank occupied a neon blue slice of vision. The tanks were circular and concave so it was as close as I'll ever get to looking out the window of a submarine. Enhanced, with LED lights alongside the tank so they glowed. There were two kinds of locomotion on display - those that floated and those that used tiny cilia-like hairs to move themselves through the water. Both types moved as if their destinations were optional and haste was unnecessary. They achieved zen wherever they were.

In a room surrounded by things moving at a pace so much slower than the rest of the world, I couldn't help but confirm “the study”’s results: it is indeed calming. I found myself watching the rainbow tinted edges of creatures no bigger than my finger as they waved so quickly I could barely discern individual colors.

In another part of the deep ocean was the kind of thing featured in Disney movies. Sharks and turtles and eels and fish bigger than my torso. In the largest tank was a school of fish that moved in complete, singular, purposeful unison. Thousands of slim silver bodies glimmered in circles, moving without hesitation and in perfect synchrony. Without warning some would break off, form their own group, then join back again a few moments later. As they swam close to the glass, I noted it remarkable that though their eyes looked outward they moved forward. They knew their place based on feel so whenever the invisible stimulus occurred and they needed to change direction. This was communicated with astonishing swiftness and without apparent hesitation on the part of a single fish. We are all going this way, until we are not. Then we are definitely moving this completely opposite direction, until we are not. Rinse and spin.

The jellyfish float about with no particular speed or direction. The silver fish wouldn't even think of such of thing. Nowhere in their world view was it to do anything but keep that tail moving forward and all feelers out to sense what the school-mates are doing. They are feeling, sensing organs almost entirely. Raw nerves out there in the water.

Sometimes we are one or the other. We can float or we drive forward with purpose. We don't always do which one of those is best for us at any given time. Am I a sardine or a jellyfish today? Is it purposeful and swift and not especially thinky? Or am I going to float but not react with any particular speed? They are both beautiful in their own right. Glinty flashes of silver and ethereal neon jellies.

I'm glad I don't have to pick a lane. I'm human, so I get to do both. Sometimes in the same hour. With that freedom comes the responsibility to pay attention to when each would be best for me and the people I'm around.

Maybe sometimes all it takes to remember is to go take a look into an aquarium when I’m not sure where I should be.

This story inspired by events in Monterey, California.