Unsettled, but not alone

Hello Wonderful Open Heart Project,

I wrote to you recently about not feeling settled, about living among boxes and in-between spaces, about that strangely tender mix of disorientation and possibility. I had a feeling many of you would understand, but, I didn’t quite anticipate the depth, honesty, and humanity of what you shared in return.

A special thanks to all who sent a response to how you settle into a new space. Your suggestions feel like a kind of collective practice. Each voice distinct, but linked by a willingness to stay present in the midst of change.

Some of you wrote from places of real upheaval. One of you described five weeks of homelessness before finding stable housing, and the lingering sense of “holding on” that doesn’t immediately disappear when circumstances improve. There was grief there, too, of a partner, of a long-time home, of a life that cannot be replicated. And yet, alongside that: caring for a 19-year-old cat, cooking familiar meals, walking when possible, and finding solace in trees.

Others of you spoke about moving again and again (four times in a year, eight times in a decade), and learning to “welcome the reset.” I loved that phrase. Not because resetting is easy, but because resisting it seems to cost much more.

You shared so many small, caring acts that create a sense of home:

Fresh flowers on a table.
Bread in the oven.
A favorite mug, local honey, morning tea.
A made bed and good pajamas.
Books within reach, even if unread.

These small gestures say: I am here.

Several of you spoke about the power of rhythm: cleaning a drawer, unpacking one box, watering plants, noticing birds. One of you described making the acquaintance of a cardinal outside a window. Another spoke of meeting “tree neighbors” and “dog neighbors” on daily walks. I was moved by the way you described belonging as an exercise in attention.

And then there were the rituals. You have several beautiful suggestions:

Creating an altar to say goodbye to a former home.
Standing in a disorienting corner while wrapped in something comforting.
Placing a feather on each windowsill as a reminder of trust.
Offering seeds to birds as a gesture of openness.
Ringing a meditation bowl to soften the unseen edges of a space.
Simply standing in a corner, breathing, and asking: what do I see?

Not one of these is about forcing a feeling of “settled.” They are about making contact with grief, with space, with the unknown, with life as it is now.

A few of you spoke about relating to the land itself. Saying thank you. Asking permission. Wondering what might be offered in return. It’s such a different orientation from the usual “moving into” a place. More like entering into relationship.

And woven through all of this, through loss, transition, uncertainty, and even moments of joy, was practice.

Meditating.
Walking.
Sitting with others.
Lighting a candle.
Drinking tea.

Continuing.

One of you shared a story of moving closer to family after deep loss and uncertainty, and how, slowly, a new life began to take shape. Afternoons at the art gallery, grandchildren around the table, and unexpected closeness all reminded me that “settling” is not just about a place. It’s about allowing a life to form again, in its own way, on its own timeline.

If there is something I take from all of your reflections, it is this:

Settling is not an event. It’s not even a goal, exactly.

It is a practice.

A living, breathing process of arriving, again and again, in a place that may or may not feel like ours yet. Of letting it be unsettled. Of participating anyway.

Thank you for sharing your lives with me in this way. It means more than I can say.

With love,
Susan

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categorized in: dharma, home, meditation