What I'm Thinking About 03

How meditation, memory, and small moments build something like home

I’ve been house hunting lately.

Which is to say, I’ve been scrolling, overthinking, wandering through open houses in Manhattan and Brooklyn where the asking price feels like a punchline. A part of me laughs. Another part wonders how anyone affords to live here with a nervous system still intact.

How times have changed.

What once looked like minimalism now feels like lack. What once felt like luxury now feels like survival. You walk into a one-bedroom with no natural light, and someone tells you it’s $7,000 a month. Suddenly, the ground feels a little less solid.

But I keep looking.

Turns out the modern spiritual path isn’t just about quiet retreats and incense-scented clarity. It’s also about navigating real estate apps, broker fees and the tension between what you want and what you can afford.

And under all of it, there’s a deeper question:

Can a home be something we build within ourselves, when nothing outside feels steady?

Especially now, when everything around us; economically, politically, even existentially - feels shaky. The economy unravels over a tweet, then rockets up again. Wars rage in places we’ve stopped naming out loud. People feel more reactive, more guarded. The tension is palpable, from Melbourne to New York to Seoul.

There’s an old wisdom teaching that reminds us the world has always burned like this.

It has always been uncertain.

This isn’t new. The fire is ancient. It comes with the territory of being alive.

But now, in this moment, it feels like we’re all sitting front row, watching it through a VR headset.

The Evolving Nature of Practice

This instability doesn’t just show up in the news. It shows up on the cushion, too.

A decade ago, my practice felt like an escape. A clean and clear breath. A small rebellion against the chaos. But now, with more responsibility, more noise, more uncertainty, it feels different.

These days, I’m not meditating for bliss.

Somedays, I’m meditating for baseline sanity.

For those few quiet moments before the headlines, the emails, and the full weight of the day settle in. The cushion is no longer a sacred escape, it’s a maintenance tool. A place to remember who I am before I get swept into who I’m supposed to be.

I think many people feel this.

The shift from peak experience to subtle presence. From chasing altered states to simply staying human. Especially when you’re managing a full-time job, trying to make sense of the world or living in a city that confuses burnout with ambition.

Long-term practice isn't always luminous. Sometimes it’s dry. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if anything is happening at all.

But still, you keep showing up.
Not because you’re chasing peace, but because you’ve seen what happens when you don’t.

Triggers and Glimmers

I’ve also been thinking about something I heard from Deb Dana, a psychotherapist who works with polyvagal theory. She talks about triggers and glimmers.

Most of us know what a trigger is. Someone cuts us off in traffic. Our partner forgets to take out the trash, Political social media posts. Boom. A flash of heat in the chest. A clench in the jaw. That sharp contraction when something touches an old wound. Triggers pull us into survival states: fight, flight, shut down.

But glimmers are the opposite.

They’re small, almost imperceptible moments that signal safety to the nervous system. Morning sun warming your face. The smell of coffee. A kind smile from a stranger. A line in a song that makes your shoulders drop.

Glimmers don’t need to be profound.
They just need to be noticed.

And in times like these, when the world feels jagged and loud, we need both kinds of awareness:

To recognize our triggers, so we don’t spiral.
And to collect our glimmers, so we don’t forget how to feel joy.

And it’s worth remembering: our brains are malleable. What we think repeatedly, what we choose to notice again and again, shapes our moment-by-moment experience. The more glimmers we notice, the more glimmers we live.

This week, I’ve been noticing glimmers in odd places: a wave of writing inspiration, the way my mother-in-law lights up when she sees me in the morning, the colors of the flowers that are starting to bloom.

They don’t solve anything. But they remind me that regulation is possible.
That beauty hasn’t left the room.

Maybe home isn’t a place we find or buy.
Maybe it’s a series of glimmers we learn to string together, breath by breath.

What glimmers are you noticing lately?