Still Solitary, Not Alone
Reflections on belonging, recognition, connection, and the small moments that help us feel seen and understood
One day I was walking toward a pond and saw an old tree, my mind and body swirling with anxiety.
The pond — a landmark — appeared ahead, and the tree a particular favorite, but I was more absorbed in my own circular worries. Until I drew closer to the tree and looked up into the branches. I belonged here, under these branches. I was welcomed and felt accepted.
I didn’t know what species this tree was, but its roots and branches reached far into the pond and into the ground, and had allowed me to seek refuge for many years.
I stood beside it and stilled. Everything within me calmed. My breathing, my thoughts, my movements stopped — without conscious decision.
It wasn’t until later I realized my anxiety had vanished. And a peace had replaced it. I felt a kinship with the tree — a bond of some undefinable sort. Though inexplicable, that left me with a sense of strength — a freedom that resulted after the anxiety fled to move onward through life.
As I walked past the tree and pond, I realized these moments didn’t require people at all.
Times spent boating came back to me, and one in particular. A large pod was in the distance when one older male, presumably the protector, swam closer. The water was calm so we turned the engine off for safety. Assuming he would stay in the perimeter, he surprised us by surfacing on the starboard side, close to the rail. I looked over the edge and he rolled to gaze directly at me. I could not look away, fighting a compulsion to dive into the water to join him. A sense of belonging, connection, and deep peace flowed through me. I had no fear and noticed my dog was at the bow, sleeping, obviously unconcerned. After what seemed like no time and a great deal of time, he dove and returned to his pod, leaving me with an intense yearning to remain connected with that marine presence who sought and found me.
Profound as these encounters with nature felt, simple exchanges with people impacted me as deeply. A stranger returning my grocery cart after unloading it at my car, unasked, left me feeling not only appreciative but also connected to both common experience and a common world — one beyond my singular existence. My doctor brought me chocolate at a blood draw because he knows my fear of needles. Each left me feeling seen and understood. A stranger in a bakery exchanging a smile over a child’s comments reminded me of our shared existence.
As more of my thoughts ran along these lines, more memories returned. All of them were seemingly simple, yet had remained with me for years. I recalled a year a new neighbor brought me flowers before I had a chance to plant any, knowing I was a gardener, an acquaintance bringing me a specific box of tea because she noticed I liked that variety, a construction worker adding a surprise detail to a job at my house because he knew I’d like it, the staff at my Pilates/yoga studio tailoring my experience to fit my needs.
These were all examples of people and their thoughtfulness, yet similar moments appeared throughout nature as well. The animals that shared my life had affected me just as deeply.
Most of my dogs have chosen me, but none as dramatically or clearly as my current one. When picking her up to bring her home, I’d been prepared that she was reluctant to leave her current caretaker. So when I arrived to get her, I sat on the ground, ready for her to just get accustomed to me. She had other ideas. She walked directly to me and sat in my lap, not leaving until we got home. I had to lift her to get her in the car. She would not leave my lap. She chose then, and has since. In doing that, she gave me a deep sense of acceptance — a trust so deep, I felt a recognition between us that became an immediate bond.
These moments are in themselves very small — a glance, a gesture, an action. Certainly not transcendent in an obvious way. They’re sweet, maybe tender.
Yet something disproportionate happens inside. Perhaps their power lies partly in their unexpected nature. I wasn’t seeking recognition in any of these moments. Yet each arrived as a reminder that my existence had registered beyond myself.
These moments never erased solitude. They simply changed my relationship to it.
For a time, companionship can feel abundant. As life continues, though, our companions come and go. Events beyond our control — death, relocation, separations, etc. — then determine who accompanies us and remains prominent in our life.
It is then that small, simple acts become more important. They may not become more frequent; they may have always been present. They are not substitutes for companionship. Yet they do play an important role.
They reveal something we may have forgotten.
We remain ourselves.
We remain separate beings.
Yet moments of recognition remind us we are participating in something shared.
Related Reflections:
Responding Within Relationship: The Shape of Attunement
Meeting the Field of Perception: Sharing Perception Beyond the Self
Exploring the Currents of Friendship
