I have lived in one place for 12 months.
I wish I could remember the last time this momentous occasion occured in my life, I’m pretty sure it was in the house off of Perlican Drive where my mother and I moved to a mere month after my high school graduation.
Yeah, 9 years of nomadic living result in a celebration of planting what some might call roots.
Or maybe this is what it’s like to grow up.
July 21st, 2010. I hired movers (which was a first for me). Morgan Darrah met me in West Seattle with the promised vanilla chai bribe and drove me to my new place in Ballard. Movers showed up and unloaded all my stuff ::geeze, where did all this stuff come from?:: I then proceeded to unpack all my books.
All. My. Books.
All my books which some hadn’t seen the light of day since Texas over a year before that. All of my books, some of which hadn’t seen light since college. All of my books, my beloved books that I cannot seem to part with. All of my books, stories that have taken me on adventures and helped plan vacations and invited me back to my imagination.
All. My. Books.
I have loved life in this apartment. I have cried a LOT in this apartment. I’ve greeted myself with a hesitant heart, which turned into a full heart and open arms. I’ve grown into myself in this apartment.
Do all of those things make this place home?
No. I agree with my very wise and wonderful friend when I say that I am learning that home exists within me. The place of home is not defined by a physical structure; I believe it is defined by being and the people I surround myself with, grow with, share life with, rejoice with, grieve with, cry with, drink wine with, and dance with.
In light of those terms, I am home.