Creating a home for myself

Over the last week, I’ve read Pachinko by Min Jin Lee, a long novel about several generations of a family in Korea and Japan. I’ve read it sitting on the couch that used to be in my family’s toy room but is now in my apartment’s living room; at my desk where I work and procrastinate writing; while on the stationary bike at my apartment complex’s gym.

Pachinko starts with this epigraph:

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.”

-Charles Dickens

It was an appropriate quote — and book — as I finish up my little series on home. The book sprawls across generations, countries and continents; my homes do cross generations but only a few state lines.

The last place I call home is the most recent: the Lexington, Kentucky, apartment where I live alone — with my two cats, of course. I moved in last August, after a summer back home at my parents’ house. I furnished the apartment with pieces from other homes — my childhood bedroom set, my grandma’s lamp, the table my boyfriend ate at as a child.

I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed furnishing and decorating my new home. I’ve always put a lot on my bedroom walls — paintings from my sister and friends, a Hogwarts poster, framed pictures — but most of those places felt temporary. College is a transient time — I moved every single year, plus half my stuff was still at my parents’, so nowhere ever really felt like home.

I don’t know how long I’ll be here (although after moving the couch and dresser upstairs, I said I would die here rather than move furniture again), but this is the first place that doesn’t already have an expiration date. It’s a good feeling, for a place to be a more permanent home.

The Vandiver moving team.

Every room has something I love: in my bedroom, the cubby with some of my favorite books and trinkets; the overflowing bookshelves in my office that I’ve already rearranged several times; the Kentucky-themed gallery wall above the couch in the living room; the beautiful light that bathes the kitchen table every evening; the framed picture of my first kitten, Bowman, beside the bathroom sink; the small colorful table on the balcony.

Every piece of furniture is just a place for George to lounge.

After about six months of living here, I furnished the balcony just in time for spring.

My Kentucky wall, which keeps growing.

Right now, I’m sitting at my desk — big enough to hold my notes about Alice Dunnigan and the book I’m currently reading (Americanon by Jess McHugh) and my floral planner and my typewriter pen holder. Leo is asleep on the comfy yellow chair to my right that I got for Christmas years ago. George was sleeping on my desk, half his body on the small tabletop lamp (is that really the most comfortable?) but he just ran out to play on the tile floor in the kitchen.

It’s a typical Friday at home.