On Moving: Part 2

From transience towards belonging

I was in Thailand at an outdoor bar. In front of me sat an ice-cold Chang, a pack of Marlboros, a lighter, and an ashtray. Another man of western European descent bellied up to the bar beside me. I was traveling alone, tired from a day filled with conversations in broken English. So when he ordered his drink in a perfect Australian accent, I sparked up a conversation. And, another cigarette, because cigarettes only count when I’m in the US.

“Where are you traveling from?” I asked.

“Oh, I live here, mate,” he replied, “I’m not transient like most foreigners here.”

“What do you mean by transient?”

“Temporary. Like, you’re here, then you’re gone.”

I took these words in. And, another drag from my Marlboro. I was not only transient as a traveller in Chiang Mai, but also for most of my adult life. Since I moved out of my parents home at eighteen, I had lived in six cities and 14 different rental properties. This includes the time I spent in my childhood bedroom when my parents let me stay with them during COVID.

The more I changed homes, the less I treated them as such. I became less motivated to decorate, to host, and to invest in the community. If I was going to move in 6-12 months’ time, I didn’t see the point of hanging the photo of Amsterdam I bought from Ikea for the eighth time. The thought of making a new relationship with another neighbor sounded tedious. And preparing my place to host a get together? No way, not worth it. My increasing sense of transience had turned me into an apathetic community member.

This transience also made me feel like I didn’t belong. Ever since moving to Salt Lake in 2020, I had been in a state of rumination about whether or not it was the right place for me long-term. I was constantly comparing it to other cities I visited. All of this thinking distracted me from doing what I needed to do to build the life I wanted: being part of a community, and being able to call a place other than Michigan “home”.

This started to change about eighteen months ago, just before Thailand. The leader of the men’s group I’m a part of was giving a presentation on how to build a great cake of life. One of the key ingredients he discussed was making the spaces you inhabit beautiful. When he said that, I realized I was one bed frame away from being a mattress on the floor type of guy. Aside from one picture frame filled with family photos gifted to me by my ex-girlfriend, my walls were empty.

I quickly took action: I went on Amazon and bought frames for the poster, two paintings, and several pictures of family and friends that had collected a thin layer of dust in the corner of my bedroom. I purchased a replica of Claude Monet’s “Lilies” to show off my limited art history knowledge. To represent my love for Michigan, I bought a photo of the lighthouse and pier in Grand Haven, Michigan (aka Coast Guard City, USA). Within a few days, each of them had found a new home on my walls.

I went a few steps further by rearranging my living room so that it properly took advantage of the lighting. I bought a coat and shoe rack. After making these improvements, I sent pictures to my family and a few friends. The thought of welcoming friends and dates into my home excited me - I no longer needed to explain to them why my walls were white. For the first time as an adult, my home actually felt like one.

After chatting with the Australian man for a bit longer, I put out my cigarette and walked back to my hostel. As I walked, I realized that despite all of the improvements I had made to my space, I still lacked a sense of belonging. My apartment was only a stop on the way to eventual permanence, and I believed that home ownership was the only way to accomplish that. I had to invest more than a bit of cash and sweat equity to really make myself feel permanent. So, I promised myself that the next 6-month lease I signed would be my last.

When I returned from Thailand, I started my home buying process by listing out everything I needed to feel confident in making a long-term investment. The most important items were 1) a strong community; 2) a good location; and 3) enough space to host. As I wrote about in On Moving Pt. 1, I had set a goal to move into the neighborhood across the street from where I live. So I looked there first. I compared it to my existing place and found that it didn’t provide anything more than a bigger living room:

The gated community is stuffy. Despite ample room for activity, I’ve never seen kids out playing. Not once have I witnessed neighbors speaking to one another. Every house’s garage is shut immediately after being opened. All of the homes are valued at $600k+ or more, but the neighborhood is impoverished.

By looking outward, I started to realize how much I already had.

Vibrant community? Check. Neighbors that look out for one another? Check. Green space? Check. Enough room to host 5-10 people? A tight squeeze, but check. I had nearly everything I needed from my existing apartment, except for the fact that I couldn’t purchase it. A combination of societal expectations, the Rent vs. Buy equation, and my own ego caused me to miss what was right in front of me. My feeling of impermanence was being perpetuated by a mental block in my own brain.

Since making this realization, I re-committed myself to my existing apartment and community. I routinely clean up toys and other debris from the sidewalks. I smile, wave, and say hello to everyone I walk by. For the first time in my life, I gave a neighbor a Christmas card and a gift. And she gave me one in return, with a note inside. She supports her son and granddaughter, and I shared with her how much I admired her love for her family. In her note, she shared with me that she recently lost her job and how much my gift meant to her. My friend called it a “God Moment”.

As I consider the Aussie expat’s living situation more closely, I realize he had all of this figured out already. He was a teacher and soccer coach at the local school in Chiang Mai, and spoke Thai fluently. Because he fully immersed himself in Thailand, he was able to make it his home.

By making my space beautiful, and changing my mindset about the requirements of achieving a sense of permanence, I was able to turn my transience into belonging. An amazing side effect of this work is that I am now equipped to find belonging anywhere I choose to live.