Nestled in the grey of dawn, surrounded by what’s true to me, beautiful to me; an apartment sparse with things that reflect who I am — my quirks, passions, tastes.

The sleepy dog lies on the floorboards that squeak with most steps. I’m learning the dance so my partner may sleep in peace when I stir.

Morning light filters through the wall of windows, through which all I see is green. Verdant leaves; black crows bobbing atop reaching branches; dangling, flowering fruit; and scouring squirrels, jumping daringly from roof to treetop.

Beneath the windows lies a patch of poppies, yellow and orange and full of life. Below the deck in the back, a creek.

You’d think I was in the mountains or a town to hideaway. But it’s my apartment in the heart of Oakland, California. You can hear the freeway in the distance.

Across the creek there’s a fence with barbed wire, a graffitied brick wall beyond. It feels like a dystopian film when a modern city’s been forgotten and the undergrowth has taken over — a complexion of urban and wild, metal, wood, brick, and leaves.

I love this place, and it’s only been a week.

Interior design has always fascinated me. Style. Dare I say things, and the way they make me feel.

Since I was younger, my dream has been to have a few places around the world, each with a distinct style. Not large homes, just modest haunts to hang my shoes and lay my head at night.

A studio in Japan. A nook in France. An apartment in New York and a dwelling on the West Coast. A kid can dream, can’t he?

While my life so far has comprised spending time on the move with little more than I can carry in a couple of bags, I’ve looked forward to the day when I could finally make a space my own, knowing I wouldn’t just be there for a month, six months, even a year.

I’d be there for the long haul and could create a habitat worth really loving. Because home is supposed to feel good. Relaxing. Lived in. Special.

I spent the past two and a half years living in Japan working as an English teacher. I had a tiny apartment in Osaka, then a spot in Tokyo, neither larger than a college dorm room. I bought little to spruce them up, as I knew I wouldn’t be there permanently.

Sure, I had mementoes of travel, and each studio was homey. But my furniture wasn’t exactly quality, not that I had space for any.

Well, I’m starting fresh in Oakland. I think my girlfriend and I will be here for some time. So we’re investing. Getting things we want that will last. The time has come to establish a proper home, a place that speaks of me, her, our weirdness, our love, our respective pasts, our joys.

We’re making our dining area in a Japanese style with a low table, tatami mats, and floor cushions. We got the table at a secondhand shop in Berkley. We haven’t gotten tatami mats yet, but we’re using a futon as a cushion.

While writing, the dog has moved from her spot on the floor to the futon, her legs splayed out. She makes me smile.

I’m doing my best not to rush, but to appreciate the early stages of this chapter. It’s exciting. I don’t know what’s coming around the corner; I don’t even know what next week will bring.

But I can sense that it’s going to be good, as this is what I love — this feeling of adventure, possibility, being in the midst of something truly meaningful.

I’ve been perusing Facebook marketplace for secondhand goods, and I’ve found a few gems. An old bookshelf from France that apparently was a prototype. A wonky wooden coffee table that looks like a splatter of paint.

A bike, which I picked up on the other side of the bay at Point Quentin. I had some awesome times with this bike, said the man around my age who sold me the bike. It served me well.

These are the moments commonly overlooked, the moments that tell me I’m a writer, as I catch something in them. For the man selling the bike, it’s the end of an era. For me, the beginning of one.

That’s how it is with all these things. The coffee table had a story before I bought it, as did the still disassembled bookshelf which lays strewn on the floor beside me. I could tell how much the previous owner loved it by the care he asked me to take and his tone when discussing it.

Things denote memories, emotions, periods of life. Sure, they’re just things. But our things tell a story. Let your home tell the story of you.

It’s quiet here. More quiet than I’m used to. Just the song of the birds, the hum of the fridge, the white noise of flowing cars, and the ginger tea boiling on the stove.

This is my first real writing session here, sitting at my desk, imbibing the energy of my new home. Home is not just what’s within these walls. It’s this town. The surrounding hills. The ocean nearby, its salt in the wind.

The friends already made, and those to come. The basketball court a few blocks away where I had my first 1 v. 1 bout with a stranger. The old school bike shop I visited to get air in my tires, run by a man I imagine has bike grease under his nails permanently.

The bookstore down the road where I asked — for the first time in my life — if I could sell my books there. The check out dude at the grocery store that I laughed with. The graffiti that adds color and grit to this historic place. The history which I’ll slowly learn.

The vibe. It’s home. It’s me.

I’m traveling, man. Going further into the depths of my heart than I’ve so far been. But I got that same feeling now as I do when on the road. A new city to explore, an essence to awaken, a place to understand.

I don’t need to go somewhere. I’m traveling through life. And maybe it’s supposed to feel easier, or different, or harder — but it doesn’t really matter. I just want to travel light.

With ease and with love and with peace in my heart. It’s an inside job, the mind’s the place to start.

The mind is the voice of the soul’s discontent, always going on about what hasn’t changed yet. And maybe I’m just tired of trying to change the world, or the notion that I need to do more to be fulfilled.

I want to be happy. I want to be free. I want to know why it hurts to be me. We’re told that that’s just the way it’s meant to be, when there’s so much underneath the surface nobody can see.

What is my dream? What do I want? Am I giving up on something if I just want to stop? Pause. Breathe. Be. I’ve been running, moving, called to explore. But this feels good right now. Solid. I had to have my twenties to get to where I am. Shit, I’m still twenty-nine.

The journey’s just begun.

I don’t regret a goddamn thing; those adventures ‘round the world produced my first two books, and will serve as the backdrop of my third.

Seeing our planet has opened my eyes and inspired me more than I can convey. And it’s because I’ve roamed that I feel content to nest; it’s because I’ve pushed that I want to rest. It’s because I lived in Japan that I want a low dining table on tatami mats — so excited about that.

Without being away, I don’t think I’d appreciate all the little things half as much as I do now. While living in Japan and Europe before that, I’ve missed the ease of living in my native country. Just talking to the checkout person at the grocery store, or not having to Google translate every piece of mail I receive.

I’ve lacked a real sense of community. I thought it didn’t matter much to me. I was the lone wolf. The silence was a story. But I got lonely living in Tokyo. And that space made me dig. Write. And ultimately, it helped me to better appreciate the people in my life.

It took courage to go. And perhaps now, it’s taking even more courage to stay. To not run because I think I must; to not go because I don’t know what else to do.

The thing is, we don’t need to know. We never really can. But we may still be content in that not knowing, with faith that we are where we’re meant to be. I’m grateful, man. Feeling grounded. Happy to set down some roots in this home in the trees.