Home and House
In Korean, the word ‘집’ — pronounced as jip — refers to two things: a home, and a house. Throughout my life I have lived in many houses, but only a handful of times I felt at home. Home, in fact, has been a troubling subject to me. Along with rest, sadness, and guilt.
I was always moving — first by my parents’ decision, then by my own will — but found myself unable to settle down anywhere. Every place of residence felt temporary. I often placed my carry-on suitcase near the door, as a reminder that soon I’d have to grab everything and leave. I made sure I didn’t have too many books or clothes by selling them to secondhand bookstores or dropping them off at Goodwill donation boxes on a regular basis. The last thing I wanted was to be buried by my possessions, stuck, and immobilized.
What drove me wasn’t materialistic desire; rather, I was looking for absolute comfort. And yet never having reached that state, all I could imagine was a clean, white space with a large window, not too warm or not too cold. I dreamt of one day owning a small 1-bedroom apartment of my own and painting it in the color of salt, covering everything with its whiteness and forgetfulness.
But the wish often failed. Even in the most beautiful houses, I still felt the longing for something deeper than its smooth appearance. And gradually I began to notice — that perhaps what I truly needed was not a new city, a new house, an upgrade, or even transformation for the better. Instead, I had to do the reverse: to walk backward, to understand and embrace the source of my discomfort, strange sorrow, and constant wish for betterment.
When I visited my grandfather’s grave in a secluded town in the southeastern part of the Korean peninsula, I saw a tall pine tree standing solo, hovering over the vast family cemetery. Seeing it standing so tall and strong, I felt safe, almost comfortable. This was my home, I realized at last. My home, however, was not a physical space; it was an acknowledgment in my heart that I belonged. That I was born with purpose and that my life mattered.
I slept peacefully that night, undisturbed, and deeply rested. The hotel I had stayed was located near the quiet river, offering cool, cleansing air day and night. Four hours later, I was back in Seoul, the old, familiar city I was born and raised. Despite my fear, it was becoming my home.
