Far Away From The Home Inside
notes on a trip to the sauna
One of February’s few gifts: sunsets to rival those of any other month.
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We went to the village sauna this month, for the first time since moving here nearly three years ago. It’s a relatively spacious, wood-burning sauna overlooking a stream that flows into the lake. It’s flanked by two conjoining changing rooms with clothes hooks carved out of branches and a plastic bag full to the brim with beer cans waiting to be cashed in. We paid thirty crowns each and wrote our names in the ledger. I foraged for half-spent tea light candles while S got to work on the fire. Within half an hour, the temperature in the small, wooden room had risen by something like fifty degrees.
I’d been craving a trip to the spa, as I often do at the tail-end of winter, but for the sake of time and money, we thought we’d try out the local sauna instead. I’d been craving a trip to the spa because it has a way of returning me to my body when I start to feel far away from it. As the heat rose in the sauna, and I sat naked in front of the wide window onto the deck and, beyond it, the lake, I felt more at home in myself than I have in weeks.
February is a disorienting time in this part of the world. Winter has long lost its sheen, the desire to hibernate under a blanket of snow has been replaced by longing to see the world wake up again; to see the grass for the first time since November, to hear the birds singing early in the morning. Like clockwork, my personal identity shifts. My creativity and sense of style feel as though they are trapped under a thick layer of ice, as though I have never once written a passable sentence or known how to put together an outfit. My mood swings wildly from total inability to motivate myself to piling task upon task, ignoring my body’s request for rest. I listen with a mix of envy and trepidation to stories from home-home, where spring has made early advances, pushing its shoots out of the ground, sun-kissing the bare arms of its grateful congregation. In England, signs of spring are hopeful votives lighting the dark tunnel of a difficult winter. Here, the snow has started to fall again, and I know it will still be melting come April.
And then there is my health. There is the long road of fertility treatment that has forked in unexpected directions, both joyful and otherwise, over the last two and half years. The examinations, consultations in Swinglish, hours-long drives to hospitals in the south of the country - it’s left me feeling as disorientated as a Swedish February, as far away from the home of myself as any winter. Being far away from my internal home - from a sense of safety and calm - is something I feel on a mental and physical level. It can be managed with activities that distract both body and mind: baking and cooking, eating good food, playing video games for hours, practising weekly restorative yoga and, now, sauna.
‘“You experience a clearing of the mind in sauna,”’ Hanne Mällinen-Scott tells Katherine May in the latter’s Wintering. May remarks on the use of the phrase in sauna as opposed to in the sauna, noting that her interviewee is ‘not talking about a building…she’s talking about a state of being.’ Sitting in our local sauna, I did feel my state of being adapting. There’s something about enduring heat in a space devoid of modern materials that feels a little elemental. You’re alone with your body and its sensations and mechanisms; for a short spell, that’s all there is.
It felt good to make use of a wellness facility so close to home, too. Swimming in the lake over summer evokes a similar feeling, like I’m tapping into a resource for well-being I’m so lucky to have on my doorstep. With every length I swim in the lake, every minute I withstand in the sauna, every walk I take through the village, my roots to this place grow stronger. My sense of this being home is bolstered, and my inner compass swings in the direction of home, so I don’t feel quite as far away from myself.
Custom allows for a dip in the lake or a roll in the snow after sauna but, still acclimatising, I opted for a quick, barefoot stroll around the snow-covered deck instead. No amount of time in a sweaty, wooden shed can melt all of your troubles away, and a few days later the familiar worries and struggles are back. Winter is still here, and it promises to return, year after year after year. It’s not going anywhere soon, but neither is the sauna, and neither am I.
The Bookshelf
In this section of Home Comforts, I share a reading recommendation for a book or piece of writing that touches on themes of home.
Wintering by Katherine May
If this month’s issue has been a romanticisation of sauna, then take author Katherine May’s less-than-ideal experience of it as something of an antidote. In Wintering, May examines various practices, both personal and collective, for navigating the season of winter, as well as any difficult seasons in life. I return to Wintering every October, reabsorbing its light-hearted wisdom ahead of what is always a challenging time of the year. It’s an easily digestible, informative read that highlights both the beauty and hardship of the colder months.
Do you have a recommendation I might like? If so, I’d love to hear from you!
My short story collection, Tools For Surviving A Storm, is out now.
‘In a transporting, original collection, Nadia Henderson examines the lines between nature and the human world through stories set in landscapes both brutal and beautiful.’
I’m Nadia, a London-born writer living and working in rural Sweden. I write short stories, creative non-fiction and, of course, newsletters. If you like, you can find out more about me and my work on my website. Thank you for reading Home Comforts!
"It's not going anywhere soon.." indeed.