Something happens to our homes in times of crisis. The energy of a room might undergo a shift as we undergo a loss, a conflict, a sudden change of plan. The glow of small lights might not offer the same warmth during periods of grief as it does during happier moments. The ordinary sounds of a ticking clock or the hum of the fridge might jar us when we’re not okay, where we normally wouldn’t notice them at all. When we are in crisis, so too are our homes.
Our rabbit, Niklas, dies in the night. Hosting our tired, shocked bodies at three a.m., the kitchen doesn’t know what to do. The kettle is the loudest I’ve ever heard it. Everything is upside down as we sit at the table, hours ahead of breakfast. Our cat, mildly thrilled by this change in routine, comes downstairs to enact her morning ritual long before she is due to be fed. The house is still and stoic. It’s no stranger to life and death. Maybe home knows what to do – maybe it’s us who are lost.
I leave rooms without turning off the lights. My clothes pile on the floor and cups pile by the sink. Despite this unexpected crisis, the plants look the same and they are still dry, waiting to be watered. Hours from now, I will want to tidy all the mess away. I will clean the dishes and the bathroom and the basement, wash the towels and turn on the small lights in the corners of the rooms.
Home can feel too big, too wide-open, when life is also big and wide-open – so I shrink it right down to its essence. Home becomes the sofa onto which we drag our duvets and pillows, The Simpsons on low volume while we sit with our grief. Home becomes the kitchen table where I write my morning pages; the warmest, brightest spot in the house, it balances my difficult emotions. Home is the guest room we sleep in before all our things have arrived, the horrors of the early pandemic unfolding at a mercifully safe distance outside. We look for these safe zones during unsettled times. We are so lucky to find them.
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It is a privilege to have a home to seek comfort and safety in during times of crisis. With over a million people now displaced from their homes in Gaza, we must raise our voices and do what we can to call for a genuine, long-lasting ceasefire along with the release of all remaining hostages. Please consider contacting your political representatives today.
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!
I love these reflections. I remember how, during COVID lockdowns, my home felt constricting. Its small spaces closed in on me, making me claustrophobic and wanting to escape to the other side of the world. Less than a year later, my burnout put me in my own personal lockdown, and my home felt like a quiet sanctuary, away from the hustle and bustle of life. A place without 'shoulds' and to-do lists, where I could just be. It's interesting to see how our perception of home changes depending on where we're at.