Keeping the Hearth Alive in Transient Times

A hearth doesn’t disappear just because the walls around it are temporary. Sometimes the fire burns in borrowed spaces — a short-term rental, a friend’s spare room, a hotel, even a place that doesn’t feel like “yours” at all. In these in-between moments, the hearth is less about permanence and more about imagination.

I’ve learned that even when life feels transient, I can still kindle that sense of home. Sometimes it is as simple as brewing coffee the way I love, letting the aroma rise and remind me of comfort. Sometimes it’s lighting a single candle at night, even if the space is unfamiliar, just to signal to myself: this is home, for now.

Dreaming is part of it too. I find myself scrolling through photos of cozy kitchens and sunlit patios, imagining what my next home might look like. I save recipes that I can’t yet make, pin images of gardens I hope to tend, and linger over colors of paint I’d love to see on my own walls one day. These small acts of imagining are not foolish; they are ways of keeping hope alive. They are sparks in the ash, reminders that even if I am untethered now, there will be a place again where all of this belongs.

History is full of hearthkeepers who carried their fire in exile. Refugees who kept worn recipe cards tucked into their luggage, recreating familiar meals with whatever ingredients they could find. Travelers who carried songs, hymns, or stories across oceans so their children would not forget their roots. Even in the most unstable times, people found ways to set a table, light a flame, or share a story — proving that home is less about geography than it is about memory and care.

And part of that care is beauty. It can feel tempting to live with nothing but bare essentials when you know your stay is temporary. But a hearthkeeper knows that beauty is not extra — it is vital. A small plant in the window, a new mug for your morning coffee, a scarf that brightens a chair — these little touches are not wasted. They anchor you. They whisper that you are still someone who tends, who curates, who creates warmth. Even in transition, you are allowed to invest in the objects that lift your spirit.

Transient times can feel rootless, but they also carry possibility. They invite us to dream, to imagine, to practice tending the hearth in its simplest, most portable form. And one day, when the bricks and beams of a lasting home come again, it will be these little rituals, these dreams, and these small, beautiful touches that have kept the fire alive long enough to make it burn bright once more.