When a Hearthkeeper Doesn’t Have a Home

The image we conjure of the hearth is solid —it's a stone fireplace, a warm table, a circle of chairs where people gather. But what happens when the hearthkeeper herself has no home? When life is in transition, when the house is sold, when exile or migration means everything familiar is left behind — does the hearth go out?

The truth is, the hearth has never only been brick and mortar. It has always been carried in the hands and hearts of those who tend it. History is full of hearthkeepers without permanent homes. Refugees who carried recipes across borders. Mothers who lit candles in borrowed rooms. Migrants who told stories in workers’ camps so children would not forget where they came from. The hearth was wherever they set down the fire, even if only for a night.

But this does not erase the grief. A home is not just a roof; it is a vessel for memory, belonging and expression. I miss my own home in ways that ache. I miss the spaciousness that gave me room to breathe. I miss the little touches of décor that made each corner feel like a reflection of me. I miss the carefully chosen seasonal ambience on the television, scented candles glowing, and the crockpot simmering on the counter. I miss my patio with its view of the garden, and the cozy sunroom where I could curl under a throw blanket and sip a cup of espresso. I miss sitting by the fire under the moon. I miss waving to neighbors and feeling the warmth of their friendship.These are not small things — they are the texture of belonging. And losing them is hard.

For those of us who know displacement — whether through leaving a country, losing a house, or simply disconnecting from a culture that feels unsafe — this truth matters. You are not failing when your hearth isn’t fixed to one address. You are living in one of the oldest traditions: the hearth as something portable, adaptable, resilient.

A hearth without a house looks like soup simmering on a single burner in a rented room. It's a circle of friends sharing bread in a park. It's the courage to light a candle in memory of all you’ve lost, while imagining the home you will one day build again. It is the act of making warmth where you are, even in the midst of impermanence.

And perhaps the deeper wisdom is this: when the hearth is not anchored to walls, it reveals its truest nature. It is not about the structure but about the tending. It is about creating belonging wherever you go. About reminding yourself and others that even in exile, in upheaval, in in-between times, there is still a flame that can be guarded and shared.

So if you are a hearthkeeper without a home right now, please know that you are not alone. Know that the fire you carry in your heart matters. And know that one day, when the bricks and beams come again, it will be this fire that makes them into a home.