Mother hearth

 

Mother hearth - our primary relationship with fire.

For thousands of years our relationship with fire has been a constant, a part of everyday life.  As important to us as the landscape we have lived in, we are reliant on it as children are to their mother. 
In mesolithic times people were nomadic, hunter gatherers travelling from area to area with the seasons to feed from the best of nature's larder and making temporary fireplaces at every camp.
In neolithic times people became farmers, gleaning new knowledge from travelling or from invaders bringing new ideas. As the seasons changed around them they relied on permanent fireplaces.
Where I live, in the Outer Hebrides on the Isle of Lewis, there are plenty of ruined 'blackhouses' which give an insight into how people lived 200 years ago.  One thing that always remains standing is the enormous lintel above the hearth, and sometimes the chimney stack poking up from the tumbled walls.  It highlights the hearth as that constant, bridging time and reminding us of the importance of fire to human homes -  Home is where the hearth is. 

In my home we have a solid fuel stove, which provides all our hot water and central heating.  There is no flick of a switch or timer to put the heating on, it takes a morning ritual of scraping out last night's ashes and resetting the fire.  I have a special 'prayer cushion' that I use to do it and the action of kneeling before the fire often makes me think of women in history, performing the same ritual.  It is a bit like worship, it takes some preparation and learning through experience, of which sticks to use first, when to put the heavier fuel on and how much air to let in.  Then there is a moment that requires faith - when the fire catches on the paper and you wait to see if all the careful work will pay off and the scene before you becomes illuminated.
This moment of skill and hope is one that must span all of human history and across diverse cultures.  It interconnects us to our ancestors through time. It also links us to other cultures developing differently on other continents, but in the act of fire-making and the hope it carries with it, we are just the same.
As changes have taken place in modern western society, our relationship to fire is another connection to nature that is being taken away from us.
We programme a boiler to come on at designated times of the day, without our action, but within our control.  Our cooker gives the energy of heat but without the beauty of fire.  To relax we stare at the television instead of listening to our own thoughts in front of the fire.
But in addition to the on-demand systems we rely on, people have also rediscovered the luxury of a small weekend fire.  It does not require money, it requires time.  It is a simple pleasure from a little work.

On Lewis we are lucky to have abundant fuel on the doorstep.  A few thousand years in the making, the peat moors have been cut by generations of islanders.  Despite the rising costs of bought in fuel, peat cutting has dwindled in the last 50 years or so.  Oil boilers have become more commonplace than a kitchen rayburn and there are plenty of other jobs that also need doing on the croft.
The fire needs attention to keep it going, it is too easy to forget about it, whilst enjoying the heat coming out of the radiators, and suddenly the grate is cold and empty.
But this is also an important consideration that modern systems have lost.  Having to light a fire makes you stop and think - can I be bothered to go to all the trouble or shall I just put another jumper on?   With on-demand systems we have no responsibility for our fuel consumption, the programmer or thermostat does it for us.  'Out of sight, out of mind'. 

We began cutting the peat 3 years ago and are starting to feel akin with it now.  In the springtime, we go out to cut the turves from the top, and see what great fudgey slabs can be sliced from beneath the heather.  There are black seams that run through the ground, which burn hot like coal, otherwise it is the dark brown peat which burns slower but keeps the fire tinkering along.
We use a peat iron, to slice down from the top for 3 layers.  Then the tiles are laid out in the sun and wind to dry.  Nature helps us prepare our fuel, all we need to supply is the knowledge and the elbow grease.
The peat banks are so open that we can see the weather coming from a long way off.  We often get rained on by passing squalls then completely dried again by the wind and sun.  The sound of the skylark makes you feel as though you are a long way from anything man-made.  It is a time of very hard work, but such a great workplace.
Depending on the weather, the peats can be brought home at the end of the summer.  It is a process of many stages and it is hard work, but to see the fuel stacked up ready for winter gives us a feeling of security.

The smell of the peat burning when we first start putting the fire on, has become such a pleasure - at first it always reminded me of my mother having a bonfire in the Autumn, the smell of the burning ground.  Now it makes me think of my home.
Fire will always be a part of what makes me feel at peace - secure, enjoying simple pleasures and happy memories.   Like the thick stone walls of my house and the enormous lintel, I hope it will be a constant, forever.

(Submission to 'Earthlines' magazine 2013)