Why We Crave an Inglenook
I have a soft spot for historic words. Certain words have the ability to conjure not only an intended noun or adjective — but also the era enveloping it. And, while I often tell my children that there’s a better word to describe what they mean, sometimes key words live somewhere else. A foreign language. A foreign writing. A foreign stretch of time.
While working on my current project, I stumbled upon the word, “Inglenook.” It’s hard to imagine a more perfect word for that specific, crackling space in our homes — and equally hard to imagine that I’d never realized it needed a name.
I’ve noticed with friends and family how often we circle the fire when we gather together. The vast majority of the fires in my life are contained, even manufactured. It’s never been so easy to access a fire. And, in many parts of the world, the hearth has never been less necessary for our survival.
Yet still, we build hearths in our homes, and we stoke the flames inside them. But why?
A 2014 study out of the University of Alabama found that fire simultaneously lowers blood pressure while encouraging socializing. Researchers discovered that fires are inherently multi-sensory. Flames are soothing to the eyes, a kind of visual white noise; burning wood stimulates our olfactory sense; and, of course, there’s touch. We covet its warmth, and we often come as close to the fire as we can.
In the evolution of our human experience, we’ve needed fire for our survival. Experts believe that a roaring fire, however much it’s no longer needed, still provides a vital sense of security. We crave it in a primal way. In a modern world saturated with endless distractions, building a fire could well be the beginning of rest.
As a creative, I find it interesting that a fire’s soothing capabilities mimic the beginning of the flow state. The body unwinding. The mind opening to new patterns. When we’re together, the fire nudges us toward deeper social connections. When we’re alone, the fire imbues our solitude with an elemental, peaceful quality. We lose track of time beside it. Yet over time, the fire becomes the bridge between a busy day and restorative sleep. It is one of time’s most potent markers.
Maybe the hearth is the ultimate hack. Maybe our ancestors — in this instance, our Scottish ones — are reminding us of a space in our homes and a space within that we shouldn’t have ever forgotten. Because at the (literal) end of the day, an open fire might nudge us to better versions of ourselves. We might be more relaxed, more social, more creative, more open — unapologetically more. In giving this space a name (again) we recognize its power. By making it the focal point of our homes, we recognize that we are more powerful for it.
If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to flip a switch and read by my fireplace.
