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In chapter twelve of Shelley’s Frankenstein, the monster, rejected by his creator, strikes out on his own and must survive. Hiding near a cottage, he learns humanity by watching how the family interact with each other and notes their kindness. Yet, “They were not entirely happy…I saw no cause for their unhappiness, but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another’s company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and kindness.”[1] When the monster learns of the family’s poverty and what that means, his yearning to help is innocent, warm, and consuming, eliciting so much sympathy that when he’s discovered, the tragedy that follows is as sad as it is horrific. Yet, the above passage fills me with warmth. It serves as a reminder of what truly matters: a house. A body. Shelter. Love. The poor monster’s wretched body houses a being that feels. The old house’s decrepit structure once sheltered a family. Perhaps it still does. It still has purpose, still offers shelter to countless creatures: insects, rodents, woodland animals, feral cats. As the bleak month of November came to a close, I’m still recovering from a broken leg. Five months on. At times, as I crutch along, the healing feels frustrating and long. Yet, I chuckle taking comfort from Frankenstein. But I do. This body needs care. As the old house does. A rejected house reminds me of the sad, raging monster. As does this gray, ugly walking boot! 😉 But, as I recover from the holiday gathering, grateful for those who could be with us in body and remembering those who could not, I feel a settling of the house’s light and the wood around me. Beside me, the pellet stove roars and warms my healing bones. We care for each other. And we can remember and respect the hidden bodies and houses. The old—tucked away with graying shingles and clapboards, leaning pillars and broken windows. Those overgrown and creaky, falling apart, but still here. We can remember what they once were capable of and acknowledge that they still serve and live with purpose. We can care. Houses and bodies—love and shelter. For the self—who we are
inside. And that is enough.
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