hygge

Embracing the idea of hygge was an integral part of what got me through last winter, and it made the season, dare I say it, almost enjoyable. I’ve long maintained that without the slumber of winter, the gardens in spring and summer would not bloom as brilliantly. Yet even with that sobering concept in mind, it’s difficult to find enjoyment when the wind is as cutting as it’s been these past few days. The weather looks only to intensify as far as cold temperatures go, so to brace ourselves for the seasonally-appropriate dip, this is a post to make things as hyggelig as possible.

Our attic loft space is lit by a number of lamps and candles, and one of Andy’s Christmas gifts to me was a space heater that is gentle but effective, creating a cozy nook in our home that lends itself to hygge. There are plenty of thick blankets, a chaise lounge, an antique bed in the center of it all, and I’ve left the pair of little Christmas trees up with their white fairy lights twinkling. In keeping with the Danish origin of hygge, here’s some music with the Danish String Quartet. 

One needn’t have a Scandinavian retreat or attic loft to indulge and enjoy the idea of hygge. A cozy sweater and pair of plush socks is enough. A favorite blanket and comfy chair will do. A cup of hot tea or a mug of hot chocolate will work as well. It’s about finding that place of warmth and coziness, tucking yourself safely against the brutal weather raging outdoors, and slipping into a mindset of serenity and comfort. In a sense, and if done with a bit of mindfulness, it can be a method of meditation. 

“Happiness consists more in small conveniences or pleasures that occur every day, than in great pieces of good fortune that happen but seldom.” – Benjamin Franklin

After revealing this day of defeat, which ended in a tiny pool of tears, the next morning began in questionable form, as I brought a mostly-empty cup of hot chocolate down from the attic and promptly spilled it to begin what I assumed would be another shit-show, only to have that be the only minor blip in the day Proof that just because things begin in messy fashion doesn’t mean they have to continue or end that way. 

I lit a lavender candle – a candle which I’ve coddled and carried around for about two decades, and I’m not even sure why. Perhaps I wanted to save it as a decorative piece – a service which it performed admirably all this time. A couple of months ago, when I was shifting my hang-out space into the attic, I marked the moment by lighting this candle and enjoying its light and soft lavender scent. It brought the attic through the summer, though as fall neared I lit it less and less, to make it last through this very winter. 

While we all remember and recall the days of defeat, it’s the days that follow that make up the bulk of our lives – the days when we simply get up and unremarkably lead our lives to the best, and sometimes the worst, of our abilities – trying to be good, trying to be right, trying to be ok with whatever the day turns out to hold. It is not the nature of humans to be perfect, but to perfectly inhabit the moment – and to try – always to try. 

It’s a phenomenon no child should have to experience, though with the excitement and tantrums and rollercoasters of Christmas, I suppose most of us have at one point or another: the phenomenon of how Christmas tree lights look when viewed through tears. They become something more magical, and in some ways more beautiful – one of the rare recompenses of sorrow transforming into solace. I’d almost forgotten what that was like until the world defeated me the other day. 

I’d gone into work already feeling shaky and unsure of myself. My planned outfit didn’t work as well in the light of day as it had in my mind the night before, but it would have to do. A wave of fatigue from not sleeping well insisted on it. And just when I took one last look in the mirror while Andy was heading out to start the car, I noticed a hole in the crotch, to the right of the zipper, which made it look like the zipper was down. Maybe that’s when I gave up on the day, because I didn’t have the care or concern or energy to put on a new pair of pants. 

After a day of insanity, because in a world of Covid and madness all work days are insane, a day without taking a lunch break outside, and a day of non-stop business, I stumbled back into the car and was too shell-shocked and exhausted to speak. Andy may have wondered what was wrong but I didn’t have the strength or ability to put it into words then. When I got home and walked into the living room, I sat down and realized: I felt defeated. The day had licked me. The world had knocked it out of me. 

Later in the afternoon news came of more loved ones with Covid, and the slightly bothersome and troubling way my Mom now has of saying she wasn’t too worried about it, which kicked off the memory of a recurring nightmare I’ve had since childhood of some monster chasing her, or some terrible fate befalling her, and I’m yelling and trying to explain it to her but she doesn’t listen and it ends up catching her, and I’m screaming and crying, “I told you!! Why didn’t you listen to me?!?” and then I wake up in a mess of sweat and tears. 

When the evening had descended, I found my way to the Christmas tree. Still decorated and lit, it provided the only illumination in the room. I sat down beneath it, looking up into the branches, and I started to cry. Not because I’m going through anything particularly difficult, not because my life is any more stressful or despondent than anyone else’s – I simply let out the average weight of the world on any adult’s shoulders right now. 

The tears came quietly, and it wasn’t a terribly awful cry – it was mostly from sheer exhaustion and years of worry. When I looked at the Christmas tree though my tears, the sensation was bracingly familiar, and suddenly I was a kid beneath the tree again, hiding from some act of shame or ostracization, something that made it clear that I was very different and very alone, and that not even my family could keep me company. I felt the same loneliness and isolation that I had in my childhood, and in a way that no one else seemed to share or understand. 

Part of me understood that I was probably just tired. Tired of worrying all the time without any breaks of hope or relief. Tired of being afraid and trying to find solutions and only finding blame. Tired of canceling trips and plans and simple dinners with family and friends. Tired of trying to find some semblance of peace and beauty and warmth in this amazingly fucked-up world. Tired of attempting to make any sort of sense of it all. 

There, in the tear-stained glassy visage of Christmas lights and ornaments, where branches blurred with bulbs, I sat in silent wonder and condemnation, unable to see a way out, letting this day of defeat wash over and then through me.

My favorite childhood memories often involved a sleeper – that fuzzy one-piece romper that served as both pajamas and lounge wear for those aged five to ten years old. In the fall and winter, it was the cozy outfit for holidays and weekends, when a new one had shiny and slick soles that allowed you to slide across the carpet as if on ice. On Christmas vacations, my brother and I would spend days in this easy outfit, sometimes even wearing it under a snowsuit to go outside. 

Come summer, the memory was a different sort; when it came time to finally put away the sleeper for the season, the sudden cool feel of sheets against naked feet was a forgotten thrill that made me appreciate the months of confinement all the more. 

 A magical thing, the sleeper. 

This is The Lodge.

It is a candle, and more than that it is a frame of mind. 

In our attic it glows and scents the space with what can only be described as winter.

Pine and smoke and embers ~ the coziest portions of the slumbering season. 

It is a small consolation for the bitter cold of late, but a powerful one at that. A small light that strikes through the immensity of night. A small source of heat that cuts through the iciest edge. 

The Lodge conjured in the mind can be the one that staves off the worst of winter. It is there when we curl in on ourselves right before forcing ourselves awake and out of the warmest bed. It is there when we pull our arms tightly in front of us on the afternoon walk in the wind. It is there to save us when we slip out of our clothes and into the brief interim of brittle, unprotected air before jumping into the shower or bath. 

I like The Lodge. The candle and the idea. The light and the power.