Quotes to like or puzzle over: “There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.” ― James Salter, All That Is
“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. The cloud clears as you enter it. I have learned this, but like everyone, I learned it late.
“It’s a most painful thing, having to leave ‘home’. No matter where or what else it is to us, home is our haven, our safe place, our soul place, a place to refuel and launch into the world again and again. Home is something that we all always want to go back to; if we can’t go back, home is what we want to make again as quickly as we can, wherever we are.” Beryl Markham – West with the Night
Hygge (pronounced hue-guh not hoo-gah) is a Danish word used when acknowledging a feeling or moment—whether alone or with friends, at home or out, ordinary or extraordinary—as cosy, charming or special.
From my Danish roots, here comes that word that captures the feeling of warmth in a cold but beautiful clime. Ah yes, to visit there, to sit in front of the fireplace, stockinged feet up on the coffee table, books a tumble, hot chocolate in hand.
This is not cold when you have pleasured in a Winter’s Day, when the warmth of snow encircles, when tiny lights match the diamonds in the sun and moon-lit accumulations of snowflakes. That’s when your breath merges with air to make a whispered music. It’s not cold, when you’re not too old to make angels in the snow, when you can dream of other worlds where snowflakes ring like softened chimes.
That’s when someone’s mother makes the porridge with lemon and vanilla so that it, too, sparkles and sings in front of the red-cheeked children, fresh from sledding or skating, embraced by light worn as snow into the self of home.
That’s when Winter is childhood. When Winter is home.