Origins
I had been waiting. I had almost been ready several times over the last few months, but the timing never felt right. Then, one ordinary evening, the inspiration I had been waiting for finally arrived; it was time to get down to business and start writing again. It was on a Friday evening in October, at the end of a long work week while I stood in front of the open kitchen window washing dishes.
There had been a catalyst of sorts beforehand that brought this about, which for me is to be expected. The universe is constantly nudging me along, sometimes painfully, which I humbly appreciate and accept. My husband had suddenly come down with the flu the afternoon before, the doctor happily announcing not only was it the flu but the first reported case of the season for the entire state. He was tucked into bed with fluids, meds, pillows, and hot pack on his feet, a cold pack at his neck. I made a hasty retreat to disinfect myself and pray to the baby Jesus I didn’t catch it, or worse, already have it.
After work the following day, I went through the house flinging back the drapes and opening all the windows to purge the stale sickness from the house. This was significant because our windows are always closed since we not only live in the allergy capital of the world, but it’s also hot and humid, even in October. Furthermore, living out in the sticks there is a menagerie of pests that will find their way through the screen windows by whatever measure it takes, and I’m convinced they will immediately set up housekeeping in my bed or under it. So, for good reason, the windows are shut, the A/C continuously running, and the drapes closed to keep the heat of the sun out. Except on this day.
The energy-sucking humidity of a long southern summer had at last lifted and I felt a sense of urgency to open all the windows for real genuine, honest-to-goodness fresh air! As the sun began to set, bugs be damned, the air became the most perfect, delicious temperature that refreshes us to the very depths of our soul. The kind of temperature where if you hold real still, your skin and the air against it become one and you feel the absolute essence of the earth having a direct conversation with your soul. I was in hygge heaven.
As I stood there at the kitchen sink, each breath of fresh, crisp air I took brought me back to my childhood in 1970’s Vermont. The nostalgia swept in, swift and sure, an awakening of my senses I hadn’t felt in years. In that moment I discovered where the deepest part of my soul lives and where I would begin my journey of The Hygge Girl, an adventure that begins by going back in order to live it forward, taking with me all the cozy, comfy essentials of my past that my hygge soul would need on my travels today and for each of the tomorrows. The memories are ones I hope to recall until my last day on this earth, memories that I hope everyone has from their childhood, and if they don’t, is the gift I would wish to give them.
I remember mom called them “good drying days.” The sky was blue, the air dry and warm with a slight breeze. It was summer vacation and by the time I was out of bed in the morning there was often a load of laundry hung on the pop-up umbrella clothesline in the backyard. I remember sometimes sitting in the grass under it while mom was hanging out sheets and towels, and picking up the clothes pins that occasionally slipped out of her hands. There was something so simple, wholesome and earthy about the smell of freshly laundered linens drying in the summer sun; the original aromatherapy for this wild child. Sometimes when the dried clothes were taken down and folded, she would leave up a square parameter of sheets and I’d spread out on an old blanket inside my sheet tent with my dolls and books, and that was my hide-away.
I think one of the best parts of childhood in the 70’s was the ability to be more connected to the earth. Maybe I was just shorter and closer to the ground, but all my memories involve grass, dirt, sand, water, trees, leaves, flowers, sun, clouds, rain and snow. My entertainment was found outside with only my imagination. You haven’t truly lived a proper childhood if you’ve never made mud pies that baked on a brick wall in the heat, or stirred up a watery concoction from leaves and berries. I occasionally would beg for a few onions and potatoes from the garden so my friends and I could make a “real soup.” Set behind our backyard, the woods was the best place to play with friends where we had set up our “house.” A bedroom was by one tree and the living room in the largest clearing, a fallen limb or rocks as our furniture. We used pine branches to sweep the dirt floor free of twigs and leaves, and one had to exit through the front door or risk getting hollered at for cheating by walking through a “wall,” even if your mom was calling you home for dinner.
One year, dad dug out space at the end of the house to put in the foundation for a two car garage, making a huge pile of dirt off to the side. As our house had been built on old pasture land, there was also a small pile of cow bones he unearthed in the process which greatly impressed us kids. I imagined all these cows dying where they stood since I had no knowledge of how these things worked. My brother would bring out his vinyl box of Matchbox® cars to the dirt pile and I was allowed to have a few of the older models that were already scratched up. We spent hours lying on our bellies, using our hands to build and smooth roads and tunnels for our cars. We were completely oblivious to everything, and it was probably the most amount of time I have ever spent with my entire body in direct contact with the earth. I recall later being sent straight to the bathtub and an amazing amount of sand coming off my body into the water, settling at the bottom, which seemed like a lot considering I was a skinny kid without many places for sand to hide except between my toes.
Interestly, I don’t recall being upset when bedtime rolled around, perhaps a product of having properly exhausted myself outside all day at that age, or a poor memory at this age. Some nights, if mom wasn’t too tired, there were “boosts” which resulted in a little “bounce” onto the bed, but not officially bouncing on the bed because, God forbid, beds were for sleeping, not bouncing. I still bear a small scar above my left eye, proof that mom was right about that, having taken a direct hit from a bedpost that came out of nowhere when I was four. Speaking of eyes, I remember a fair number of near misses growing up. There were ice ball fights in the winter (yet another childhood rite of passage taking a ball of actual ice to the eye), a “high-sticking” hockey incident to one of my brother’s eyes got him a cool eye patch, and with so many accidents it’s truly a wonder we both made it out of childhood with both eyes intact. But I digress.
After mom properly boosted me into bed, I would lie real still. She would pull the top sheet and blankets up over my face, and then neatly folded them down under my chin to tuck me in. Some nights, when it was hot and the air was thick with heat lightning, mom would turn the lights out and I would hold tightly to the sheet as she ripped the blanket back fast, separating it from the sheet. Sparks of static electricity would go snapping over me, making me screech with laughter as I felt the little stings race across my body!
Outside, planted beneath my bedroom windows was a mock orange bush. At night the smell of the sweet white blossoms would mix with the fresh crisp air-dried linens on my pillow which has to be the best smell in the world for a child to fall asleep to. Years later, dad decided the bush had become an overgrown nuisance, so he dug the entire thing out, root and stem. For some reason, it’s absence had a profound effect on me, and I never really understood why. I think there was a feeling of safety in how it guarded my windows from would be intruders and comfort in its familiar scent. I felt that it was my mock orange bush, and I hadn’t been asked permission to have it removed. I remember my room feeling very bare and exposed to the outside world; I’m probably the only kid that had a security bush instead of a security blanket. Now, more than 40 years later, a mock orange bush remains on my bucket list to plant someday to recreate that feeling.
I sat in awe that Friday evening as I pondered all those distinct childhood memories that bubbled up just from experiencing a single moment in time with a gentle night’s breeze. All these years later and I’m still that little girl inside that I thought I’d left behind, that I thought had to be left behind. Now I see that everything I ever was is part of my journey forward and growing old gracefully needs that little girl, now more than ever before.
People may advise not to dwell on the past, nor worry about the future, but rather to focus on the present. Being present in the present is perfectly sound advice, but for empaths like me that feel surges of energy all around, grounding ourselves can often be found by looking back. Stepping out of the present to study our individual pasts helps us find where we live within ourselves so that our fondest memories can be replanted into future experiences. You may not find me making mud pies these days but I might just go dig my toes into the sand.
I hope you’re enjoying a happy hygge childhood my friends.
