How to Hygge With What You Have
by Tana Tymesen
If you haven’t yet been told you HAVE TO go hygge by a national publication, what in the world are you reading?
Hygge is a Danish word — and concept — that the U.S. and U.K. have transliterated and condensed to mean “cozy,” and are adopting at breakneck pace to help guide us all through the winter doldrums. Many pieces written on the craze simplify its pronunciation to “hoo-gah” but to my ear it sounds closer to “hew-gahr,” if you soften your mouth and imagine you’re forming words around a few marbles.
New York City isn’t terribly keen on enjoying the outdoors in January and February. Sure, there are passels of people in the parks the day after a big snowstorm, enjoying their turns tobogganing down the hills, but winter here is treated as more of an inconvenience; it’s something to trudge through and hide away from.
When I returned from the Midwest after Christmas, I resolved to trudge less. Why not, I thought, try this wacky fad that has overtaken our shores? What could it hurt?
Everything I read indicated the magic lies in twinkly lights, unscented candles, chunky sweaters, fuzzy socks, and warm blankets. Three out of five ain’t bad. My bank account’s a little too sparse at the moment to engage in wholesale redecorating project, so while hoodies could replace chunky sweaters, I’d have to buy some candles. I decided to start this project last Saturday.
Saturday
I lay in bed for awhile, dreading the cold and knowing I need to run, both for me and for hygge. I think about running in my neighborhood, and then I think about running over the Queensboro Bridge, and neither of those options excite me. I have, however, been craving a run along the Hudson, from the World Trade Center to Battery Park. So that is what we do. Snow starts to fall as I head toward the train.
On my way up the stairs to Chambers Street, a guard watching the transfer of money from a MetroCard machine smiles at me and tells me to stay warm. Wind knocks my hood off, but can’t cut well enough through the layer of wind pants over my tights to cause much of a chill (another rule of hygge: dress for the weather). Hardly anyone is outside, and it’s perfect. It’s freezing and I can’t really open my eyes because there are tiny bits of ice blowing into my face, but the solitude is perfect.
True to the festivity of the city’s open spaces, the trees near Brookfield Place are wrapped in twinkle lights which ever-so-slightly brightens the gray backdrop and when the wind dies down, the waterfront is peaceful and placid. Being here, alone with my thoughts, isolated in a city of millions, reminds me why I love running in the winter.
Later, after a hot shower, I venture back outside for some groceries and the candles. One of my favorite local shops doesn’t have much left, but I want to support them, so I pick up a tiny candle in a tin labeled “Balsam” (I like scented candles) and head a few fronts down. Tucked away on a shelf well under my sightline, there’s a green soy candle in a mason jar, wrapped in twine with a charm that says “Brave.” This seems appropriate.
Our living room is already bedecked in Christmas lights, and most of the wood floor is covered with a dark blue, plush shag rug. Two lamps with soft yellow bulbs sit on end tables in opposite corners of the room, and blankets are draped over the back of every chair. My roommate and I curated the living room for maximum hygge before we’d ever heard the word.
I set my new candles in a cluster and light the few existing wicks around the room. The snow’s falling at a quick and steady pace, flakes swirling outside the window, and I brew coffee and curl into a wide chair — coincidentally fashioned in the Danish modern style — close to the ground with a fuzzy blanket and my new Twin Peaks book.
Hygge is for friends and fatty foods, so around 5 I leave my cozy cave. I pick up cheese and olives at Beecher’s and walk to an apartment on East 24th street. The roughly eight blocks is an eternity in the billowing snow. A pox upon all Manhattan shop owners who don’t shovel their walks! I give up picking up my feet to walk in favor of shuffling along in some kind of mutant snow-shoeing effort. The wind, pernicious New York City wind, is coming at me from all angles, spitting sprinkles of ice right into my eyes. I take a deep breath and make a conscious decision to try and enjoy this instead of wonder why in the everloving fuck I’m outside tonight.
Sunday
Being awake until 3 means I sleep until 10 and then lounge around my living room watching Twin Peaks until the sun gets low enough to light candles and turn on the soft lighting. I should’ve gone outside today.
My cousin and I have a quick text exchange. She lives in northern Idaho and is perpetually in training for annual Ironman competitions. TJ mentions running recently at 4:30 a.m. with a group of friends, bundled in snow clothes because the temperature outside was a brisk 1°F. I tell her she’s batty and then admit I’d likely do the same thing (see aforementioned run in the snow and ice). Still, 1°F in the doggishly cold hours before dawn takes special commitment.
More reading uncovers that anything that induces warm feeling is “hyggelig.” It could be a bike, a kitchen table, or saying hello to friends on the street. Curiously, strangers are not hyggelig, nor are politics or any aspect of conversation that would make someone uncomfortable. This is going to be more difficult than I thought.
Monday
Lighting candles in office buildings is generally looked down upon (due to a “violation” of “fire code”). I make some tea and put on a fuzzy hat, instead.
I didn’t run this morning, so I go at 4 pm, instead. It’s 22 degrees, and I’m wearing three layers of tops and two on the bottom. No one is outside. The best time to find solitude in a city of 8 million people is in the bowels of winter. Bird-foot-shaped clouds span the sky in a broad fan, its apex near the orange, setting sun. Sunset (and sunrise) on the harbor are consistently brilliant in winter, and I love working downtown for the access to the waterfront.
I light candles as soon as I get home and reheat some of yesterday’s jambalaya with an egg. I’m also making Swedish meatballs, but they won’t be ready in time.
Tuesday
The first thing I wake up to, after a gorgeous sunrise, is an article on intersectionality and the Women’s March planned for the day after inauguration. There are white women with hurt feelings who don’t hear Black women saying “These are our stories, these are our lives, they are important, please listen,” and instead see finger-wagging and whine about divisiveness.
I could let my mood sink, but I remember I am supposed to be finding happiness in the little things, so I resolve to keep this article in mind and keep fighting, but not allow whiny white women to ruin my day. I watch the sunrise for a few minutes, kneel on the floor, and fold into a deep child’s pose.
Tonight, President Obama says farewell to the country and Monique and I pour large glasses of Jamaican rum, sit with my Barack Obama Christmas Tree Ornament/totem and toast the only Black president we’re likely to see at this point. Occasionally, we break to weep. We were at both of his Inaugurations, and this hurts, even in the protective flicker of our candle clusters and inner warmth from the rum. She sits on the couch, and I’m next to her on the floor. I rest my head on her knee; she rests her head on mine. Even with each other, this hurts. We cue up “One Last Time” from Hamilton and listen on repeat until we’re pouring fountains of straight rum and Old Fashioneds and dancing around on the rug to the whole cast recording. She and I are our best selves when we’re dancing on this rug.
We’re pretty devoid of hope, but we’re happy enough to have each other, and sleep eventually comes easily.
Wednesday
Ooof, it’s hard to get up this morning. Tea is necessary.
Did you know the Danes take their share of of antidepressants? Self-care and mental health are important, and I’d caution the hygge hordes in the U.S. against internalizing that the key to mental stability is simply clusters of candles and very thick sweaters. But in everything I’ve read, only a couple articles mentioned pharmaceuticals. If you need antidepressants, TAKE THEM.
Thursday
Oh, boy. Ben Carson’s confirmation hearing for HUD secretary is decidedly un-hyggelig. Why is this country devoted to destroying my hygge?!
Many articles note that the Danish aren’t a fan of anything unhyggelig — anything that would cause discord, discontent or discomfort. This extends, also, to strangers. Some major characteristics of the hygge life are fantastic: welcoming winter as an old friend, rather than a hated step-sibling, goes a long way to keeping spirits afloat. But ultimately, I can’t divorce my life from politics, and the practice of avoiding tough topics is literally antithetical to my everyday reality.
My happiness in this moment lies in the fact that I have the cognizance and the platform (however small) to question these things.
Friday
I stretched a little farther this morning — folded over and reached for my toes. Today’s a short day in the office, because I have a doctor’s appointment. Also, decidedly un-hygge, but what *is* hygge is being fabulously childless for the next 12 years, and taking private insurance to Planned Parenthood. It also gives me a reason to stay in on a Friday night, painting in candlelight.
Saturday
The wake-up sun lamp that has been on the verge of failing me this winter, amazingly, did its job this morning. I stretch my hamstrings and back. Child’s pose is very basic, and very much my favorite. It’s time to run.
Afterward, I want to lay and watch TV, but I’m moving away from this city in two months, so cleaning takes precedent. I light a candle on my windowsill and shuffle empty notebooks into a waiting tote. The entire contents of my sewing basket gets sorted into another tote. I light the Pumpkin Pie candle and plug in the twinkle lights. The ritual of it is comforting in itself.
Michelle and Rachael come by for some much-needed lady time. We splay ourselves around the rug, order empanadas and watch “The Princess Bride” and “Clueless.” We talk about weddings, parents, horrible family members and swoon over Paul Rudd. After the girls leave, Monique and I charm her boyfriend into bringing us Wendy’s and cue up Healthy Junk Food videos on YouTube until we’re all asleep.
This week of hygge helped me appreciate the little happies every day. It also reminded me why it was so important for Monique and I to curate our living room as an oasis. The colors and textures help calm our souls. Find what makes you feel comfortable and run with it. Flicker your candles, twinkle your lights. Winter will eventually end.
Tana Tymesen is a writer and editor from the Midwest and both coasts. Her self-care includes long drives through rural Wisconsin, Instagrams of piglets, cheeses, and Bob’s Burgers. You can find more of her writing at tangentsandangles.com