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in good company in the country
home, hygge, story

In Good Company

I admit. I’m tired.

A few nights ago, a friend asked me what I had done during the days just before seeing her, and I honestly paused in disbelief because I couldn’t quite remember.

With the over-worked and over-connected world in which we live in, it’s no wonder more and more of us are seeking pause and refuge. And refuge as derived from the French word meaning “to flee.”

I was speaking with a HR rep who said she, and her 50 person fund-of-funds firm (with oh, just billions in assets), had been practicing a Japanese act of purging excess (aren’t we all just a little ironic?)

She says the practice asks you to sit with something you own to determine whether or not you absolutely LOVE IT because if you don’t LOVE IT, it challenges you to purge it instead.

I thought how fascinating it is that every culture has a practice to convey the same thing: the desire for less and meaning.

For me, Danish hygge is just that. A practice that is linked to the idea that real wealth is not what we can accumulate over time but what we have to share with others, and only if we LOVE IT.

I had an opportunity a few weeks back to disregard my iCal and jump in a rental to simply be with friends. Some of them I hadn’t seen in years. Others, only via Facetime.

Was it an easy decision? No. I thought, but what will it cost? How will I get back for my appointments on Wednesday? Do I have the right shoes? (Really)

And then I paused and thought of each of those familiar faces I hadn’t seen. And how much I LOVE them.

Life goes by so fast that, if we’re not careful and sensitive to it, we miss it.

I will never forget that one weekend spent learning about farm and field and moving cattle in the afternoons. Feeling the mug in the air from an early summer coming.

Early evenings cooking food together and honoring their sources. Laughing and playing until our eyes were closing and sleeping in until you could smell the coffee brewing.

The taste of fresh cow’s milk. The smell of crimson strawberries. The scare of ticks on our skin.

That weeping willow.

The sweetness of old memories.

The looking forward’s

 

turquoise seas of amalfi coast seas for lifestyle blog fred darling
home, story, travel

Turquoise Seas

I remember leaning my head out in the wind, while driving along the high cliffs, day dreaming over turquoise seas of Amalfi.

I wondered about living off a lighthouse nearby and writing about the people from up high.
What I imagined their lives to be like, their hopes, their loves.

It’s probably why I fell for pretending to be a thousand personalities but longed for a place to belong to all at the same time. My parents believe the best gifts you give are trips to see the world and that’s what we did. I say they instilled in us a wonder for people and lust for places near and far.

How fitting that I would end up in a city like New York. Where one can pry, and disappear, all at the same time.

 

 

Image by Mike Perkins 

red hot american days painting nude art pleasantville hollywood american film fred darling
home, story

Red Hot American Days

Holly Golightly: I’m like cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don’t even belong to each other.

I was born to bright swirls of yellows and greens in the sky, blue bright waves crashing by, Brasil.

My mother remarried and we moved to the States for a safer place to live. When we did, I wanted to be everything American too, like our new grandmother Patsy. A beloved nurse, a wife to a war hero, she was just like the movies.

My sister and I didn’t speak much English then, and we’d sit quietly on the bed watching Patsy put on her drop earrings last. When they came, we were ready.

I’ll never forget our summers spent with her in Texas at the lake. Red hot American days spent eating ice cream and renting VHS tapes from Patsy’s favorite place, the local library.

I remember rushing home to watch Hepburn, Taylor, Vivien Leigh say things and feel things we couldn’t possibly understand.

The only thing that quenched our thirst more then, were Patsy’s famous ice cold, pink lemonades.

The title of this blog is a tribute to her, to American film and the stories of our lives.

 

 

Image from Pleasantville