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Om te Hygge

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My suster stuur vir my ‘n e-pos met interessante woorde
wat basies onvertaalbaar is
en net so in die oorspronklike gebruik word.
Eintlik is dit leefstyle wat in woorde saamgevat word.
Onder andere Hygge.
Die Deense woord vir ‘n leefstyl
wat koesterend, sorgsaam en intiem is.
Wat vra dat jy die oomblik waarin jy is,
hoe eenvoudig ook al,
sal geniet
en die waarde van “dit stadiger vat”
nie onderskat nie.
Ek sit ‘n lang ruk daarna en kyk.
Is dit net iets in die lug,
deel van die groter “collective consciousness”, of bloot ‘n nuwe gier?
Iets wat deur stylghoeroes herontdek en afgestof is?








Sy weet nie dat ek nou al vir byna 2 weke materiaal versamel oor Hygge nie.
Aanhalings, foto’s, artikels.
Ek het effens teruggehou omdat ek gedink het
dit mag half onvanpas wees om hier aan die begin van die lente daaroor te skryf;
Hygge is baie tuis in die winter
kom dan tot sy of haar reg.
Waarskynlik is dit waarom dit my reg van die begin af,
toe ek dit die eerste maal raakgelees het,
so aangetrek het.
Ek floreer in die winter,
daardie seisoen van inkeer, stilte en koestering.
Hygge gee uitdrukking aan wat ek
nog altyd net instinktief geweet het.
Sulke woorde is kosbaar.

Daarom skryf ek ook nóú,
in die lente, daaroor.
Dit kan nie skade doen indien ons baie
van die elemente daarvan
heeljaar toepas nie.
Selfs nadat die huidige leefstylgier
oorgewaai het
en mense in die nuwe seisoen begin
ola of toeda of clinu
(hulle sal wel ‘n woord uitdink)
sal ek doodgewoon wil aangaan om te Hygge.
Dis immers wat ons lewe hier op Barrowfield
nog altyd so lekker gemaak het.

En net om my met die
lente-Hygge te help
kom ek op dié gedig van TT Cloete af.
Ek kon dit nie beter sê nie.

Sondagoggend

Wat is in die weer?

Ons sit daar en praat
en swyg in die tuin, meer
swyg. Uit die hemel en straat
en die buurt assimileer

ons. Die lyster kom sit en pik
wurms uit die gras, die honde speel
tussen die blomme wonderlik
rooi en wit en –geel.

Ons velvoel die son se prik.

Ons fotosinteer met die blare,
sit en kyk hoe die buurvrou
oorkant met die glansende hare
haar lieflike kind vashou
in haar liefderike vrugbare jare.

Ineens is daar ‘n kosbare hartseer
in die gras, in die voëls, die lelies
en blare, in die weer,
in die lughemel, in die bries.
Niemand sê iets meer.

Daar kom ‘n tyd so delikaat
dat ‘n enkele uur die waarde
van ‘n ganse lewe het, ‘n oordaad
so gelade, dat die mees bedaarde
lispel dit kan stukkend praat.


So, dankie Ella, vir daardie laaste stootjie.


George






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