It was an impromptu dinner. I’d been working on installing kitchen cabinets at my current project and didn’t realize it was getting close to dinner time. I thought I’d better at least check-in with my girls.
The house I’m working on is located in the mountains. With 20 acres of pasture, pine trees, a canyon and a creek, it’s breathtaking and serene. And the cell service is terrible.
It’s not at all unusual to miss calls or for texts to go undetected. Today was no exception. My mom had texted to say the girls could eat with them and she’d send dinner home for me. She knew I would probably be working late and could use some food.
As it turned out, I needed a plumbing fitting and the hardware store was closed. So I unplugged all of the tools, made sure everything was ready for the carpet installers first thing the next morning and went to join my family for dinner.
My parents live in a quaint little cabin, surrounded by pine trees. Though the towering trees obscure much of their view of the mountain, the air is heavy with the scent of pine. It’s the clean, crisp, piney smell that makes you want to pause, breathe deeply and give thanks that you are alive.
This night, however, I did not take time to stop and breathe. I hurried into the house, drawn by the thought of my mom’s enchiladas and the indistinct voices of my family. They’d started without me. Dark would not descend for another two hours and it never occurred to anyone that I might call it a day before then. They know me, know how I get when pushing to complete a project.
My sweet mom fixed me a plate while I washed up, then I joined my parents and three of my daughters at the table.
I intended to eat, clean up the dishes and then head home. I was tired and a long list of neglected tasked awaited me. But I didn’t do this.
Instead, we laughed that night. Deep, belly laughs that made us double over as tears filled our eyes. We took turns in the massage chair. We ate ice cream. The girls played Xbox with Grandpa. We inspected Grandma’s latest quilt.
We played Tripoli, a card game, meant to be played with chips. But in keeping with our family tradition, we played with pennies. I used to wonder if I was teaching my kids to gamble, but I’ve learned to lighten up. As a child, sitting next to my Gramps and serving as his banker, I learned to play the game. Gathered around a table, talking, laughing, teasing. Always teasing.
These are the threads, woven together that form the fabric of our family, creating something that is at once strong and yet soft and warm, something we can wrap around us, for protection, for comfort. It’s both cozy and fun.
The Dutch have a word for this. Gezillig. (Pronouned He-zell-ick) It’s widely considered to be untranslatable. In English, we simply do not have an equivalent word. Even descriptions somehow fall short. Perhaps the closest word in our language would be “cozy”. But even that can’t capture the essence.
The evening spent with my family was certainly “gezellig”. It was cozy, comforting, homey and imparted a general sense of well being. Gezellig can also mean “fun”. In that sense too, our evening was gezellig. It can mean quaint, friendly, or nice. It connotes togetherness. People, places and situations can all be described as gezellig.
It’s an inviting fire in the fireplace, good food and good conversation around a table. It’s lying in the bed of a pick-up truck looking at the vast array of stars, or holding a new born baby. It’s an inviting living room or restaurant. It can be a party, with laughter and dancing. A wedding. The most ordinary of places, even cold, stark places can be made gezellig by the people who share it. It’s another form of beauty.
I am certainly not a linguist, and my Dutch friends might think I’ve got it all wrong, but it seems to me that gezellig describes the feelings evoked by a person, place or situation more than it describes the actual things. It’s feelings of contentment, comfort, home, safety, fun, joy, and belonging.
Maybe defining “gezellig” isn’t really the important thing. Maybe finding it, making room for it, creating it is; silencing the tyranny of the urgent, both externally in our schedules, and internally in our souls.
For some, this may come easy. But for others, like me, it requires intention. It takes discipline. Gezellig isn’t found in the busy and driven nor in our “to-do” lists or the tasks that demand our attention.
I hear your protests. They roll off of my own lips too. I know the dishes need done, laundry needs folded, bills need paid. I see the dust on the buffet. And these things would define my life if I let them.
But life is fleeting. One day, my parents will no longer be with us. The girls, those still at home, may choose to make their lives elsewhere. Impromptu dinners and game nights at Grandma’s house will be but a distant memory and times together might be reduced to a few vacation days once or twice a year.
In those days, when I recall the distant days of my life, I am confident that I won’t remember the laundry that should have been done, or the door knob that needed fixed. No, the memories that last will be gezellig. Time spent with family or friends, eating, laughing, sharing, playing. I will see those faces and hear those voices once again. I will be thankful that I made time and space for these gezellig moments.
