The Hyggelig Journey

There was always a door. Not wide, not narrow — simply there, as doors tend to be. People filed through it in decent clothes and decent thoughts, offering each other smiles approved by custom and time. I watched from a few paces off, not out of defiance, but because something in me paused. They said I could enter, if I wished. It would only cost a nod, a small silence, a looking away. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to fit in. Just enough to be invited to the right tables and clapped on the back by the right hands. But there were others — figures without names, without ease, the sort who carry their whole lives in their eyes. They were not welcome. Not at that table. Not beyond that door. And I, for reasons I could never quite translate into speech, could not leave them behind. So I stayed outside. Not with banners, not with noise — only with presence. They say one must choose: to be included by excluding, or excluded by including. I made my peace with the latter. It is quiet...

Walking is more than movement — it is a return, a quiet homecoming. Before words, before thought, there was this: the body in motion, footsteps pressing into the earth, the world unfolding with each step. To walk in nature is to nourish something deep within us, a hunger we often do not name, but feel — the hunger to belong, to breathe, to be whole again. Perhaps we seek solitude — not the heavy solitude of locked rooms and stagnant air, but one that is alive, that breathes with the trees and hums with the wind. In nature, we are alone yet never lonely. The sky stretches vast above us, untroubled by our worries. The rustling leaves whisper that we need not rush. Here, in this quiet, there is a rare gift: the freedom to simply be. Or is it movement we long for? The body, so often contained — trapped in chairs, stiffened by routine, shaped to fit a world of straight lines — rediscovers its grace in the simple act of walking. The spine unfurls, the breath deepens, the arms swi...

There was a time when belonging was not something we questioned. It existed in the quiet fabric of daily life — in the rhythm of familiar streets, in the nods exchanged with neighbours, in the unspoken understanding that we were part of something beyond ourselves. Then, without fanfare, something changed. We became preoccupied with independence, mistaking it for strength. We prized self-sufficiency but overlooked its cost. We withdrew, ever so slightly at first, until distance became the norm. Belonging was no longer assumed; it had to be curated, managed, explained. We speak now of connection, yet we skim the surface of relationships, hesitant to wade too deep. And yet, belonging has not disappeared. It lingers in the spaces between our hurried lives, waiting to be recognised. It is there in the warmth of a hand steadying another, in the kindness that expects nothing in return. It exists in the simple, human acts we too often dismiss — preparing a meal for someone else, li...

Hygge is a Danish concept that describes the feeling of comfort, cosiness, and well-being found in simple, pleasurable moments. In Brazil, it can be felt in the gentle sway of a hammock on a veranda, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the warm breeze flowing through an open window, or the lush greenery of tropical plants. More than just a lifestyle, hygge is a state of mind that fosters relaxation and emotional balance. I first encountered hygge twenty years ago when one of my best friends, Kasper Nymand , introduced me to the concept. Since then, I have understood how deeply it aligns with the principles of Chinese Medicine, particularly in relation to the balance of Shen (mind), the most subtle manifestation of Qi (vital energy). When Qi becomes scattered or stagnant due to stress, symptoms such as insomnia, anxiety, and mental fatigue emerge. Creating a welcoming environment and embracing moments of pleasure and rest are essential to restoring this balance and st...

The pandemic has drawn a veil between us and those we love. Friends, family, faces once so close now seem like shadows of a memory that insists on slipping through the cracks of time. But physical distance need not mean absence – there are invisible threads that stitch us together, even when touch is denied. Inside the home, where life pulses within familiar walls, why not seek the warmth of togetherness? Cooking together, blending flavours and laughter, letting the aroma of a well-prepared meal awaken a sense of belonging. And for those who find refuge in the sacred, why not turn the home into a temple, allowing faith to drift gently through open windows? What is essential, that never fades. It endures, silent yet strong, in the simple act of remembering that, in some way, we remain together.