I think I have resigned myself to the fact that I’m never going to be cool zen in this lifetime. I can say ‘Namaste’ until the cows come home, and I’m still going to be the woman who gnaws her nails until they bleed and then starts tugging at the tender skin around them, too. It seems I’m just not destined to be one of those über chill types who can drop into a meditative state faster than she can scarf down a chocolate truffle, but it doesn’t stop me from aching for that kind of serenity – even dreaming about it. And maybe that’s a good way to start, by dreaming and hoping for that cozy, warm fuzzy feeling of hygge that everyone on social media seems to accomplish as easily as lighting a candle and turning on the Spa Channel on Sirius XM.

For me, for now at least, I have to be satisfied with glimpses of hygge, little snapshots of serenity, if you will. Like when night has fallen, but the wood stove is filled with hot coals and there is still a small pile of split wood sitting nearby, ready to keep the room warm and cozy even after I surrender to sleep.

I get a glimpse of hygge after I’ve fed the lambs and changed their diapers and with their last burst of energy, they’ve catapulted themselves onto the sofa and have snuggled in with their heads on my lap. Their breath is soft and warm on my hands as they snooze contentedly, and I know these moments are rare, fleeting, and magical. As I nuzzle their fuzzy heads, I feel a sense of hygge.

Sometimes the feeling comes early in the morning, when I’m the only one awake besides Mortimer, the cat. If I’m lucky, I can brew myself a ridiculously big mug of Irish Breakfast tea colored warm and golden with cream and lightly sprinkled with pumpkin spice. In the silence of the morning and before I’ve had a chance to think about checking email or social media, the cat and I sit on the sofa by the fire in cozy companionship, awake enough to enjoy the moment of shared solitude but dreamy enough to feel like a secret bonus addendum to slumber.

Try as I might, I cannot seem to make those magical moments last, and the glimpses of hygge become something I yearn for when I am heading into town with two armloads of burden and a head filled with grocery and TO DO list items that must be addressed before I can work my way back over Bob’s Bridge and make another attempt at becoming a tranquil human being who might one day actually know what it feels like to go into a meditative state for more than One Mississippi or Two. Maybe the elusiveness of hygge is part of its lure to uptight Americans like me who long for it, strive for it, and only catch an occasional glimpse of the magic of its charms.