I was standing at the front door talking to Emily on the phone when I saw a flash of rusty-red walk through the prairie grass in front of the Cedars. He sat down like the canine that he is as I rushed to end the phone call to get my camera. When I returned to the window, he had snuggled into a little ball in the cozy grass.

It was a chilly and extremely windy morning, and everything about it foretold the blizzard the weather people were warning us about. There was a deep, damp chill, the kind that creeps into your bones no matter how many layers you pull on. The clouds were gray and low-hanging, pregnant with moisture. The wind blew with a fierceness that reminds us mere mortals that we are not in control of everything like we wish to be.

I opened the front door to get a better shot, but the colliding warm and cold air condensed to a fog on the storm door. He opened his eyes to watch me but didn’t move from his circle of warmth.

I thought to myself that this was hygge for a fox, for a wild creature that is always ‘in the elements.’ It was a cozy little space out of the howling wind where he could rest. Hygge (hue-guh) is a Danish and Norwegian word for a feeling or moment of coziness. It is an ‘everyday’ thing, not contrived or fanciful, but special nonetheless. My Danish and Norwegian grandmothers could magically create a kitchen table full of baked goods and delectable treats when we would stop by for a visit. It was ‘just a little lunch’ according to them, but it was a special feast to me, a cozy moment in time and memory.

In an attempt to hygge ourselves for the blizzard, Chris and I made a list and went to the store before the snow was supposed to start. I thought for sure our departure would spook the fox into running away, but the small ball of fur stayed curled in the grass. And when we returned, he was still there but had moved a foot or so into more coverage.

Every once in a while he would look up when he heard a car or the neighbor’s barking dog, but for the most part, it was a time for a Winter’s nap.

At some point, he turned around, curling in the other direction with his back to the wind and the impending snow.

The snow accumulated on his warm fur, then melted, and he licked the moisture off like a cat or dog would after coming in from the wet weather.

The little fox napped and rested in his cozy spot for over three hours, and just as I happened to see him come to the spot that day, I also happened to see him leave. The rest of the day was snowy and blowy with the temperature dropping into single digits with below zero wind chills. I wondered where he found his next cozy sleeping place.

The next morning, Christmas Eve morning, was clear and bright. We didn’t get as much snow as forecasted or as places to our south and east. But I spent a couple hours shoveling the drifts that had blown around the house and up the driveway.

I noticed the fox had returned, walking through the yard…

through the prairie grasses…

to the place under the Cedar trees and had curled up again for a little nap in the sunshine. Perhaps this time he watched me, a form of everyday, ordinary togetherness, even when we are not aware.

Hygge has a number of possible etymological origins. It may come from the Old Norse word ‘hygga’ which means ‘to comfort,’ which may also be the origin for ‘hugge’—to embrace or hug. It could come from ‘hyggja’ which means ‘to think.’ The Danish meaning of hygge is ‘to give courage, comfort, and joy.’ Like a hug does. Like watching a sleeping fox does. Like a Grandmother’s magical, delectable ‘little lunch’ does. In this special, magical holiday season, may we think of others–goodwill towards men. May we give comfort and joy. May we each have an everyday, ordinary circle of warmth—hygge—everyday, yet special nonetheless.