The reflection of siesta

There are words that don't exist, but need to be invented.

The other day, while chatting with colleagues, we were talking about words that exist in English but not in Dutch, and vice versa. It all started because I'd heard that there isn't a word for "mind" in either German or Dutch. There are words for consciousness, head, thoughts, brain, but none for "mind."

Someone mentioned zeitgeist , which is—in short—the general culture of a specific time and place. It was difficult to explain at first, but an example made it easier to understand: "Having an authoritarian boss was part of the zeitgeist of the early 20th century." Naturally, the German word Schadenfreude came up – meaning to take pleasure in the misfortune of others, which is also an internet meme.

At that moment, it occurred to me that there are also feelings that defy definition, yet are so common they deserve a name. I remembered an afternoon with my wife—who was my girlfriend at the time—when we were doing nothing, relaxing on a sofa, on a summer Sunday in Paraguay. And she said to me, "I like how the light comes in through the windows; it reminds me of siestas at my grandmother's house."

With a little attention, I understood what she meant. For me, it was the "color of Sunday." And it can be perceived in different scenes, walking along a tree-lined, empty street at noon, or resting under the shade of a mango tree, or several other trees in a park.

How do you explain what the color of Sunday is? How do you share this with someone who hasn't experienced it repeatedly enough to identify it without words?

It's more than just visual; it's a phenomenon that's visually identifiable but perceived with the whole body. As for sounds, it's characterized by a peculiar silence, like the one that follows a hectic morning. To the touch, it's a warm breeze that relieves the heat just enough to allow you to rest. And to the nose, it's the scent of dry air carrying pollen and the dust characteristic of summer.

A typical early summer morning, on any given day, will be teeming with all sorts of noises and sounds. Birds singing, people working, traffic with noisy motorcycles and cars going at different speeds, some fast and others very slow, the ever-present honking of those in a hurry. The advertising shouts of the "chipa" truck with its megaphone on the roof. In other times, the clatter of mares pulling a cart. And on a Sunday, the sound of someone sucking the last drop of tereré, making the yerba "whistle" (another word that deserves to exist). The characteristic murmur of people talking in the distance, whether relatives visiting, filling the house, or groups walking in a park. It's the distant murmur of families, with adults conversing, children shouting, running, crying. And everyone, eventually, laughing. The sizzle of meat freshly placed on the fire, the grill master pouring himself a drink, and the coals crackling and heating up.

All this comes before the moment when the "color of Sunday" can be perceived.

When noon arrives, after a good meal – usually a homemade "asado" (because barbacue is not the same), by someone who came early to enjoy the busy Sunday.

After the applause for the grill master – present at every family lunch. When everyone feels that deep and overwhelming gratitude, because today – on a day of rest – someone came to endure not only the heat of the day itself, but also the heat of working the grill in 35C-degree (~95F) heat in the shade.

After everyone is satisfied and looks for a place to rest, a place in the shade, or under a fan that already spins slowly because it is old, and worn out from so much use in so many intense summers.

At that moment, when the sun is at its zenith, and slowly begins to descend, when direct sunlight does not reach any window, because the sun is directly above everyone, crowned as the king of the day.

At the hottest time of day, with full bellies and everyone asleep.

The street comes to a standstill, the birds fall silent, and the leaves rest in the gentle breeze that offers some respite from the heat. At that moment, everything is bathed in light, as the sunlight reflection that comes up from the floor fills every corner – all the shadows are hidden indoors.

At that moment you can identify a peace, a general stillness – which for me – can happen any day, but I started to notice it on Sunday, that is the moment when the siesta reflects its peace.

There's no word for that peace, that knowing and feeling that everything is alright, that family is close, and friends too. A place where there's no point in worrying about anything, because there's nothing to do.

In Spanish, the word siesta cannot be translated into English, because it is not only "nap" but also "noon," and the reflection of the siesta is something that can only be seen when even the leaves of the trees rest their midday nap.

I was recently asked what I miss most about Paraguay, and all I could answer was my family. Because I still didn't know how to put into words what, for me, is the essence of Sunday, which my wife and I decided to call the reflection of siesta.