The Holy Hedonista

There is a woman I keep meeting. In kitchens, in gardens, in the back rooms of old houses. Occasionally in the mirror. She does not have a name that anyone has taught us, so I have given her one.

I call her the Holy Hedonista.

Who she is

She is the woman who knows that pleasure is not a reward. It is not something you earn after the work is done, the house is clean and everyone else has been looked after. Pleasure, to her, is a form of devotion. A way of paying attention to being alive.

She takes her time over breakfast. She notices the smell of rain on the stone step. She buys the good bread, and the flowers, and the ridiculous candle, and she does not apologise. She lights the fire on a Tuesday for no reason at all. She sits in the bath until the water goes cold, and then runs more hot.

She is not greedy. That is the thing people get wrong about her. The Holy Hedonista is, if anything, rather modest in her wants. She simply refuses to let small joys go unnoticed. She savours.

The Holy Hedonista does not ask whether she deserves the pleasure. She asks whether she is paying attention to it.

Why she is holy

We have inherited some peculiar ideas about pleasure, especially women. That enjoying things is frivolous. That wanting is selfish. That real virtue involves going without, and that a good woman is a tired one.

And yet, if you look at almost every old tradition of the sacred, it is full of pleasure. Feasts, wine, honey, incense, music, dancing, flowers heaped on altars, oils rubbed into skin. The sacred was not only found in going without. It was found in the fullness of the senses, offered back with gratitude.

That is the holiness of the Holy Hedonista. Her pleasures are not distractions from meaning. They are meaning. When she slices a ripe fig and pauses to look at the inside of it, that is a kind of prayer.

How she lives at home

You can often tell when a Holy Hedonista lives in a house. Not because it is lavish (it rarely is), but because it is so clearly enjoyed.

• There is at least one chair that is far more comfortable than it needs to be.
• The glasses are good, and they are used on ordinary days.
• Something is always in flower, even if it is only a sprig of rosemary in an egg cup.
• There is a drawer, somewhere, dedicated entirely to chocolate.
• The bath has candles around it, and they have been lit.
• Nothing is kept "for best". Every day is quietly treated as best.

Her home does not perform for the outside world. It is not arranged for photographs or visitors. It holds her life from within. And it is, almost always, one of the most welcoming places you will ever sit down in.

What she is not

She is not the woman in the magazine who has turned self-care into another list of things to buy and do perfectly. She is not optimising her mornings. She is not competing with anyone.

She is also not reckless. The Holy Hedonista knows the difference between pleasure and numbing. A glass of prosecco savoured in the garden at six o'clock is a pleasure. A bottle drunk alone to make the day disappear is something else, and she knows it. Her pleasures bring her more fully into her life, not further away from it.

Recognising her in yourself

You may already know her. She is the part of you that sighs with relief when you take your shoes off. The part that lingers over the first sip of coffee. The part that has always, secretly, wanted to eat cake for breakfast on a Sunday.

Or she may be very quiet in you, perhaps silenced a long time ago by someone who told you that wanting things was unbecoming.

Either way, she is worth getting to know. Start small. Tonight, choose one ordinary thing and do it with your full attention. The first bite of supper. The warmth of the mug in your hands. The feeling of clean sheets. Notice it. Savour it. Say thank you, to no one in particular.

That is where she lives. And you do not have to know who she is before you meet her. You may simply recognise her, when she arrives.