SLOVENIA'S 5 CORE VALUES

The sun was slowly sinking behind Pohorje, and there was that smell of mown grass in the air that instantly takes you back to your childhood.

"Back then," she began, "we were out all day. Our front garden was the heart of summer. We spread our blankets on the soft grass, lay on them in our swimsuits and caught the sun. Some of us had towels over our faces, others were reading, others were clutching a guitar and strumming softly in the shade. Nothing was forced. There was no race or competition to see who could do more, less or simply nothing. It was just us, the sun and the feeling that we had everything we needed."

On an old table made of unfinished planks, there was a jug of elderflower juice that my grandmother used to make every year. It was usually accompanied by a few pieces of bread and a plate of apricots or some other seasonal fruit. From the stadium, you could hear the echoes of the ball and the distant cheering. Time passed slowly but pleasantly.

In the afternoon, someone from the company suggested that we go for a joke lap around the stadium. Instantly, there were calls to do five, even ten laps, to make it more interesting. But my mother Lidija just nodded smilingly and said: 'If we go all the way, we'll be lying half-dead tomorrow. One lap will be enough to get some sleep and the sun will still be waiting for us when we come back."

They ran slowly, laughing and sprinkling water from a bottle someone had left by the fence. When they got back to the garden, they lay down on the blankets again. The sun was still warm, but there was that feeling of pleasant tiredness in the air that doesn't take away your will for the rest of the day.

When the heat subsided, they moved to the shade of a pear tree. Someone was slicing apricots, while another was stirring the juice in a jug. Laughter mingled with the strumming of a guitar and a slight breeze that brought the smell of cut grass. No one was pushing for new challenges, no one was looking for something more. Everything was just right.

"You know," my mother told me, "moderation is not boring. It makes you remember more good moments. If we had overdone it then, we would only remember how exhausted we were, but even now I remember the warmth of the sun on my skin, the sweet taste of apricots and the feeling that nothing was missing."

Listening to her, I imagined the scene as a photograph: young people scattered on blankets, some of them with their eyes closed, the sun breaking through the leaves of a pear tree, and the peace that only summer can give when you know how to live slowly. And then I really saw it - an old photograph that took me back to that time and that garden, where moderation was natural and happiness was simple.

Zala Krupljan, 1. 8. 2025