The Element of Charm

It's subtle, specific, and softly unforgettable.

“Charm, in most men and nearly all women, is a decoration.”
— E.M. Forster

Charm is one of those words that resists definition. You know it when you feel it. It hums rather than shouts. It’s unbothered by approval. It arrives softly, and it always feels a little bit like a secret.

The dictionary offers: “the power or quality of giving delight or arousing admiration.” That’s a start. But charm is slipperier than that. It doesn’t aim to delight—it just does. It’s something you notice out of the corner of your eye, something that lingers in your mind for no good reason except that it was beautiful, or specific, or strange, or perfectly ordinary in a lovely way.

This weekend, I felt it in Iowa City.

There’s something so quietly captivating about a town that doesn’t try too hard to impress you—and ends up doing just that. Outdoor plant shops spill onto the sidewalks, lush with unruly ferns and boatloads of Bergs Pottery. Each pot slightly mismatched, a little sun-faded, a lot a bit perfect. The riverwalk is still in the mornings. Most days, you’ll pass someone you know—just a nod, a half-smile, and onward. No performance. Just rhythm.

It made me think: what does it mean to live a charmed life? Not a luxurious one. Not necessarily an easy one. But one built around the things that quietly enchant.

Charm lives in details like these:

• A handwritten sign with slightly crooked letters.

• A stack of old cookbooks behind the counter of a bakery.

• The faint smell of lilacs in the May breeze — even in the city.

• A place where people leave books in little free libraries.

• A customer greeted with “the usual?” before they’ve even said a word.

• An accent to a home that you didn’t expect. Like floral patterned drapes or a vintage wallpaper.

• Mismatched mugs stuffed into your cupboards, each one with a story.

• A long lunch at an outdoor café that turns into an even longer evening walk before you go home to make dins.

• A streetlamp turning on just before dusk.

• A secondhand book with someone else’s notes in the margins.

• A vase of flowers that look like they were gathered, not bought.

Our girl Nancy Meyers understands charm better than most. Her films don’t rush, they unfold—scene by scene, throw pillow by throw pillow. A linen apron, a copper pot, the sound of someone chopping herbs while music plays softly in the background—these are not just set dressing, they’re mood-setting. She gives weight to the mundane: making breakfast, rearranging flowers, opening a window just to let in the breeze. Her worlds remind us that charm lives in attention to detail, in the warmth of authenticity, in the small rituals that turn a house into a haven and turn people into humans.

Cultivating a charmed life doesn’t require reinvention. It asks simply for attention. To look, and really see. To make space for thoughtful enhancements. To move slowly enough to catch delight in motion. It’s less about aesthetic and more about staying in tune—to seasons, to textures, to people, to time.

Charm is the sound of a screen door on a summer’s evening, with cicadas chirping steadily in the background. It’s an old friend appearing in a new place (AKA seeing my best friend from childhood last week on the lake front out of the blue!!). It’s deliberate without being polished.

It doesn’t trend.
It lingers.

And when you find it—on a street corner in Iowa City, in a meal, in a moment—it’s worth pausing for.