Dictionary › 悠闲

悠闲

yōu xián

2-character word Traditional 悠閒

What 悠闲 means

1. leisurely
2. carefree
3. relaxed

Other readings

悠闲 is 多音字 — it is read more than one way, and the reading changes the meaning.

• yōu xiánvariant of 悠闲; leisurely

The characters in 悠闲

• 悠yōulong or drawn out; remote in time or space; leisurely
• 闲xiánenclosure; (variant of 闲; unoccupied

Example sentences

• 假期里，我度过了悠闲的日子。
  I spent idle days during the vacation.
• 我意识到虽然中国发展得很快，中国人还有比较悠闲的生活。
  Wǒ yìshí dào suīrán Zhōngguó fāzhǎn dehěn kuài, Zhōngguórén háiyǒu bǐjiào yōuxián de shēnghuó.
  I have come to realize that China is developing quickly but the Chinese people live a relatively leisurely life.
• 我意识到了中国正在快速地发展，但是相对而言中国人却过着悠闲的生活。
  Wǒ yìshí dào le Zhōngguó zhèngzài kuàisù de fāzhǎn, dànshì xiāngduì éryán Zhōngguórén què guo zhe yōuxián de shēnghuó.
  I have come to realize that China is developing quickly but the Chinese people live a relatively leisurely life.
• 我能用一句话描述中国，尤其是关于北京那样的大城市：中国是一个有悠闲生活并有快速生活的国家。
  Wǒ néng yòng yījùhuà miáoshù Zhōngguó, yóuqíshì guānyú Běijīng nàyàng de dàchéngshì: Zhōngguó shì yī gè yǒu yōuxián shēnghuó bìng yǒu kuàisù shēnghuó de guójiā.
  I can describe China, especially in relation to big cities like Beijing, in one sentence - China is a country whose pace of life is both fast and leisurely.
• 现在是 2025 年 8 月 3 日，露露岛。晚餐后，阳光下嫩绿的无花果，昨天腌制的甜醋，还有重新加热的阿尔弗雷多义面，我坐在阳台上，望着那棵针叶树。楼下静谧无声，街道空无一车，一片悠闲。我的冰镇青柠水在阳光下闪闪发光。最近，我常和那位法丹混血的 UFO 研究专家麦可聊天。我们谈论内心深处的事情：智慧型装置的迷醉，以及思维的衰退。他说，咖啡馆已经不再是咖啡馆了。人们忘记如何观察、如何驻足停留。我跟他讲起在日本的亚瑟，他会像僧侣凝视虚空一样，对着空白的墙壁发呆。最近，我让机器像诗人一样说话，它们真的做到了。它们模仿伊莉莎白时代的诗歌，以及塔加洛语民谣中那古老而忧伤的韵律。我沿着通往蒂姆霍顿咖啡店的小路采摘黑莓。我像个孩子似的喊道：「莫拉！」我的朋友莫拉，她血液里流着安地斯山脉的薄雾，她会笑的。今天，我买了黄柠檬。我本来想买青柠，但黄柠檬也可以。/ 黑莓的清晨 / 指尖残留无花果的痕迹 / 街道依然沉睡
  It's Lulu Island, 3 August 2025. After supper—green figs tender with sunlight, sweet vinegar from yesterday’s pickled jar, and reheated Alfredo—I sat on the balcony and watched the conifer. Stillness below, a street without cars, without haste. My lime water, iced, caught the light. Michael, the Franco-Danish ufologist, has been in my conversations lately. We speak of inner things: the trance of smart devices, the mind’s eye dwindling. He says cafés aren’t cafés anymore. People forget how to look, how to linger. I tell him of Arthur in Japan—how he'd stare into blank walls like a monk gazing at emptiness. Lately I ask machines to speak like poets, and they do. They mimic Elizabethan verses and the old wistful lilt of Tagalog ballads. I pick blackberries along the path to Tim Hortons. "¡Moras!" I shout like a child. My friend Mora, whose blood flows with Andes mist, would smile. Today, I bought lemons. I meant limes, but lemons are all right. / blackberry morning— / a fig's ghost on my fingers / and the street still sleeps