In this tucked away place, I feel like the only person around. Maybe I am. I haven’t seen a soul all morning. I look up as the wind makes the tree tops dance and sway. They creak as their branches rub together in response. The fallen pine needles conceal the sound of my footsteps, but not entirely, as I catch sudden movement to my left. A Red Squirrel dashes across the forest floor, scurrying up the nearest trunk to get a better view of the outsider. But his/her alarm system remains silent. No threat here. “Hello there little one,” I whisper as I continue my search for a sit spot. 

The quality time I’ve been waiting for has finally arrived. My chance to wander the winter wood and revisit a place we discovered last year. Barren branches twist and bend toward the sky like arthritic, skeletal hands, creating a tangled garden wall that closes off this small patch of forest from the rest, creating this perfect circle. I have to duck my way in to clear the entryway the deer have made into this isolated hideaway. It’s chilly, but I’m cherishing this morning of solitude and silence. 

All I want for Christmas is already here. The thought flashes through my mind as my back nestles against the thick, chunky trunk of a pine. A group of geese fly low overhead, obscured by an overcast sky. Their honking disrupts the silence that surrounds me. Snow starts to fall ever so lightly. It tinks against the fallen leaves that still remain.

It seems so simple – the wish for a walk in the woods, the feel of a winter wind on exposed cheeks, the crisp, clean air filling my lungs, the familiar scent of pine diffused beneath a canopy of trees. The desire to be uninterrupted. 

Just a few days where life is reduced to a rustic cabin, feeding a wood stove, eating hearty chili on repeat, and a worn, wooden table to spend time at – talking, reading, writing. No computers, no phones, no television screens. And each day, I am free to wander. No concern for clocks, decisions, or deadlines – just following the sun from dawn to dusk.

This winter cabin stay has become an annual tradition of ours – born from my love of a particular place and the need for a seasonal reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the holidays. We long for some quality time together disconnected from the screens we’re stuck to all year long, all week long – laptops for work, phones for scrolling, and TV to occupy our overworked and exhausted minds. 

My Christmas list begins and ends with this. 

There’s an automatic feeling I get that starts in November. Everything becomes “too much” – no matter the year, no matter what I do, no matter how much I don’t do. It’s smothering to me, the intensity of what the holidays have become in our society of insatiable consumption. There’s this general sense of anxiety, overwhelm, and irritation – even when I hermit away. If my work-life balance is off-kilter, it only compounds these feelings. 

The last few years, we’ve been working to break away from the chaos and madness that has become the standard holiday procedure. Though, deprogramming from the not-so-merry matrix was harder than we thought. We had no idea how enmeshed we were until we began to untangle ourselves from it. What we thought would be something immediate, was, in fact, not. For those around us, it seemed like a “war on Christmas” with Scrooge-like tactics – opting out of what we should be doing, what we’re supposed to be doing, what everyone does and in what measure. It was met with confusion, resistance, guilt, shame, and backlash. 

Was it possible to opt out? To keep what replenishes us and abandon what causes physical, emotional, and financial stress? What parts are commercially driven? What parts are driven by joy? Can we stray from the norm? The shopping, decorating, cooking, cleaning, commuting, waiting in traffic and long lines, maxing out credit cards, losing your shit with incorrigible family members, forcing smiles, and attempting to be present while hiding the fact that we’re all exhausted, overwhelmed, anxious, irritable, stressed and strapped – for time and for money. We spread ourselves so impossibly thin trying to do everything all at once. And after all the gifts, there’s not much left to give. There is no break, no slow down, no rest. Everything in excess. 

It is only now, after our initial conversation years ago, that we’re moving ever closer to the simplification we seek. Voluntary simplicity in our complex, consumeristic world is a process. It requires more than just flipping a switch from that to this. It’s more gradual than immediate. A shift versus an abrupt halt. And the time we spend at the cabin is both affirming and reassuring that our desire to choose a simpler, more intentional life is what is right for us. However slow, we’re moving in the right direction. 

What I experience this time of year is not just a result of our desire to simplify. For me, as a child, the holidays stopped being merry and bright at a young age. My mother’s addiction, coupled with her toxic and increasingly abusive behavior tore open a void so vast and so infinite, that it swallowed our entire family and any memories we had of happier times together into its blackened oblivion – as if it had never existed at all. The only thing my sister and I were gifted from her thereafter, was the blunt-force truth of how motherhood, for her, was a major mistake. A tree was still decorated each year, but no longer with us. Presents towered on the loveseat next to it, but none of them were ours. Beneath it, was purposely left empty. I wonder if she believed taking away our gifts was what would hurt us the most. But the thing was, presents were never a priority for me. I was a child who rarely asked or wanted for much.

And because of that, my wishlists were always short. My favorite gift was nothing extravagant – it was a stuffed Pongo from 101 Dalmations. I named him Shadow, after the Golden Retriever from Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey. A movie I must have watched over a 100 times, maybe more. I took him everywhere with me – until his fur matted and turned gray, until his plastic eyes rubbed away, until he was falling apart. The two of us had some pretty incredible journeys ourselves. Shadow, coupled with an innate gift of a wild imagination was magic to this quiet, solitary child. I could be entertained for hours with just one stuffed friend and the forest as my playground. 

I was simple in my nature from the very beginning. But as I grew up, that simplicity was made to seem like a defect, something to correct rather than to embrace. It was abnormal to be content with less. To want very little. It was strange not to care much for the things that everyone else did. That wild imagination of mine lended a helping hand in getting really good at pretending I was like everyone else. Until, eventually, I was. It’s only now, over the last few years, that I have been re-discovering my authentic self – my identity, lifestyle, values and beliefs – and reconnecting with the person, mindset, and way of life that makes me truly happy. 

In my mother’s efforts to abolish our holiday happiness, it wasn’t the presents I missed. It was listening to Christmas records on repeat, singing and dancing around the living room. It was the way the tree lights lit up our faces in all their blinking glory. The special ornaments that we hung. Taking long drives in the country pick out our favorite Christmas decorations. Putting out the cookies and milk for Santa and making sure there were carrots for each of the reindeer. Sitting up in bed with my sister and listening for the hoof stomps on the roof, swearing that we heard them. The excitement of waking up on Christmas morning and anxiously waiting at the top of the stairs, trying to peep through the wooden railings without getting caught. The time we spent together on Christmas morning, gathered under the tree – talking, laughing, and playing around the piles of wrapping paper before we headed to Gram and Pa’s house.

What I missed the most was the memory of my mom back when she still wanted to be a mother. I missed how happy my dad looked when we were all still together. I missed laughing with my sister when we were still best friends. I missed my mother’s hugs. I missed hearing “I love you”. I missed all the things we so often take for granted – unknowingly as children, unconsciously as adults. I tried to hold onto what Christmas was like in the “before” time. I relived it each year in the “after” because I thought if I didn’t, I might lose it forever and I didn’t want to let it go. This meant spending a lot of Christmases that were quite the opposite of comfort and joy. For years, I was buried beneath chaotic emotions of sadness and anger mixed with nostalgia for a lost time. I didn’t address any of this until much later in life. But in my nonlinear, unconventional, and still very much ongoing journey, I came to realize something.

No longer experiencing the typical childhood Christmas, I was able to grasp its true meaning, or at least what it had meant to me, very early on. Of all the things I went without, of all the things I wished for every year thereafter, presents were never one of them. I would have taken every gift I ever got and given it all back (well, maybe except for Shadow), if it meant I could be happy again, feel safe again, feel wanted and loved in my own home. If it meant I could get back all the laughing, smiling, singing, joking, dancing, and having fun. I wanted  long car rides to nowhere, snow forts in the backyard, and capturing our special moments on home video. I wanted the peaceful nights that got replaced with drunken harassment. I wanted all the little things that when pieced together, punched a massive hole straight through my heart. None of the things I wanted most had come from a store. I wasn’t old enough to comprehend what that all really meant, even if I had unknowingly realized it back then.   

What are the most meaningful things in my life? 

What do I truly value?

What can I live without? 

What don’t I want to live without?

What brings me joy and happiness?

What am I missing out on if I am not present, if I am not paying attention, if I am stressed and overwhelmed?

How conditioned had I become by life circumstances, by those around me, by society, by failing to address my own healing and wellbeing? 

How far did I stray from who I am? What I once believed?

What do I know, deep down, to be the greatest gift of all?

What did little Steph want most back then?

What does big Steph want most right now?

*******

At 38, I’m seeking comfort and joy. 

I’m creating those silent, holy nights.

I’m walking in a winter wonderland.  

I’m putting more than a little love in my heart. 

I’m bringing back all of my favorite things.

More and more, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas around here. And yes, it’s one that “comes without ribbons, without tags, without packages, boxes or bags.”

There is magic to be found in these shorter, darker days. And it’s much simpler than what is being sold to us. This magic returns when we begin to rediscover the true meaning and spirit of the season. What winter represents and what happens when we allow ourselves a slow down – a time for reflection and restoration. In our hibernation, we go inward, perhaps spending more time on all that we let slip away during the preparations of spring, the life-giving months of summer, and the abundant harvests of fall. The winddown should be now. And yet, no matter the season, we have found every which way to complicate and overwhelm our lives – even more so during the holidays. We overlook all the beautiful, wonderful things of our everyday lives. We stop taking the time to appreciate these moments and experiences and to express our gratitude, even for the simple fact that we are alive – right here, right now. 

The warmth of a fire.

The cozy comfort of a favorite sweater.

The healing powers of a medicinal tea.

The comfort of a handmade blanket.

The silence of a heavy snowfall. 

The stillness of a forest in its dormancy.

The quietude of time tucked away.

The transformative power of inner work.

The laughter of a loved one.

The fullness of our hearts instead of our closets. 

Can we stop and  ask ourselves, what more do I need?

We have become a society that is too busy, too distracted, too stressed, too overwhelmed, too angry, too anxious, too frantic, too overworked, and far too demanding to appreciate all the little things that make up a really big thing. We have forgotten the greatest gifts that all of us do not have in equal measure: LOVE and TIME. Love – how are we showing it? Time – how are we spending it? 

Little Steph and Big Steph aren’t so different from one another. Little didn’t want much even when there was a time she could have asked for anything. Big doesn’t want much either, even in a time where she can ask for anything – right now, present day. 

My Christmas list is as short as it ever was, comprised of all the little things that make up everything to me:

• Love
• Time
• Peace
• Safety
• Laughter
• Rest
• Conversation 
• Gratitude

In Cabin 12, there used to be four names carved into the wall to the left of the fireplace. It was back in the early 90’s, so those carvings are most likely long gone by now. I can’t remember what they all decided on – their initials, first names, or something made up. I only remember the mother’s. She decided to carve “Ziggy Stardust” explaining to her family how the nickname given to her by her friends was the same name as David Bowie’s alter ego. 

“Ziggy played for time

Jiving us that we were voodoo

The kids were just crass

He was the nazz

With God-given ass

He took it all too far

But boy, could he play guitar

Making love with his ego

Ziggy sucked up into his mind, ah

Like a leper messiah

When the kids had killed the man

I had to break up the band”

There is a picture kept – one that captures this moment, frozen in time, so that a memory can take shape outside the mind of a little girl. The father is carving away with his two daughters, one in the matching oversized sweatshirt they both loved so much. The mother is behind the camera. 

Oh, the rise and fall of Ziggy Stardust.

But none of them knew it back then.

Some of my greatest childhood memories were spent in these woods, in these cabins. This is a gift, coming back here to this special place to make new memories of my own with the person that I love. And so here I am, sitting at a table, so simple in its design it looks crudely made by today’s standards. Yet it’s still here, decades later, each cabin having its own. It’s so old now that the tabletop feels more like glass than wood, smooth and weathered from time and use. Four simple chairs were built to go with it. My husband sits across from me. We’re laughing, really hard, at something stupid he just said. His laugh is the fucking best thing in this world. I snapshot this moment in my mind. His smile, that laugh, the way he’s looking at me. How my hands disappear as he scoops them up in his. His dirty bare feet stretched out towards the fire.

We’re both wearing old long johns. I’m in my favorite wool sweater while he’s in a fleece-lined button down covered in fabric pills. My ratty pair of slippers probably should have been tossed out by now but they’re here on my feet. Our wool socks hang from the back of the chairs drying from today’s wear. The cabins aren’t insulated. Blustery drafts seep in from every angle and corner so we keep the wood stove stacked. There is no TV. No computer. No service inside for our phones. The only other room has two sets of single bunk beds, each with their own thin, hard mattress to sleep on. We bunk across from one another, carrying the table conversation to our beds. Each night, we leave a cracker out for the resident mouse who visits through the uneven space between the wood panels of the ceiling and the stone of the chimney. 

Bear wakes early, reloads the stove with wood, and puts on a pot of coffee. He hunts at daybreak while I wake up slowly, uneager to abandon the warmth of my sleeping bag. I scramble back into my long johns, take the cold walk to the bathroom, and warm up again by the fire with a book in hand. Eventually, I bundle up and go wander out in the woods – sitting in one of my favorite spots, tucked away from the trails. Each night, we return to the table for two bowls of chili and more conversation, dreaming and scheming up our life plans. 

What more could I ask for?

All I want for Christmas is already here.