This story originally ran in 2015, but I’ve had some requests to re-run it in time for the holidays….So enjoy!

My face may be unfamiliar; but you know my type.  You’ve seen me at the farmers’ market — the woman with crows’ feet and calloused hands, wearing hand-me-down sweaters, thrift store jeans, and barn boots.  At the health food store, I bounce in with a few recycled jars to refill with olive oil and spices.  I don’t buy kombucha; I make my own.  I don’t buy tomato sauce; I can my own.  I don’t buy skin care products; I just rub salve on my face that I whipped up from some lard (from my pigs) and beeswax (from my bees). In short, I try to live as sustainable a life as I possibly can.

I am sure-footed about my path. It makes sense to my parents, who were at war protests in the sixties, who, in partnership with my husband and me, operate a family farm and live close to the land.  Everything pretty much went smoothly with our choices until my husband and I brought our first child into the world and were confronted with “the most wonderful time of the year” – Christmas.

That first Christmas Eve with my infant daughter ended with me clutching her to my chest while my mother stood three inches from my face screaming “SCROOGE!” with tears streaming down her cheeks.

How did it happen? How did sustainability go to war with Christmas?

In my case, it was inevitable. One second, I would have a grip on my anxiety, accepting gift after gift with a bright smile. Then suddenly I would find myself scowling at yet another piece of toxic, plastic Baby Einstein crap piled in front of my baby, who only wanted to eat wrapping paper (also toxic).  My throat closed tighter each time I had to wheeze out another “thank you” for something we didn’t want.

I tried to stay polite. I tried not to show my dismay.  But I wasn’t raised to hide my opinions, either. No wonder Mom had to call me a Scrooge.

Christmas for me growing up had been like Christmas in houses across the country.  Lots of gifts, tape and wrapping paper.  An entire garbage bag of packaging waste generated by Christmas Eve.  A second one by Christmas morning.

Every year the magazines and holiday catalogs bombarded my family’s home from mid-August through late December with images of husbands expressing adoration to their wives with jewelry; children’s faces lit with joy at the bountiful holiday riches splayed before them; slender families indulging in an endless stream of holiday treats with none of the after-effects.  Everyone in the images was so happy. So healthy. So free of troubles.  So safe. So loved.

Feeling safe and loved is a fundamental human need. And like all families, my family has always been imperfect.  We’ve had our disagreements, our messes, our sorrows, our insecurities.  As children, my brother and I would listen through the floor vent as my parents discussed the often dire economics of our struggling farm and the stresses of their jobs. But at Christmas, the bright lights strung out on the porch reminded us that we could be merry in the face of our troubles.  And the pile of gaily wrapped presents underneath the tree spoke a language all their own. They were proof that, in spite of the financial worries, we were safe.

Fast forward twenty years to when I held my first daughter in my arms.  That need to use Christmas to express love and fight back fear was still strong.  But now my fears were different.  They were tied to anxieties about climate change, fossil fuel consumption, a crowded house, dwindling natural resources, and a limited bank account.  As much as I tried to cope, the delight over stocking stuffers, wrapping paper and battery-powered plastic thingamabobs could not outweigh my adult fears and anxieties.

As much as I wanted to cancel Christmas and put an end to the gifting madness, I couldn’t.

The older generation needed a way to express their affection, and my family couldn’t just jettison me from the holidays.  And there was so much about the season that I truly relished. We all needed to find a way forward.  So we limped along, one imperfect Christmas after the next.

We experimented with new customs, examining the how and why behind each tradition.  If it didn’t hold up to our ethics and pocketbooks, we got rid of it. We systematically called every company who mailed us a holiday catalog and asked to be removed from their mailing list.  We stopped waiting for the images to come in that would define what made Christmas merry.  Christmas dinner became a feast of local foods. We pared way back on the gifting and swore off wrapping paper. We adopted a Yule tradition, burning a Yule log festooned with our wishes for the coming year and then sitting around the flames telling each person one thing we appreciated about them.  Instead of using presents to convey safety, love and security, we used words.  We celebrated the changing light be going outside and witnessing it.

And then, a few  years ago, I noticed something.  Christmas came.  Christmas went.  And we all had fun. The next year, it happened again.  And again.

We didn’t have more money, greater health, or an easier life. But it was no longer about the madness of gifting and decorating.  Christmas had changed, and so had we. It had grown into a time to take pleasure from life, to engage in spiritual renewal, and to draw energy into our bodies for the coming new year. In our family, big business and big pollution had finally taken a backseat to the true joys of the season — the stunning beauty of the changing light, the freedom to put the normal schedule aside and squeeze in an extra nap, or to find time for a cup of tea with a friend.  It became a time to sit together around the kitchen table and fiddle with scrap yarn and glue and cardboard to invent new ornaments for the tree, a time for more cuddles, more giggles, more choices to ignore the phone calls and emails in favor of winter hikes and sledding.  It became an opportunity to express love with words, time, and affection, rather than through spending.  And it became a time to celebrate living lightly, knowing that our daily choices ensured our children’s children may also have a beautiful world to enjoy at Christmas.