Christmas Spending: Breaking the Habit
Is there a tactful and inoffensive way to ask for less, not more, this Christmas season?
I mean, I love opening presents too. But I already have too much stuff. A lot of my friends have too much stuff. And the list of things I don’t have, but would like to, and which can be wrapped up in paper, is very short.
Because mostly, what I want are time and experiences. I want to spend time with her. I want to visit there again, with them. I want to invite him to supper. I want to learn how to do so-and-so. I want to run a workshop with X, Y and Z trying out such-and-such. I want to enjoy Q’s company. I want to relax with P. I want to visit G and H, and have them visit me. And then I want to do it all again, and you can’t give me that; nobody can, except perhaps myself, when I learn how to live my life better.
It’s not even about the money, although goodness knows enough people I care about are less well off than they would like this season, and likely to worry themselves into a large saucepanful of guilt. It’s rather more the question of the resources used; the raw materials and the energy used to obtain them, the manufacture and the packaging and the delivery all have their cost. Add to that the human cost - the stress and the feeling-bad, the last-minute, the crowds and the parking. All of that is taken out of our souls, and our souls’ sanity.
I’ve gone through the guilt and the panic in years past, trying to buy something special for everyone I can and for whom I can afford it. I don’t want to play that game anymore, and I don’t want anyone else to on my account. Does anyone out there actually keep a list of those to whom you gave and who did not give to you? Or account of the comparitive worth of their gifts and yours? Is that how you keep score of your dear ones? Really?
It’s already socially acceptable to say ‘We don’t do cards’. Can we extend that? Please?
I had a lovely birthday this year. Some of the things which brought me the most delight were a card from a friend overseas which held pressed flowers from her garden - the last violets - and a crochet pattern torn from a magazine from another friend, and from a third, some special seed potatoes because she gardens too and thought I might like to grow something different.
You could say I got some potatoes, a piece of paper torn from a magazine and some dead flowers for my birthday. You’d be wrong. I know that I got a very great deal more, that those three things in particular meant a great deal to me and brought me much joy.
So if I don’t give you a gift this Midwinter, please believe me that it does not denote the less affection or regard on my part. Maybe I know that you also have too much stuff.
And if I do give you a gift this Midwinter, it may be something I made, or cooked. It may be something I already had and thought you could use. It may be secondhand, local, handmade, or consist of data rather than substance - a recipe, a poem, an embroidery pattern. It may be my time in showing you how to bake cinnamon rolls or how to knit gloves. Or it may be something to eat and drink, which takes up no space at all once consumed.
And if it’s none of these, I would like to give everyone who reads this freedom from Christmas shopping guilt. Ting! There. Let go of the consumer con-trick. Most of us have too much stuff already, and we really don’t need this frenzy that turns precious resources into rubbish, money into debt, and sane folk into gibbering wrecks. There are better ways. Let’s find them.
(Post deliberately left public: copy, link, pass on as you will.)
I mean, I love opening presents too. But I already have too much stuff. A lot of my friends have too much stuff. And the list of things I don’t have, but would like to, and which can be wrapped up in paper, is very short.
Because mostly, what I want are time and experiences. I want to spend time with her. I want to visit there again, with them. I want to invite him to supper. I want to learn how to do so-and-so. I want to run a workshop with X, Y and Z trying out such-and-such. I want to enjoy Q’s company. I want to relax with P. I want to visit G and H, and have them visit me. And then I want to do it all again, and you can’t give me that; nobody can, except perhaps myself, when I learn how to live my life better.
It’s not even about the money, although goodness knows enough people I care about are less well off than they would like this season, and likely to worry themselves into a large saucepanful of guilt. It’s rather more the question of the resources used; the raw materials and the energy used to obtain them, the manufacture and the packaging and the delivery all have their cost. Add to that the human cost - the stress and the feeling-bad, the last-minute, the crowds and the parking. All of that is taken out of our souls, and our souls’ sanity.
I’ve gone through the guilt and the panic in years past, trying to buy something special for everyone I can and for whom I can afford it. I don’t want to play that game anymore, and I don’t want anyone else to on my account. Does anyone out there actually keep a list of those to whom you gave and who did not give to you? Or account of the comparitive worth of their gifts and yours? Is that how you keep score of your dear ones? Really?
It’s already socially acceptable to say ‘We don’t do cards’. Can we extend that? Please?
I had a lovely birthday this year. Some of the things which brought me the most delight were a card from a friend overseas which held pressed flowers from her garden - the last violets - and a crochet pattern torn from a magazine from another friend, and from a third, some special seed potatoes because she gardens too and thought I might like to grow something different.
You could say I got some potatoes, a piece of paper torn from a magazine and some dead flowers for my birthday. You’d be wrong. I know that I got a very great deal more, that those three things in particular meant a great deal to me and brought me much joy.
So if I don’t give you a gift this Midwinter, please believe me that it does not denote the less affection or regard on my part. Maybe I know that you also have too much stuff.
And if I do give you a gift this Midwinter, it may be something I made, or cooked. It may be something I already had and thought you could use. It may be secondhand, local, handmade, or consist of data rather than substance - a recipe, a poem, an embroidery pattern. It may be my time in showing you how to bake cinnamon rolls or how to knit gloves. Or it may be something to eat and drink, which takes up no space at all once consumed.
And if it’s none of these, I would like to give everyone who reads this freedom from Christmas shopping guilt. Ting! There. Let go of the consumer con-trick. Most of us have too much stuff already, and we really don’t need this frenzy that turns precious resources into rubbish, money into debt, and sane folk into gibbering wrecks. There are better ways. Let’s find them.
(Post deliberately left public: copy, link, pass on as you will.)