holidays.

It's getting to be about that time. Thanksgiving will be here in just over two weeks, and then it's headfirst into Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year's. There will be parties and gift giving, endless treats in the office kitchen, gestures of goodwill wrapped in tinsel and holly, and festive dinners cooked with love and washed down with glasses buckets of champagne.

I don't think it's a stretch to say that most people don't equate holidays with minimalism. Whether it's a teetering display on a buffet table or a round-the-block line of midnight shoppers, we've been taught that when it comes to the holidays, more is more...and even more would be better.

Since this is my first time facing the holidays as a minimalist, I've had to take a much closer look at the how and why of my approach. I love a good party as much as the next person, and I've always enjoyed giving and receiving gifts. As a kid, Christmas was my favorite time of year, and each ritual was anticipated and celebrated with equal levels of excitement: unpacking our colorful felt advent calendar; hanging the Christmas lamb on the highest branch of our tree, helping my mom roll out sand tart cookies and sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar; shopping for a new velvet dress at Donecker's with my grandmother; and raising our candles in unison during the final chorus of Silent Night at church. Initially, the idea of a simplified holiday season just felt wrong. Really, really wrong. But, like all of minimalism's lessons, it ultimately snapped into focus in a way that made me think, "Well...duh."

While rituals are lovely, I truly don't need gifts. I don't need to attend every party and holiday event that appears in my inbox. I don't need to spend a weekend baking treats for my colleagues, or wrapping elaborate packages, or waiting in checkout lines with angry, frustrated shoppers.  I can prepare a few small, handmade, and personal gifts for my immediate family and leave it at that. No credit card required.  Ultimately, I'm not even interested in making a show of the holidays. Instead, I'm interested in showing the people I care about that they matter to me...by simply making time to see them.

This year, we're doing a good deal of travel. First, we're off to Lancaster for Thanksgiving with family and old friends, and then to Philly to catch up with people we haven't seen since we moved back to Boston. Then, in December, we're traveling to the Southwest to visit with some of my oldest and dearest friends and their significant others. I love the tradition of raising a glass on New Year's Eve, and this year, we'll be making that toast beside a hot spring, in the middle of the desert, with people I've known since before I could (legally) drive. Everything about that scenario says "celebration" to me, and I cannot wait.

I'm also carving out time to see local friends during the holiday season -- meeting for cocktails or tea, or getting together see a play, take a dance class, or attend a reading. It's a busy time of year, and I'm sure I won't have a chance to see each and every person I'd like to see. But that's okay. The world isn't going to end on January 2, once the holidays are relegated to the discount bins at CVS. This year, I'm not going to try to cram a year's worth of socializing into four, short weeks in December, and then beat myself up about everything I still didn't manage to do. I'll just do what I'm able to do. I'll see the people I'm able to see. It will be enough. And I'll even carve out some time for myself, to simply sit and think about the passing of another year.

After all, isn't that what the winter holidays are all about? During the darkest, coldest days of the year, the holidays give us an excuse to come together and say something like:

We made it.
This year was hard,
and we might have given up,
but here we are. We made it.
We made it, and the candles are burning,
and there is wine in our glasses,
and there are people singing,
and they might even be angels.
We made it. We made it,
and the best is yet to come.