My Holiday Gift Guide Has One Item

And no one makes a dollar off of it

When my daughter was three, my mom, aunt, and both of my sisters made the joint decision that instead of exchanging gifts, that we would rent a cabin and hole up with each of our growing families in Big Bear for the holiday. This was in the olden days before AirBnB, when we had to go to a property management, pick up a set of keys, and settle into a rustic A-frame big enough to fit fourteen people.

There was not a lot of snow when we got up the mountain, but on the first night, it dumped so much on us that we were all snowed-in basically until it was time to leave. One of Karli’s earliest memories is of looking out the window of that cabin and my sister telling her, “It’s snowing, Karli-baby.” We spent the time playing games, cooking meals, listening to music, coming in and out of the snow. The dryer was running almost constantly with our outer layers. It is one of the coziest, warmest places I go when I think of the love I have for my family.

We intended to make it an annual trip but the only part of the tradition that stuck was that we took the pressure off the holiday by removing the “gift” portion. We’ll do a white elephant and wrap things up for the children, but among the adults there is a no gift policy.

I remember the first time someone told me she didn’t do Christmas, I was shocked.

“It’s too commercial,” she said. This was in 1998 and came from the manager of the coffee shop where I worked as a barista. She otherwise appeared to be normal, but this bit of information forever changed the way I saw this woman. I thought how selfish, how sad, how out of the spirit can one be?

Now when I hear people griping about all of the gifts they have to buy, I tell them, “Don’t do it. Just tell your family you aren’t doing it anymore.”

No one ever says, “Yeah I should.”

They just look at me like I’m the one that’s crazy.

No. I’m not the one that’s crazy. It’s Christmas that’s crazy. Just think of all the garbage. Imagine a different future when you gaze upon the overflowing trash bins next week. Think of all those last minute throw-away items that people buy each other because of a fear of showing up empty-handed—because of a fear of not being enough.

Last year when I bought myself the Light Phone, a realization started rising to the surface. For the first time in years, I was forced to be fully in the room with my family, without the distraction of social media, and without the numbness of a spiked egg nog. I was like, ‘Holy shit this is love. I’m actually here with these people!’

And then for the rest of the year I turned it into this whole superiority thing and tried to get everyone else to buy a Light Phone, but no one bit.

It’s too late now, since I’m writing this on Christmas morning and you probably already bought a bunch of trash that no one wants, but at day’s end, why don’t you try it? Start warming up your family to the idea that next year, you all forgo the gift-giving nonsense, and throw your phones off a cliff, dump all your booze in the toilet. Sit around the table and stare at each other so hard until you become sure you won’t ever forget the way every single person looks. That’s how you give love.