All I Want for Christmas is Less

I want nothing. Every last bit of it

I dream of a white Christmas, but not in the traditional sense—not like in the song. Beyond my windows it may be grey or green for all I care; I’m talking white—as in a state of mind. White—like a blank sheet of paper.

This is the time of year when my family asks me what I want for Christmas—for the fifth time. I’ve already told them I don’t know. But that’s a lie. The truth is that my wishes won’t fit on a piece of paper.

My wishes are too vast.

I can hear what you’re thinking:

—Sheeesh! What does she want? What could possibly be too grand for a wishlist?

I’m not talking vast as in lavish or grandiose. I assure you, there’s nothing traditionally fancy on my list.

All though I own very little, I don’t want any-thing. I want so much more than that.

I want no-thing.

Yet, I want it all: I want less than nothing. I want negative-space.

I want emptiness.

I’m not just talking about the philosophical concept of emptiness. All though, that I covet too.

I want less.

Less stress, worries, and anxieties. I want to be guilt-less, shame-less, fear-less.

I don’t want stuff.

I don’t want new gadgets with better task management apps. I want fewer tasks to manage.

I don’t need a car or tickets to travel anywhere. I simply wish to be present wherever I am.

Don’t gift me fancy clothes to wear. I want more nakedness; the real and the figurative kind.

Don’t give me jewelry or frilly bling. I want to shine, in and of myself.

Christmas is not as much about opening our presents as opening our hearts.

Each year I come back to this quote by Janice Maeditere because while I do appreciate the rite of giving, we’ve gotten too wrapped up in the ritual of buying.

With shopping lists, under the guise of wishlists, we spend time, spending on each other; time we could have spent with one another.

It’s senseless.

We could’ve sat in circles, handing each other envelopes of cash. It would’ve made more sense.

Instead, we go, panicked, on shopping mall frenzies, in the name of our Lord: Consumerism.

And while I’m not religious, I’m fairly certain that the one after whom this holiday is actually named, would be wondering how, on his father’s green earth, did we manage to mess up his birthday this bad?

I believe he left a few hints about his preferences in what’s supposedly the world’s most-read book. This makes me genuinely suspicious of what people are really doing when they claim to be reading.

But Jeez, I digress

What I was talking about was wanting less.

I want less of what separates you and me. Less of what stands in the way of us being all that we can be.

Forget ribbons; I want to untie our shackles. Leave the gifts; I want to unpack our baggage; unwrap our sheathings; uncloak our veiled selves.

I want more realness and less malaise.

I want more.

There are a few things I do want more of: I’d take some more time every day. A few more hours of sleep each night. I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t use a bit more cash, not to buy more, but to stress less.

But more than anything I just want less.

I want the kind of less that is more; not the more that is less.

My biggest wish for Christmas is less.