It’s early Christmas morning. The only other being awake in a house now occupied by more animals than people is Q.D., the three-legged cat that my older son left behind when he went off to graduate school in London. My dog is still asleep in the large bedroom down the hall, and my husband’s dog, Gabby, is on a couch in the basement.

She’ll stop by soon and start angling for a walk: nudging my hand, doing down-dog on the wooden floor.

Meanwhile, my coffee mug warms my arthritic left hand. No workaday traffic desecrates the dark silence outside. As I balance the checkbook at my computer, a daily habit I learned from my mother, I notice how much money I have spent at grocery stores the past few days, preparing to host a dinner on Christmas Eve and a lunch today, making my deliciously caloric “soccer mom bars” as treats for my neighbors and the beleaguered postal carrier.

Even though I lead the holiday preparations in our household, I’ve never wanted my sons to assume that the annual traditions are necessarily women’s work. That was the norm during my childhood — women in the kitchen, men watching football on TV — and it has soured me on Thanksgiving, especially, for years (not that I care a whit about watching football).

“Cooking is a gift to people,” I like to tell my sons, hoping they will recognize (and one day emulate) the effort as an expression of love, a service to friends and family.

In fact, my favorite presents this holiday season have been consumables: the hearty loaf of zucchini bread that my friend brought over for Christmas Eve dinner, the tray of delicate Scandinavian cookies that my neighbor bakes each year, the bag of coffee beans with oversized mugs from the friendly folks next door.

Despite the undeniable magic of the day itself, barely a week ago I was feeling burdened by Christmas — weighed down with the expectations that come from marketing and media illusions of what the holiday should be, feeling wistful about the many extended family members who are gone. Wondering why my husband and I — neither of whom count ourselves as Christians — continue to put ourselves through this year after year.

We are often referred to not as citizens but consumers. So it’s really important to put the brakes on consumption through practices like gratitude and reciprocity.

Author and scientist Robin Wall Kimmerer

One morning in early December I recycled a pile of year-end appeals from homegrown organizations that all do good work. Every last one is worth supporting:

• Gillette Children’s in St. Paul, which offers “specialized care to help children with cerebral palsy live fuller lives.” My uncle was chief medical officer there for years.
• Friends of the Saint Paul Public Library, which helps to “ensure strong public investment in our Library.” There’s a branch three blocks from my house, and I routinely check out books on Libby, the digital app.
• History Theatre, where I’ve seen numerous education-focused plays staged by local actors with regional topics, often with discussion and “reflection” sessions afterward.
• Minneapolis Institute of Art, where I enjoy the monthly book-inspired public art tours and appreciate the mission to “make art available to all.”

“It’s giving season!” the MIA postcard declares. Indeed. Two days after Christmas, a plethora of emails continues, wringing the most from tax-related year-end appeals.

Although the health of the U.S. economy is measured against growth — how much we produce and consume in a capitalist society — “giving,” I have come to realize, doesn’t have to equal shopping. Three years ago, I started a tradition among my siblings, asking that we forego the exchange of material gifts in favor of contributing to one another’s chosen nonprofit organizations.

Mine was my local Animal Humane Society this year. AHS has provided me with three loving dogs over the past decades, and I value the organization’s efforts to educate current and potential pet owners.

• My sister in Maryland chose Laurel Cats, which rescues and rehabilitates abandoned felines. “As the ongoing housing crisis continues in our community, families are facing eviction, and pets continue to be left behind in record numbers,” the newsletter declares, describing a pregnant cat abandoned before a snowstorm.
• My dog-loving sister in suburban Denver again chose the Colorado Pet Pantry, which donates pet food to shelters and food shelves so people in financial stress can keep their beloved dogs and cats.
• My stepsister in my hometown of Mankato, Minnesota, each year selects Vine: Faith in Action, a community center that “offers a one-stop shop for aging adults.” She knows older people who have moved to Mankato “primarily because of what we have to offer them.”
• This year, my brother chose the Trustees in Boston, an environmental organization that protects “exceptional and special places” throughout Massachusetts, where he and his wife raised their sons.

One sibling chose not to donate to my nonprofit this year, and that’s OK. I love to buy people presents — the floor of my office closet is filled with gifts I buy throughout the year, waiting for just the right occasion to bestow them. But to spend money for the sake of it, when you don’t feel inspired to do so, contradicts my growing belief that Christmas should be more about choice than obligation.

One of the great gifts you can give another person is the gift of seeing them, the gift of paying attention.

New York Times columnist David Brooks

In the unhurried hush between Christmas and New Year’s, when the flurry of cooking and cleaning and wrapping presents is over but deadlines and other to-dos remain around the corner, I am thinking about what went right this holiday season.

It was doing the unexpected: foregoing a church service on Christmas Eve in favor of seeing a preview of the new Bob Dylan film, A Complete Unknown, and then discussing that and so many other topics over dinner with my husband and a friend. It was texting loved ones on Christmas morning rather than mailing holiday cards that would have gotten clogged up in the postal system anyway. It was staying out of cheaper suburban big-box stores and patronizing local shops that lend character to my urban neighborhood.

I’ve also been analyzing what didn’t work, like insisting that my younger son and his partner spend time with us on Christmas Day when they’d already had two gatherings with her extended family the day before. Next year, I plan to suggest that we celebrate instead on Sunday, December 28, the day after her birthday.

In mid-December a favorite podcast of mine, “The Opinions,” asked listeners to submit “what brought you joy in 2024.” It was the big things, to be sure: the elevation of Kamala Harris as the Democratic candidate for president, her choice of my state’s ebullient, unpolished governor as her running mate. But in the dark of December, it’s been appreciating what I have, not what I long for — whether that’s better relationships with certain family members or the impossible belief that I should have vanquished all my insecurities by this age.

I restarted the gratitude practice this week that I learned when I first got sober, ticking off five things I am thankful for during my morning dog walk.

Today it’s these:

1. A warm, comfortable home in a cold, four-season state with a growing population of unsheltered people.
2. A sister who helped me recognize how holiday traditions and expectations change once adult children have families of their own.
3. The anticipation of a walk-and-talk this afternoon with a dear friend, who lately is witness to her husband’s failing health.
4. Physical mobility, even with an aging, sometimes aching body.
5. The determination, next year, to craft a meaningful Christmas that leans less into what is supposed to be than what feels right, what evolves — and, yes, what brings joy, to me and others.