How to create space

With presents and decorations gone, the real gift arrives.

It’s a pretty sad sight, isn’t it? (Getty Images)

Every year, as I string twinkly lights on our porch; unpack ornaments, stockings, and red-and-green tea towels; and stack up our ever-growing collection of holiday vinyl, I’m amazed at how much Christmas-related stuff I’ve amassed. Some of it represents the family I have now: handmade ornaments stuck together with mountains of tacky glue; a tiny framed photo of me, Billy, and our sweet departed dog; a musical reindeer that my daughter loves but I slightly regret. Some of it is from a previous life, like the matching jingle bell snowmen with “Katie” and “Jamie” emblazoned on their silver bellies. And some of it — most of it, if I’m being honest — is of my own doing, stuff without a ton of sentimental value but that I nonetheless drag out each year.

There are countless holiday cards, ones we’ve received and copies of the missives I’ve insisted on sending out, year after year. There are big red bows, which I think look particularly nice against our white porch columns. There are holiday-themed mugs, which take the place of our regular mugs, if only for one month out of the year. There are seasonal candles, potholders, children’s books, and so much more.

Managing all of this stuff takes time and effort. Between Black Friday and Christmas Eve, I spend my days bustling through an endless series of holiday-focused tasks, not to mention end-of-year work deadlines. I hang delicate ornaments and remind my toddler to just point! don’t touch! I take an outgoing batch of holiday cards to the mailbox and bring several new ones in — photos of smiling families to hang on our refrigerator. I water the Christmas tree and sweep up fallen needles. I light candles or simmer potpourri on the stove. I debate between building a real fire or turning on the TV fireplace for its ambient glow. I wrap gifts, write tags, and make a mental note of what items still need to be purchased. On a good day, I pause and take it all in: the cozy glow of our Christmas tree, the sweet sounds of a familiar record, the eager look on my child’s face as she glues another piece onto her DIY advent calendar. 

Mostly, though, I bustle. I keep moving, keep working, keep taking note of what needs to happen to make the holiday magic seem effortless.

Then, Christmas arrives. The pile of gifts under the tree is replaced with toys and trinkets that need to find new homes. The dinner that took hours to prepare is eaten quickly. The records that have been spinning on repeat are no longer fun to listen to. Before I know it, it’s time for the last daunting task of the season: putting everything away.

Billy and I haul the Christmas tree out to the curb. We vacuum up the hundreds of fallen needles left behind. We stash away the giant Tupperware bins stuffed with decorations. And I am amazed — this year, like every year before — at how much newfound space we create in the process.

Our living room, no longer home to a towering evergreen tree, feels airy. Our refrigerator, no longer plastered with holiday cards, is a blank slate. And my time, no longer dominated by a running list of holiday to-dos, feels gloriously free.

Of course, this newfound space never lasts for long. We are now in the second week of January and my schedule is filling up rapidly with meetings, deadlines, and dates with friends that are scheduled like professional tasks. I’m already planning the family trips we’ll go on this year, taking note of the weeks that relatives and friends will be in town, and double-checking the dates when my child’s preschool is closed.

My calendar is crowded. My head is full. Even our house feels a little smaller than it did just a week ago.

Having space to breathe, to think, and to connect with oneself is wonderful. In our fast-paced world, that kind of freedom feels like a luxury. But space can be daunting, too.

In the rare moments that I do allow my mind to still — when I stop filling my ears with nonstop podcasts or my brain with endless tasks — I often rediscover two things: how beautiful the world is, and how much of it is hurting. If I still for long enough, I might feel the twinges of my own grief, feelings that I conveniently push away by keeping so busy.

Just as no one is asking or expecting me to do all the Christmassy things, there’s no one demanding that I take on nearly as much work as I do. Yes, I’m responsible for household bills and other life expenses; that's non-negotiable. But I’ve self-imposed many items on my to-do list that aren’t as necessary. The world wouldn’t fall apart if I didn’t tidy up our living room just so each night. Still, I do it. Time and again, I remove the possibility of space — of quiet, unscheduled moments — in my life.

The seeds for today’s essay, just as last week’s, were planted in the space between Christmas and New Year’s Day. During that strange and unstructured week, I enjoyed several long, rambling walks. My mind was quiet, not consumed with work tasks or problems to solve like it usually is.

Spiritual leader Ram Dass said, “The quieter you become, the more you can hear.” It’s not surprising, then, that during that rare, quiet space, I discovered the things I’ve been craving but unable to articulate.

As I shared last week, one of those things is to be better connected to myself and my community in 2024 — to spend what might be a difficult year helping others instead of idly standing by. The other is to create more space. To reduce the noise and clutter in my life and mind.

“I need space!” 

My toddler has taken to shouting this whenever a meltdown might be coming on. I realize, in a bemused and slightly horrified mix, that she’s parroting me in these moments.

She’ll run to her room, where she spends a few minutes alone, taking deep breaths or playing quietly with her toys. Soon enough, she’ll reemerge. “I changed my mind!” she’ll say cheerily, ready to resume whatever activity we were doing.

At first glance, my 2024 goals seem a bit disjointed, maybe even paradoxical. But as counterintuitive as it may seem, I know that by giving myself more room — to think and feel, to simply be — I’ll be able to better show up for others. At just 3 years old, my kiddo is learning this, too.

Knowing this is one thing. Doing it is another. How does one create space? I think the answer lies in nature, where both physical and mental space are abundant.

In 2021, neuroscientist Rachel Hopman created the nature pyramid, a structure for how much recommended time to spend outside. As Michael Easter, author of The Comfort Crisis: Embrace Discomfort to Reclaim Your Wild, Happy, Healthy Self, described it, “Think of it like the food pyramid, except that instead of recommending you eat this many servings of vegetables and this many kinds of meat, it recommends the amount of time you should spend in nature to reduce stress and be healthier.” 

The nature pyramid follows the 20-5-3 rule. Based on her own studies and the research of others, Hopman recommends:

• 20 minutes outside in nature, like a neighborhood park or trail, three times a week;

• 5 hours a month in semi-wild nature, like a forested state park;

• And 3 days a year spent off the grid, camping or renting a cabin in nature, with friends or alone, where cell service might be spotty and wildlife is abundant. 

Those three days represent the peak of the pyramid. “This dose of the wildest nature is sort of like an extended meditation retreat,” Easter wrote. “It causes your brain to ride alpha waves, the same waves that increase during meditation or when you lapse into a flow state. They can reset your thinking, boost creativity, tame burnout, and just make you feel better.”

When I shared the 20-5-3 rule with my partner, Billy, he bristled at the idea. I get it. Adding another rule to our already-packed lives feels like the last thing we should do. But there’s another paradoxical truth at play: when employed mindfully, structure and routine can help us create room for the things we enjoy most.

The jury is still out on whether I will follow all of Hopman’s recommendations this year, but I feel inspired knowing them — just as I feel inspired having named goals for the year ahead. Between a looming presidential election, ongoing international conflicts, and not to mention my own personal challenges, I’m predicting that 2024 will be a stressful year. Managing that stress by spending time in nature sounds like a wise practice to me.

Nature is our greatest teacher, and I have a lot to learn. And just maybe, by the time next December rolls around, I won’t have to get rid of stuff just to create the space I’m seeking.

xoxo
KHG