An Artful Cottage at Christmastime

On choosing quiet, restraint, and meaning in a season that insists on more

Welcome to the porch, dear reader.

I’m so glad that you are here. Truly.

I’m going to say something that feels almost taboo in the U.S., especially this time of year:

I don’t always love the Christmas ‘season’.

I want to. I really do. But more often than not, I find myself feeling overwhelmed, overstimulated, and deeply exhausted by it - long before it even arrives.

And when I’m honest about why, it’s usually the same things.

The relentless focus on material stuff.

The pressure to buy gifts - more gifts, bigger gifts, earlier gifts.

Plastic decorations multiplying year after year, spilling across front yards and climbing every inch of the living room.

Shopping lists, sales emails, “last chance” reminders, and the sense that joy is somehow tied to consumption.

The noise is… relentless. The blaring carols in every store - yes, even the grocery store - played on repeat until what should feel festive starts to feel like sensory overload. By the time December really arrives, I’m already tired. And ready for the New Year to start.

It isn’t the music or the traditions that trouble me. It’s the loudness of it all. The expectation that joy must be bought, displayed, scheduled, and performed.

And… endured.

What’s meant to feel warm and meaningful can quickly become crowded, expensive, and emotionally draining.

And I know I’m not alone in that feeling - even if we don’t always say it out loud.

What I want most in winter is not more - it’s quiet. Beautiful, sweet moments. Traditions, cozy time, and savoring the in-between of winter.

If you’ve ever felt this same longing, then this letter is for you.

Over time, I’ve found a way to make peace with the season - not by opting out or being a Scrooge, but by choosing a different rhythm. One that’s smaller, simpler, and far more beautiful to live inside.

Peace comes from making a few intentional choices that help me feel steadier, and one of those choices is how I tend my home.

That’s why Santa Lucia matters so deeply to me.

Lucia (celebrated in Sweden on December 13th) marks the return of light - quiet, steady, and understated. Once that lovely moment has arrived, then I’m ready.

Not for rushing or lists or spectacle, but for beginning gently. I want it to feel less like an event and more like a settling in.

So in the days following Lucia (not in October, or the day after Thanksgiving), I begin to decorate.

Not all at once. Not elaborately. Just enough to mark the shift and the turning of the year. To bring warmth and softness, and a cozy peace.

I should say this clearly: I’m not anti-material things, and I’m not a minimalist. I love beautiful objects. I love art, craftsmanship, and pieces that carry memory and meaning. What I don’t love is visual noise or surroundings that make it hard to breathe, rest, or feel grounded.

I choose peaceful, cozy, not-cluttered spaces. The things I do bring out are deeply familiar, meaningful, and quietly special. Not restrained really; just elegantly understated.

Some of that comes from necessity and a conscious choice to begin downsizing in my late 40’s. Our bungalow is small, and storage is limited.

But what began as a practical constraint has become something I truly value. It asks me to be discerning. To pause and consider not just what looks nice, but what actually supports the way I want to feel.

I think perhaps many of us discover this eventually - that limits, when chosen intentionally, can be surprisingly generous.

Instead of adding more, I turn to what’s already here.

Each year I cut greenery from the garden - arborvitae, nandina, and juniper - tying simple swags with velvet ribbon and hanging one above each window. They smell wonderful for a week or two, then slowly soften and fade. That impermanence feels right to me. It reminds me that beauty doesn’t need to last forever to matter.

I gather what the season still offers: branches, berries, and pomegranates.

(And yes - for my local friends - pomegranates really do grow here in Prescott at 6,000 foot elevation. Our south-garden tree was loaded earlier this fall.)

Inside, the house remains calm. A few artful touches on the mantel. Glass and paper catching the winter light. The original 1920s brick doing most of the work - warm, grounded, and enough.

I don’t believe moderation is about deprivation. I think it’s about care. About choosing what supports us when we feel wobbly and seeking balance. About creating homes that don’t ask us to perform, but instead offer somewhere to land.

With the Winter Solstice arriving in just a couple of days, it feels like a natural pause point. A hinge in the season. The longest night, and then, almost imperceptibly, the light begins to return again.

I’ve come to think of the Solstice not as something to mark with fanfare, but as a reminder that change doesn’t need to be dramatic to be real. That even the smallest shifts - in how we live, what we bring into our homes, or what we choose to leave out - can move us closer to the kind of life we actually want to inhabit.

Nothing needs to be resolved all at once. The light comes back slowly. And that is enough.

With winter settling in for a while, it feels like the right time to come inside and rest. Make something warm. Sit down. Let the quiet do its work.

And if you’re already feeling the weight of excess - the cost, the clutter, the constant push toward more - I hope this letter offers a small but meaningful permission slip.

Even tiny shifts can change how the season feels.

It might look different for you - a quieter morning, fewer commitments, a candle lit at dusk - but the invitation is the same.

Just a handful of glimpses of these seasonal details. Over the next couple of weeks, I’ll be sharing more little moments like this over on Substack Notes as well.

Next Friday’s Porch Sittin’ Letter will be about the real treasures of winter. Not things, but something far more sustaining and deeply human:

Hygge.

With contentment & possibility,

P.S. If you’ve ever felt your own resistance to the louder parts of the season - what is it that feels most frustrating or overwhelming to you? How do you find that balance and peace? I’d love to hear from you in the comments section.