At my cabin in the woods, I had a hair dryer I used about twice a year (for the dogs after they rolled in something and had a bath) and a curling iron I tried once but put away after burning my forehead. While the world was praising the wonders of the Instant Pot, I was making stew on my wood stove.

Most importantly, I was righteous about it because it made me feel better about needing six hours and half a tamarack to make sweet potato chili. And I made my coffee in a tiny Italian moka pot. It was delicious and promised the stimulus power of most street narcotics.

But the internet learned that I moved to The City. In The City, consumerism creeps in on you like all the other conveniences of modern civilization. Example: I just learned how to control the thermostat in my ticky-tacky rental from my phone. Apparently, while I was off learning how to use a root cellar, the rest of the world was busy developing.

One of the things the world has been developing, along with those Christmas lights that project onto your house, is countertop espresso machines boasting nine bars of pressure and 1,500 watts. In my experience of the world, this is how one measures wealth. Well, that and how many miles of outdoor fun they managed in a week.

Is this how people get sucked into the dark side of literature and become product reviewers?

I clicked on the picture of some shiny spaceship stainless steel coffee contraption one time and now the global market of means for caffeinating myself appear any time I scroll the news or look up valuable information like, “How many five-letter words are in the Wordle dictionary?”

Another benefit of city dwelling: internet. Of all the ways to establish learned helplessness, this is by far the most delightful – and not just because Wikipedia has taught me more about Jerry Lee Lewis in four minutes than in my entire life prior. Of course, all of this is about as necessary as a countertop espresso machine.

What has struck me, and perhaps it is the season of commercial Christmas, is a sudden realization that I do not have all the things and I should want all the things. I can see into the neighbors’ houses and they have a lot of the things: big screen TVs, microwaves, single-cup coffee machines and Christmas light projectors.

A month ago, stuff was a disgusting burden that needed to be boxed up and stored. Shiny objects and simplifications sing their siren song of convenience at me. Now, I feel a little sick, infected, with some foreign substance that has distracted me from the simple joys in life. The ones that don’t end up in landfills when I die.

It takes me two miles to run out of here, to run onto the trails and into the trees that reconnect me to that which I came from and that which I will return to. Those places are the antidote to this other illness: Amazon deliveries, Cyber Weekend deals and my weakness for sweaters.

As I shuffle up and down the snow-covered trails, feet crunching beneath me, Brown Dog trotting ahead, I have to wonder: If we don’t take our stuff with us to the other side, do we take our experiences? Both seem existential questions of a rather selfish nature, and I dismiss the curiosity because meditation tells me that what matters is right now. All we have is this moment. Pay attention to it.

It’s not hard to do if I run away from the distractions and into nature. I make grocery lists in my mind out there, too, but mostly I am in awe and wonder at the miraculousness of the world and the gift of being able to participate in it. Being outside is the reminder not of what we need, but of how much there is for us to still discover.

Maybe we don’t need new things for Christmas. Maybe we need tickets to Bhutan, a day in La Boqueria Market of Barcelona, a long walk on snow-covered trails, a starlit evening in the park, a book that shows us another world, a hearty laugh with friends and family. The latter is sure to make a fine cup of coffee if you need it.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammimarie@gmail.com.