I’ve lived by the beach most of my life. Whenever life got too hectic or I felt everything was a bit too much, I would run there to finding the calm in the rhythmic coming and going of waves crashing on the sand. As a young adult, running at the beach as the sun was rising, prepared me for the coming day. It was my paradise, my oasis, a place to myself.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Getting Seasonal.”
In line with the new goal I’ve set up to develop a writing habit (other than research-centric), here goes, a very personal post.
I remember being excited about Christmas when I was little. I remember the endless rehearsals for concerts and plays at church and school. I loved it: I love singing and I love playing pretend. I remember one Christmas at our vacation house, I should have been 5 or 6 years old. I woke up really early to open the gifts, but they were not under the tree nor by the fireplace. Then, the bell rang, and as I opened the door, a huge bag filled with gifts stood there. I yelped to call my sister, “Santa has come!” My mother came up with some excuse related to some issue with our chimney, that rendered it impossible for Santa to drop the presents inside the house. Later, I learned she didn’t have the time to bring them in, because she heard me inside, so she just left them by the door.