why i hate christmas: a beach story
I hate Christmas (and every other holiday, special occasion, vacation) because I never want it to end. The ending of good things is extremely painful for me, and it is often hard for me to let go when the time comes to an end. Some of my earliest memories of this kind of experience were from the many summers that my family and I would go to the beach for some form of a vacation, camp, or retreat.
One year that we went to the beach, I remember that the local beach patrol would put different color flags up to communicate the level of danger of being in the water. If I remember correctly, green meant the water was mellow and easily swimmable; yellow meant that the undertow was pretty strong and to “exercise caution;” red meant, “don’t go in the water, because you’ll probably die.”
I remember running out to the beach every morning that year to see what color flag was up and hoping for the perfect combination of danger and safety. Green bored the heck out of me; red was terribly disappointing because I wasn’t allowed in the water; but yellow…
My favorite day in the ocean was a day when the flag was yellow. The undertow was a definite presence in the water, and the waves were massive. I remember walking slowly, cautiously, and giddily into the water. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, and my adrenaline felt like I had just taken a healthy dose of speed. I was terrified of being sucked under or tossed in the violent swirl of a wave. But I loved the feeling of watching, waiting, anticipating each mounting wave – my feet and legs scrambling to maintain balance while being pulled from beneath me toward the approaching wave. The “high,” of course, was a literal high as I would jump proudly in perfect synchrony with the wave, feeling my body suspend and ride 5, 10, maybe 15 feet high. I’d do this over and over and feel my body laugh, giggle, and squeal with fearful delight and anxious anticipation of the next wave.
There were times when I’d get totally wiped out. I’d somehow find my way to the surface and attempt to stay on top of the continuous sequence of massive waves while coughing, gagging, spewing salt water and snot out of my mouth and nose and trying to regain sight through the sting of saltwater, sand, sunscreen, and blazing hot sun. Once I would regain sight and breath, I would laugh and return to my squealy dance of anticipation and riding each wave. I’d do this until I had no energy left in my beautiful, scrawny, scrappy little body and would be forced to sit and rest in the warm sand with a towel wrapped around my shoulders. Still trying to catch my breath from the rush of the experience, I would stare contentedly with red, watery, glazed eyes at the fear I had just conquered and ecstasy I had just experienced.
I loved being at the beach and in the ocean more than almost anything in the world as a kid. And I vividly remember having to say goodbye to this experience every year. After packing everything up in the car with my family, I’d go stand on the beach somewhere by myself and feel a deep sense of loss as I said thank you and goodbye to this massive, glorious ocean that had so deeply captured my imagination, commanded my attention, and been the context of my own self-discovery.
I hate Christmas, because I hate all things that bring me such joy and do not last. Vacations at the beach must end and so must the peace, rest, playfulness, and connection that I often encounter during the Christmas season. I dread the day that we’ll have to take down our tree this year. In the meantime, I want to face my fears, find my courageous, giggly way to the top of each massive wave, regain sight and breath when I get sucked under, and enjoy the deep rest, acceptance, and gratitude that comes at the end.
One year that we went to the beach, I remember that the local beach patrol would put different color flags up to communicate the level of danger of being in the water. If I remember correctly, green meant the water was mellow and easily swimmable; yellow meant that the undertow was pretty strong and to “exercise caution;” red meant, “don’t go in the water, because you’ll probably die.”
I remember running out to the beach every morning that year to see what color flag was up and hoping for the perfect combination of danger and safety. Green bored the heck out of me; red was terribly disappointing because I wasn’t allowed in the water; but yellow…
My favorite day in the ocean was a day when the flag was yellow. The undertow was a definite presence in the water, and the waves were massive. I remember walking slowly, cautiously, and giddily into the water. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, and my adrenaline felt like I had just taken a healthy dose of speed. I was terrified of being sucked under or tossed in the violent swirl of a wave. But I loved the feeling of watching, waiting, anticipating each mounting wave – my feet and legs scrambling to maintain balance while being pulled from beneath me toward the approaching wave. The “high,” of course, was a literal high as I would jump proudly in perfect synchrony with the wave, feeling my body suspend and ride 5, 10, maybe 15 feet high. I’d do this over and over and feel my body laugh, giggle, and squeal with fearful delight and anxious anticipation of the next wave.
There were times when I’d get totally wiped out. I’d somehow find my way to the surface and attempt to stay on top of the continuous sequence of massive waves while coughing, gagging, spewing salt water and snot out of my mouth and nose and trying to regain sight through the sting of saltwater, sand, sunscreen, and blazing hot sun. Once I would regain sight and breath, I would laugh and return to my squealy dance of anticipation and riding each wave. I’d do this until I had no energy left in my beautiful, scrawny, scrappy little body and would be forced to sit and rest in the warm sand with a towel wrapped around my shoulders. Still trying to catch my breath from the rush of the experience, I would stare contentedly with red, watery, glazed eyes at the fear I had just conquered and ecstasy I had just experienced.
I loved being at the beach and in the ocean more than almost anything in the world as a kid. And I vividly remember having to say goodbye to this experience every year. After packing everything up in the car with my family, I’d go stand on the beach somewhere by myself and feel a deep sense of loss as I said thank you and goodbye to this massive, glorious ocean that had so deeply captured my imagination, commanded my attention, and been the context of my own self-discovery.
I hate Christmas, because I hate all things that bring me such joy and do not last. Vacations at the beach must end and so must the peace, rest, playfulness, and connection that I often encounter during the Christmas season. I dread the day that we’ll have to take down our tree this year. In the meantime, I want to face my fears, find my courageous, giggly way to the top of each massive wave, regain sight and breath when I get sucked under, and enjoy the deep rest, acceptance, and gratitude that comes at the end.
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