"I am grateful for everything in my life, knowing all is in perfect, divine order."

Deepak Chopra's Centering Thought of the Day my last morning in Wellfleet was a good swap for what I was feeling, which was regret. So it was gratitude I thought about during my morning walk on Lecount Hollow, the beach I've come to call mine, before I had to drive to New York in a few hours.

Rolling waves were falling against a soft, hazy backdrop, breaking between 12  - 15 seconds apart before finding the shore.   The glassy water made it difficult to distinguish seals from the surfers bobbing in their gleaming black wetsuits.  I felt bad that Sgt. Pepper wouldn’t be dodging the Park Rangers and sea gulls for who knew how long.  

I do have a lot to be grateful for. In fact, I would wager to say “a lot” is an understatement.  In the last four months, I’ve unearthed a goldmine of knowledge, about the future I want to create, what makes me happy and what it means to detach with grace. 

A few things that came to mind while I walked towards the Whitecrest embankment. 

1. The “Fact of the Day” scribbled on the dry erase board by the four teenagers who made up our squad of Life Guards.  Along with water temperature, shark sightings, and the levels of mung were quips like: "100 % of the people who don't smoke will die" or “Joe likes popsicles more than ice cream sandwiches”. They never ceased to make me smile.

2. Rachel, the counter girl at Sweet and Savory Escapes who would wave and smile when I walked through the door, scooping a perfect ice cream cone for me, pretty much on a daily basis since Tracy and I first went there in May. I am a creature of habit, keeping my selections to Salted Caramel, Coffee, Deep Chocolate and Pomegranate Chocolate Chip. Sugar cone, of course.

3. Susanne at The Farm Gallery, for always remembering that I love Paul Scarbo Frawley's irreverent art and Asya Palatova's vocabulary teacups with words like “Ontology” and “Tango” delicately glazed in pastels.

Peter Scarbo Frawley, Corona typewriter on paper, 1970

4. Petra and Rolf at Eastham’s GLOW Yoga. They got me through the dark days of spring and into Bikram (a tiny bit). Special shout out to Rolf, who made me fall over with laughter during class when he, in tree pose, told us with a beatific smile, "We're all going to die, right, so let’s try to find the balance while we're here".

5. The Wellfleet librarians who always held recommendations for me, and unbeknownst to them, helped me realize a long ago New Year’s resolution to borrow instead of buying books.

6. Genevieve, of Truro Yoga, a student of one of my favorite teachers, Shiva Rae, who leads a 90 minute+ classes which always began and ended with her infectious giggle and a sense that you were exactly where you needed to be.

7. The Mermaid at the Mermaid Grange, artist Julia Salinger, who, despite the stoic New England attitude surrounding her, piles up her silver hair and studs it with starfish and covers her arms and shoulders with body glitter. I always say one should sparkle!

At the Weidlinger House

8. Peter the architect’s staid sideman humor, original word jokes, and the world of modern architecture I never would have known existed. Hidden among overgrown pine trees and tucked away off the dirt roads on National Park lands are dozens of disused and neglected summer homes designed and once inhabited by Paul Weidlinger,  Jack Hall and many others.  I also appreciate that he left New York City for a quieter life, and because of his love for modernists, (“They were hopeful”), started the Cape Cod Modern House Trust, saving important architecture from falling away to the elements. Also by being an example of blending his career with two things he genuinely enjoyed.

9. Chatting with Joe McCaffery of Narrowland Pottery and the painter Paul Sugg  about the "Born Here/Wash Ashore" histories, and their penchant for soft serve cones despite their gruff, salty exteriors. 

10. Polly Burnell's sunny, positive attitude about everything, (“I think I’m a Buddhist” she confided in me, while at the same time eyeing a trio of aircraft approaching and finishing with “God, I hope those aren’t UFOs”.) A sister in Rickie Lee fandom.

11. The fried scallop roll (hold the roll) recommendation from the sullen counter girls at P.J’s. Like Savory’s ice cream, it became a staple for me. 

12. The plumpest, juiciest oysters on the half shell as well as the staggering amount of butter Chef Eric Jansen of Truro’s Blackfish uses on his bone-in rib eye entree. 

13. My neighbors Trisha and Richard, who made me feel so welcome, allowed me a spot in their garden, shared their harvest over long lunches that always began with a cup of hot coffee and warm milk and who are living the life I want when I am a septuagenarian, spending two months in Kauai during the winters, eating from their garden, creating art and being happy souls.

14. The light. The light. The light. 

Peter shared with me a ritual he created with his nieces to commemorate their summer vacation. The second to last day, everyone would write down what they loved and what they could have lived without, and then burning the folded slips of paper in a big beach bonfire. I have not said good-bye to the ocean, to the bay, to the librarians, or anyone, preferring to slip out of town quickly and quietly. 

I tear up thinking about my daily routine there. The lingering winter I witnessed blossoming into spring and the scents that it brought- lilac for May, peonies in June and roses heralding the quick arrival of a heated summer in July.

The traffic was beginning to come to a standstill where U.S. Route 6 narrows into two lanes, a cheerless reminder that while everyone is arriving for their vacation, I am leaving.  It gives a strange sensation, like I am going in the wrong direction.

The people I’ve come to know, Trisha, Polly, Joe, Paul and others, assured me that I will be back, giving quick hugs or pats on the shoulder with "You're part of Wellfleet now". 

That seems certain. 

Last Days...

Surfing culture didn’t enter my consciousness until I saw the Beach Boys at the Iowa State Fairin 1975.  I wasn’t that cool of a seven year old - my sister and I were campaigning for the Bay City Rollers.   For the past decade or so, parking lots on the ocean beaches are filled with surfers, muscling between the sunbathers, riding the last of morning’s high tide waves. Out at Cahoon Hollow, the Beachcomber Bar and Grill’s summer line up includes Dick Dale later this month.

It is a gorgeous Sunday morning and I am uncharacteristically up at 8:30 AM and at the beach with coffee and puppy. As the climate has warmed, more and more bikers are sitting outside PB’s Bistro, sipping cappuccino in their spandex and helmets after completing the 22 mile Cape Cod Rail Trail.

I have really fallen in love with Wellfleet, and now I am regretting not renting through September or October. I had planned a Fuller Build to Sri Lanka in July, and truly hoped to be out of the country for at least a month. Unfortunately, that trip had to be rescheduled for next year and I find my last three weeks rushing forward. I can't remember what day it is, it always feels like Sunday and that I'm going to have to pack up and leave immediately.   The spike in energy hasn’t helped matters.

I thought that Memorial Day marked the start of summer, but I was mistaken. For sure, it all happens the week before 4^th of July.  Traffic has slowed to a crawl, drivers turned surly, left turns near impossible to make, (unless before or after 10 PM, when P.J.’s has finally closed the take out window).

My friend Deb won’t even attempt Route 6 on a Sunday unless it’s after 9 PM. “Blue plates” she says, meaning the license plates of everyone hailing from other than MA, but specifically Connecticut.

The library has been consistently full, people answering their phones with full voice. I glance up at my tablemate, and we shake our heads, silently agreeing that these intruders are just plain rude.

Most of the locals I’ve met during the spring have gone into hiding, shopping early and getting home before the dinner crowd starts marching down Main Street in their khakis, plaid shirts and Lily Pulitzer dresses after the struggle to find parking. It has been interesting to be on this side of the street.

Summer folks emit a temporary entitlement over the town, knowing their money fuels an economy that all but dies during the off-season, accounting for more than 70% of the influx of income from July through September, which is the snarky retort you’re bound to hear if you even mention how dense the traffic is on Friday.

But all 21,000 residents, taxpaying and otherwise, have one thing in common.  They love the natural surroundings. Sure, you may hear a disparaging remark about Pres Hall, but in the same sentence, that same grumpy Gus will ask you if you saw last night’s full moon, or tell you about the two hummingbirds that return each year to a butterfly bush in the back yard. And they’ll smile and look wistfully away, thinking how lucky they are to be here.

Two older folks have parked their bikes at the end of the parking lot, and rest on the bench, another addition, recently perched on the edge of the sandy decline. “How long have you lived here” they ask me. I am just a seasonal renter I reply, but looking out at the Atlantic, the sandbars that have raised themselves in anticipation of beachcombers & sand castle makers. I think I might like to stay here. Why they ask?  Everyone I’ve spoken to that lives here loves it. And we all look out at to the edge of the world and the changing light.