"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. 

April's End * Wellfleet, MA

  

I have been let in to a secret club, witnessing this old whaling town unfold itself and embrace the divinity in a season's change. The weather is too terribly romantic. Smoking chimneys keep the chill at bay, houses' driftwood gray blend into the overcast skies with bright colored tulips as a striking contrast.  These are the kind of days when I would skip high school, driving out to the ocean just to say hello.

For most of April, Route 6 has been devoid of traffic. Signs on old roadside motels sport large V A C A N T letters, although The Wellfleet Motel distinguishes itself with a “Squeaky Clean” promise on its sign.

Lecount Hollow Beach

I want to revisit all of the places I discovered last year and see how they differ in the off-season.  Following Main to Commercial Street and out to Mayo Beach, all the galleries, the fish markets, Emack & Bolio's Ice Cream; almost everything is shuttered for the season with hand printed signs cheerfully sporting either “See You Next Summer!” or “Opening After April 20th".  About ten vendors brave the elements at the famous weekend flea market hosted in the Wellfleet Drive-In's parking lot looking at present, like an over sized garage sale.

By the town pier, the winter wind has toppled the “E” from the “Pearl” Bistro sign atop the roof.  Fishermen are at work. I can see their trucks parked on the sandy bottom of the marsh as I cross the Herring River bridge.  They are out with the tide, harvesting, dragging traps and buckets behind them.  

The briny smell of seaweed is so strong that when I open my mouth, the coats the top layer of my tongue.  Pep and I are walking around an inlet called The Gut towards Great Island Beach, but it is the smell a rotting carcass of a dolphin that makes my eyes smart as we make our way over the path ofe tumbled reeds towards the sound of the ocean.The skin is blackened as if been burned by the sun.  Congealed blood creeps along the edges of the exposed rib cage.  The tail is gone, a bony stump remains. It doesn’t make sense to me that this dolphin should be so far away from the ocean, alone, caught in the marshy low tide and not able to get out. One of the shopkeepers told me that 180 dolphins beached themselves this winter, and 120 died; cause unknown.

Two hawks have been hovering in concentric circles around Sgt P. With those ears and the way he bounces along, I’m sure he looks just like a bunny just in time for Easter. I wave my arms and yell, “SHOO! SHOO!”, but that tactic fails. They continue to glide in circles above us.  The winter beach is seagull turf and when we reach the dunes, the hawks float off in the distance towards the sanctum of the pine trees, past the big empty house facing Provincetown. The windows have not been boarded up like most residences. The house has been left exposed and uncloaked, free for anyone to peek inside.

The tide is low, but the waves are moody, and don't offer the same stretches of sandbars that the longs days of summer bring with it. The late April waves have thrown up big rocks and broken shells and rough sand out of the depths. I read today that a boy in Oregon found a soccer ball belonging to another little boy in Japan. I have always had that childhood fantasy - finding that message in a bottle, a stranger to connect with across the sea, like the transatlantic telegraph cable that lies between the United States and Europe.

I take the boardwalk back, avoiding the death.  The hawks return their steady spirograph flight plan, snaking their way towards us.

The Wellfleet Market closes at 4:00 PM until May 1st, and I make it just in time for the manager to let me in, but she quickly locks the door after me repeating, "We close at 4!”   You can tell by the organic aisle, the stocked books fresh off The New York Times bestseller list, and the variety of magazines, that this town has a liberal majority. Whenever I see multiple cork boards in towns advertising drum circles, free yoga and lectures, I expect to hear Pete Seeger singing for peace at the traffic light.

Past the market and next to the Lighthouse Grill is the Spirits Shoppe & Package Store. There are white plastic chairs lined up four and four on each side of the doorway. Men of all ages are shooting the breeze. People wave from cars and say hello.  One man on the far end holds a folded paper and pencil in hand. As I cross the street to the church parking lot with my tomatoes, I hear a boy behind me shout from his car "Hey, you need help with the puzzle?"

At the end of the week, the temperature rises to 80 degrees. The earth smells like it is composting itself, cracking open the acorns and heating up the late spring bulbs. Surfers have taken off their wetsuits. With this change in weather comes glorious sunsets.

We went to the Great Island Beach about 7:15 tonight, just as the tide was coming in and twilight was leaving the sky a pale sea glass blue, a color that is one of the rarest to find. Pink bottomed clouds stretch out across the horizon. “Red sky at night, Sailor’s delight…” I think to myself.    At the big house, the sun's descent is firing off the panes of glass as if the entire place is about to go up in flames.