Amazingly, our grand week in Cape Cod is coming to an end, the last morning of vacation quickly upon us.  The blue of melancholy is in every gallery painting, and even the moonlit sky is somehow sad.  Provincetown is such a special place.  I haven’t traveled the world over, but I know New Jersey and Naples, Florida like the back of my hand, and there’s no place like this.  The spirit here shouts “all are welcome”, and our annual Ptown trip occupies our dreams and is held closely to our longing hearts.  And now, in this same early morning light, the inspiration for all creative endeavor this week, I sense my spirit and my mind slowly closing, my vision moving from the clarity of crystal to a distant untouchable haze.  I’ve got to strip the beds, pile up the dirty towels, put the deck furniture back where it belongs, wash the last breakfast dish and coffee cup, all in an effort to fend off the fifty dollar cleaning fee that the realtor assured us would be added if the place wasn’t left pristine. Have to get ready for the airport, flying back to the reality that is life.  Anticipating the migration southward has caused this curious shutting down of my artist self, the “anything goes, and everything comes” openness to inspiration, suddenly halted.

The teacher in me knows that my students have to be in a place to receive what they need to hear and learn.  Preparing for our inevitable departure, I have allowed, at least temporarily, my spirit to be in a place of closure.  It’s remarkable to be aware of this, and sense this squeezing tightness. For me as a writer, there are definitely optimal conditions that allow for the free flow of thought.  Flying back to Naples, on a Boeing 727 after an ecstatic week of creativity on the Cape, is not such a condition.

Some thoughts and images from this week overtake me as I prepare to exit…The clickety clack of black composite wheels to-ing and fro-ing along Commercial St. upon our arrival produce a rhythmic sound, the suitcase wheels and weekend bags of all styles and sizes rushing down the street to the awaiting rental property.  Saturdays on the Cape are and interesting mix of elation and sadness, based on your arrival or departure from this beloved place.  The cacophony of sound produced by suitcase wheels speeding to their anticipated lodging reduces to a funeral march, heavy laden, oppressive, a slow march to the inevitable, going home, and vacation blues.

Home has new meaning now that my perspective has changed. Your perspective is your reality. I am co-creating a joyful life as I return to newness and hope, chasing those vacation blues away.