The early sun was blastingly bright when I rose for my walk in Wellfleet on my second, and last, morning of our IWWG Board Retreat.

My host's home is set spectacularly facing Wellfleet Harbor, and a steep and long set of wood stairs descend from their front yard to the harbor below. The tide was low enough for me to walk to the marsh, then, circle to the stairs from the other direction for my ascent back up the stairs - to come full circle, instead of having to back track, this is a gift.

We finished our business mid-day and said goodbye to each other. As I was packing my car, I felt a pang of sadness and disquiet and longing, even though I was looking forward to returning home to my family, the dogs, my woods, my own place. It was a familiar feeling - transitional angst - one I realize I always feel when leaving a place. I realize it's a lifelong feeling, but I always assumed it was mostly about leaving people I care for deeply. And it's certainly very much that - and hugging each other goodbye is very satisfying closure. But how do you hug a place? 

So, I just stopped outdoors, before going in for the last handful of my belongings, and I stood there in the yard and closed my eyes. I breathed and smelled the sea and I felt the sun heating the left side of my head making my ear pleasantly warm, and I felt the firm earth under my sandals and I heard a bee buzzing and the crickets and gulls, and I opened my eyes and saw the clouds and the late blooming colors of flowers, and I gave thanks to this place for nourishing my spirit, making a home for me to discover and appreciate.

Taking these few moments to stop and give thanks felt right. And I didn't feel sad anymore, I just felt grateful, and humbled, and appreciative – and I felt as satisfied as I'd felt moments before in the warm embrace of my friends.

All text and photos copyright Kelly DuMar 2017