“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

It was a dark and icy morning over a decade ago when I bundled the last of my belongings in my car and set off for a new life in Los Angeles.  The larger contents of my apartment had already been shipped and awaited my arrival; all that was left before I headed west was to say farewell to the Hudson River riverwalk that had kept me company on so many evening strolls.  In a life that had abounded with many unknowns, I felt convicted that a fresh chapter was necessary.   A revival in the way of a temperate climate and a curative ocean seemed like a confident bet.

On this January morning, I bundled up in my faux fur and warm gloves, my spirit mixed with excitement and a hint of apprehension.  I sought a blessing for the new life that lie ahead and decided to attend early morning mass at the church I had attended for many years of my life. It is the church where I received the sacrament of my first Communion, became confirmed as a teenager, and made a mistake at the altar while repeating vows.

The faint aroma reminiscent of aged library books still lingered among the wafting incense, and I secretly prayed for one of the marble statues to come to life, a simple nod for my eyes only, as an endorsement to uproot my life. When mass had ended, I promptly made my way to the altar to seek a personal blessing from the presiding priest.  He obliged, if not in haste. The swift mumbling of something in Latin and the agility of his thumb as he made the sign of the cross on my bowed forehead led me to suspect the eggs and toast in the rectory kitchen were getting cold.

It was time to hit the road. A solo road trip is incredibly cathartic for an unsettled soul. It’s a chance to be alone with one’s thoughts, to regard the rearview mirror and windshield in a metaphorical sense; the former to leave the mistakes of the past behind, and the latter to envision a future yet to unfold.  I had profound conversations with myself during long stretches of highway, and cordial ones with friendly faces in roadside diners.  The open road has a unique ability to come alive at times when you most need a sense of the supernatural.

While so many things yet to come remained a mystery, I was certain of one thing:  You can’t go home again.