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

It was a dark, icy morning over a decade ago when I packed the last of my belongings into 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 was the church where I received my First Communion, was confirmed as a teenager, and once made a mistake at the altar while repeating vows.

A faint aroma of aged library books lingered in the incense, and I found myself secretly hoping one of the marble statues would come to life and nod—just once—for my eyes only, as an endorsement to uproot my life. When mass ended, I went to the altar to ask the priest for a personal blessing.  He obliged, though somewhat hastily. His swift Latin murmur and the quick flick of his thumb as he made the sign of the cross on my bowed forehead made me suspect the eggs and toast in the rectory kitchen were getting cold.

It was time to hit the road. A solo road trip can be cathartic for an unsettled mind. It’s a chance to be alone with one’s thoughts, to see the rearview mirror and windshield metaphorically—the former holding what you’re leaving behind, the latter what hasn’t yet arrived. I had long conversations with myself on stretches of highway, and brief, cordial ones with strangers in roadside diners.  The open road has a way of feeling almost supernatural when you most need it to.

So much of what lay ahead remained a mystery, but I was certain of one thing: you can’t go home again.