One month ago today we took our first steps towards our cross-country journey from Brooklyn, New York to Denver, Colorado.

It’s interesting how time works – New York feels far more removed than just one month ago.  And it feels like I have been in Colorado for much longer than a month.  It’s almost as if time began when I got here, and the time before that is a slightly hazy previous life.  It’s like my first 34 years in New York was the first movie in the series, and this is now the new – although still-related – sequel.  We have been non-stop since arriving in Denver, searching for the right apartment, shopping for furniture, organizing and unpacking – all while trying to take it somewhat easy and not push too hard, especially with the physical adjustment to the altitude.  But, even as busy as we have been, the month has not flown by.

The move was not as scary as I thought it would be.  No lightening has struck me… yet.

I feel calmer here.  I mean, I figured I would.  But, I really do.  I am less nervous and distracted, and more focused and clearer.

The three-day drive wasn’t so bad either.  I likened it to a long run, or a marathon.  Friends always tease about how I am able to stay (somewhat) mentally sane while running for over five hours straight.  I tell them that it doesn’t feel as long as a typical New York wedding reception – instead, the time flies by.  Or, rather, it doesn’t elapse like the normal progression of time.  Not that it stops, but… my mind wanders deeply, and I ponder all kinds of things. I’ve solved work problems and planned long speeches in my head, all while running for hours in the woods or at a race.  It’s also where I can truly “zone out” and just get lost, perhaps a type of meditation.

So, that’s exactly what happened during my drive to Colorado.  It did not feel like I was driving three consecutive 10-plus hour days.  Each day just felt like a new “marathon.”

My mind got lost as I drove the open road, with endless fields and farms and trees (and not many cars) in sight.  I can’t specifically tell you what I thought about – maybe I was just clearing my mind for the big changes about to come.

Each day went by quickly, and we only stopped twice a day, every 3-4 hours, to stretch our legs and let our puppy go to the bathroom.  We only hit one traffic jam at the beginning, and the rest of the trip was smooth sailing – with beautiful sunny roads and perfect driving conditions.  Everything we owned fit just right into our two cars, and Kingston seemed calm in his crate in the back seat.  Pennsylvania was as long as I remembered, the rest stops in Ohio were immaculately clean and bright, Illinois had calming rolling hills, Indiana was the only state littered with billboards, Iowa was full of corn fields and farms, and Nebraska was windy and full of Western hay and straw.

Then, we entered the state of Colorado, welcomed by an old-fashioned wooden sign saying “Welcome to Colorful Colorado.”  A tear slipped down my face as Byron called.  “Hey, isn’t it like the terrain suddenly changed?”  I smiled.  The sky did seem more clear, and I could see hills, and colorful clouds in the sky, and a few minutes later, those larger-than-life mountains.  I could not believe we were here – starting new and fresh and happy.  I laughed to myself, because I always tell Byron “the world is our oyster.”  He recently joked that I would need a new phrase, as we were far away from my beloved ocean.  However, I knew in this moment that this captivating nature would never leave me yearning for the coastal terrain.

The day we left, I had remembered that my dear friend and mentor Jackie told me to take a picture for my blog as I was ready to leave New York, from the driver’s seat, looking out the back window of the car.  Thinking of this creative idea, I pulled out my phone before I drove away.  I took a few pictures in vain, because I could barely see through the back window.  Kingston’s crate was in the way, and it was early in the morning, still dark out.  I smiled and knew it was meant to be – a lesson to finally stop dwelling on the past – to stop looking backwards, but look ahead as I drove forward towards the first day of the rest of my life.