On the next transition.

I wanted this to feel like Colorado. I sat down in front of the computer screen, put on my favorite Pandora station, opened up my blogger window, and took one last look out the window to remind me of the beautiful day outside. I wanted to feel as driven and excited by the written word as I did so many months ago, the days I would wake up hours early in order to shake the words out of my head before driving the mile or so to work through the thin, crisp air, the Flatirons looming so majestically above me and the sky cloudless and blue.

But it hasn't worked. Every effort I've made in the past few months to reclaim that peace of mind, that feeling of boundless freedom I lost when I crossed the Mississippi, has ended the same way. I've only recently put my finger on the feeling - like my shoes are too tight. The big sky and mountain breeze helped of course, but the real thing I'm lacking right now has nothing to do with geographical location. Colorado was potent because it was mine. My first half marathon, my move to Bonnet, the relationships I cultivated and strengthened and lost and gained over the nine months I spent there, all the running and the learning and the opening - all of that was mine too. But now it's like I'm living on borrowed time, within the confines of other peoples' homes and in snippets of everyone else's lives. Don't get me wrong, I've had an absolutely amazing summer. I'm so incredibly grateful for the love I've felt and the people I've met and the places I've seen. But it has also felt like one absurdly long vacation, and I think I'm ready for a little solid ground. A place I can really call home.

In two weeks, I will begin yet another experience of my very own. I'm scared. I'm thrilled and anxious and ecstatic and frightened and feeling utterly bewildered and bittersweet. In some ways, the last thing I want to do is leave (ok, one very particular way), but in others I realize it's more necessary than I probably know. I worry about balance and about failure and about the past repeating itself, all the while looking forward to the adventure and the challenge and the opportunity to prove myself once again. I've been having a lot of feelings and doing a lot of soul-searching in preparation for the long road ahead. And here's what I've come up with:

1. Stop being so scared of not having enough time. Whatever that means. John Steinbeck once said in a letter to his son, "Don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens - The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away." So have a little faith. That goes for so much more than love.

2. Don't forget to breathe. Be careful not to get so lost in your head at the expense of the rest of you and the big world around you that's so ripe for the noticing. Because - I wrote it in a previous post, and I've never forgotten it - the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.

3. See everyone you meet with fresh eyes and a beginner's mind. Plato had it right: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," and all that.

4. For god's sake, love yourself. You're pretty awesome and, more than that, you're pretty damn lucky. Take care to see that you never become depleted or overwhelmed enough to forget that.

Yes, I miss the mountains. I miss the big sky. But I love my life today. And as it turns out, the freedom I once thought was exclusive to altitude is tantamount to the ease that arises when I hold myself accountable for my own peace of mind. From loving and letting go and trusting... something. And I've realized all of this before, but maybe that's what life is. Once, during one of our then-customary late night chats in the hot tub, my good friend Liz likened growing up to a spiral staircase rather than a ladder. It's not linear (much to the chagrin of those of us who enjoy control and single-variable equations with rational solutions). We may come back to the same point again and again, but we rise a little each time we do it. So I'm learning the same lessons over and over, which is incredibly frustrating. But at least I'm growing while I'm doing it. And at least I'm learning. Borrowed space and time might be infuriating, but when the time is mine again, I think I'll be plenty ready to jump right in... and hopefully to rise a little more.

On stowing the Rocky Mountain High in my suitcase.

I was recently told that I'm too serious. That my standards are too high. That I've got such a stick up my butt, constantly reading all those gosh-darn books. "Men don't like a girl who's so intense all the time, you know." It reminded me of Christmas, and of my grandmother's quip: "You'll never find a man if you keep being a vegetarian, you know." What is with that?? What is with people who barely know me informing me that I have to change who I am in order to, of all things, eventually attract someone with whom I can be completely honest and wholly intimate? Naturally, I laughed my humorless little butt off and went on with my day. But I have to admit, it got to me. If only because it made me wonder whether I come across the way I think I do. If the "me" I put out to the world matches the "me" I'm so well acquainted with inside.

A few days after that ridiculous yet thought-provoking conversation, I left for a vacation in Colorado and had an absolutely amazing time. Knowing full well that happiness has nothing to do with geographic coordinates, I came back to the east coast with the express intention of figuring out exactly what it is about the wild, wild west that makes me feel so wonderful.

(Aside from sights like this, that is.)
And so I did. See, I'd had zero expectations heading into my trip. I was afraid it would hurt too much to be back there, so I had avoided devoting even a single thought to anything about it except for my race training. That really made the whole week very... easy. When it came to our weekend in Utah, I handed the reins to everyone else. For once, I was just along for the ride. I let go of controlling anything at all and just enjoyed myself. My friends. The weather. The mountains and canyons and desert and fresh air. Without any expectations or desire to control circumstance, there was no way for me to feel disappointed.

Let's just say that realizing all that was a definite "a-ha!" moment. I have always prided myself on being an excellent planner - which, unbeknownst to me, apparently translates in proper English as "she who has major control issues." Living life from the neck up comes with an unfortunate desire to be able to foresee the future, the way other people will act and the outcomes of all of your carefully orchestrated choices. And all of these expectations automatically set you up for anxiety, aggravation and, ultimately, disappointment... a.k.a. the New England, Type A way of life.

I've written a number of posts in the last year about how happiness comes from "being here now," but I don't think I ever quite knew exactly how to do that. But Coloradans sure do. Turns out, it happens when you live in your body instead of your brain. When you spend your moments focusing on the person in front of you, or the sunshine on your shoulders, or the depth of your breath, rather than your to-do list, or what other people think of you, or all of the possible twists of fate that you are so deathly afraid of being unprepared for. What is the worst that can happen, really? What good is worrying actually doing you? And more importantly, what are you missing out on by being so caught up in your fears over anything and everything that could go so "wrong"? Maybe I have been too serious, after all. Maybe I have been spending too much time caught up in my safe little cocoon of a brain, building walls against anyone (everyone) and anything (everything) I am afraid of.

So I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm certainly not changing who I am, but I'm finally letting other people know who that girl is. Here and there, I'm letting go of the reins. I'm not going to lie, it scares the ever-loving daylights out of me. But it's also incredibly liberating. And what some might call freedom feels a lot like that bliss I've been chasing after for years. Funnily enough, it was here all along.