Boulder is in a bubble, they say. An air-filtered, non-smoking (hurrah!) mostly, vegetarian-conscious, compost-enlightened, spiritually aware and awfully expensive place to live. It has demanding yoga, serious runners, and a farmer’s market that is a good size. I go on and on about this place because I adore it, even if I have had both low and good points there. It is where I am deeply connected because of people in so many walks of life.
I read at the Boulder Bookstore to a warm, gracious audience mostly made up of friends. I spoke a little about myself, feeling oddly tyrannical while standing up holding a microphone. It struck me suddenly that this is a very unnatural thing to do. I went on anyway, self-conscious and feeling slightly ridiculous, because I was speaking to my friends from my notes, my iPad in fact.
A friend generously housed me, others treated me to dinners, and all in all I felt deeply taken care of. I had a chance to visit my favorite cafe and attend a yoga practice to which the instructor kindly remarked, “you have not been practicing in a while, right?” advising an early savasana.
I ran into friends on the street, not having to explain that I’d been away two years. I met fellow writers,and felt embraced. I wrote a happy book in Boulder. How could I not?