I had a deal with myself when I went to pick up my book at the airport. If something went wrong, if it looked awful, if I could not face it, I was going to Sri Lanka. Mexico would have been more logical—easier, closer, tacos. But Sri Lanka was the deal. That was almost a week ago. Last night, instead of exploring Jaffna, I was at the Boulder Bookstore.

Boulder is everything it is reputed to be. Everyone is beautiful, fit, eats organic food and wears clothes that are flexible enough to strike a warrior pose on demand. It’s also my home. Standing up in front of a crowd of 70 people last night made it my home. I moved here over two years ago, driving down the windy canyon from Estes Park on US 36 more times than was reasonable with plants uprooting themselves and artwork crumbling in the backs of pickups, vans, sedans and coups.

When I was a kid I thought being an adult was a trajectory. You got on a path at some point and you rode it—you had your friends, your job, your family—your life. Adulthood is nothing of the sort. But there are moments when it feels like it is all coming together. Strangers and friends and family all mixed in wooden and plastic chairs on the second floor between fiction and poetry last night. And just like that, I felt at home again for the first time in years.