Home, Revisited

The Ribbon of Light and the Quiet Recognition of Place

25 years after leaving Boulder, I didn’t return, but I remembered. A meditation on memory, ritual, and the gladness of coming home.

Fall color and dramatic clouds along the Front Range. Photo by author.

It was 25 years ago that I moved from Boulder to Austin.

Living in Boulder for nearly four years was a pivotal moment in my life.

Though I was a Southerner who didn’t quite fit in—no hiking, biking, or skiing—I loved it.

It was my first time living in a true four-season environment.

I became tough enough to drive snow-covered roads in my little Honda Civic.

Only once did I scare myself—sliding on snow-packed roads, imagining I’d veer off the mountain’s edge.

Instead of outdoor sports, I took up serious cooking, wine drinking, and Argentine tango.

I didn’t scale mountains—I built rituals.

I returned once, about twelve years ago, for a week-long work meeting.

May temperatures swung from the 30s to the 70s, and a rare snowstorm dropped at least a foot of heavy, wet snow.

I drove past my old apartment—the one that overlooked the golf course (really, the maintenance shed) and offered a sliver of the Flatirons if you looked just right.

They’d painted the place.

This October, I didn’t make it to Boulder.

Not enough time.

No descent from the hilltop into the valley.

No arrival ritual.

Instead, I rode the toll road -- unbuilt when I lived there -- and watched the mountains emerge. Familiar. Comforting. But surrounded by new construction.

Back then, I used to drive Hwy 36 to Denver for tango dances.

I’d watch the headlights and taillights stretch like a ribbon of light along the highway.

No photos this time, but I saw it again -- and appreciated it.

On the flight home to Austin, I reflected on what constitutes home.

The central Texas vegetation.

The view from the window seat, scanning roads I know.

The skyline of downtown as we approached the airport.

And later, being back in my familiar bed with my cat curled beside me -- telling me all about it while I was gone.

Boulder was pivotal.

Austin is home.

I feel a gladness of the heart to arrive at home.

A lifting of spirits.

Arrival and recognition.

Thank you for traveling with me through this memory.
If you’ve ever revisited a place — physically or emotionally — I’d love to hear what surfaced.
Feel free to reply, share, or forward to someone mapping their own ribbon of light.
Until next time,
Deana