I’m Pretty Sure Colorado Is Turning Me Into A Hippie
After two years of living in Boulder, it’s easy (albeit somewhat embarrassing) to see how much I’ve imbibed in the Republic’s Kool-Aid.
Within a month of being in Colorado, I realized that I have nowhere near enough gear. Upon arrival, I immediately bought a road bike. I’ve been a proud owner of not one, but two Epic Vail ski passes. Furthermore, without proper camping gear, my social life would be nonexistent. I added a tent, a sleeping bag and a sleeping pad to my quiver of supplies.
I readily extol the virtues of Subarus, Birkenstocks, Australian Shepherds, kale and legalized marijuana to anyone who will listen.
Fueled by the plethora of Boulder-based startups and PhD candidates meandering about on Pearl St., I’ve also adopted a restless spirit of entrepreneurial distress. More than once I’ve woken up in a cold sweat, heart beating hard, wondering why I haven’t launched my own company yet, written a book or attained a degree in optical engineering.
Do you want to know my deep, dark secret? I feel a nagging pressure to be outstandingly amazing. It’s difficult to shake the feeling that there’s always something better — something more intelligent, more philanthropic — that I should be working towards. Along with the camping supplies, the Subaru and the bike, my dear Boulder has made me so friggin’ anxious about an unwittingly wasted potential.
So in true Boulderite fashion, I recently quit my gym and joined a yoga studio.
I had taken yoga before to get in shape — little else worked my arms and legs so hard. And being more flexible is beneficial for running, hiking, biking, etc . . . But after two months of taking yoga classes almost every day, something odd happened: I felt a shift. I didn’t just understand what my yoga teachers were saying during asanas, I embodied it. For example, chanting “om” at the beginning of class is no longer an embarrassing cliche that I try to avoid, but a grand, unifying gesture that severs the outside material world from the inner one — the world on my mat and the world inside me.
Practicing yoga helps me realize something higher that I have always known was there, but never had the avenue to access. I’m not talking about God. I’m talking about a deeper way of communicating with myself and with the natural world. (Oh my, if that sentence wasn’t forged by the mind of a hippie . . .)
Now I can’t get enough of yoga.
Next week, I plan to hone my new-found yogic zeal by attending the Wanderlust Festival, taking place at Copper Mountain. I’ll relax, I’ll meditate, I’ll hike, I’ll dance to music, and obviously I’ll take lots of yoga classes with names like “Groundation: You Have Arrived,” “Chakras In Action,” and curiously, “Slackline Yoga.”
There, I’ll report on what I see, what I eat, what I feel, what I hear and what I learn, even if my only revelation is that I’ll never be able to do yoga on a slackline, let alone stand on one. Check back soon for my reports.
[Photo by Lulu Lemon/Flickr]
About the Author
Jenna Blumenfeld, (Jenna Ogden Blumenfeld when she’s in really big trouble) hails from the wee state of Connecticut. Although her childhood dream of becoming a bug doctor — with a specialization in ladybugs — has gone unfulfilled, she is content writing about travel, cuisine and culture. A vegetarian, she currently resides in the food hub of Boulder, Colorado. Read more of her food-centric writing at NewHope360.com.
Published on June 28, 2013