My Uncle Gizz loved to say, “No matter where you go, there you are.”
It was his take on the old saw that holds to the notion that you can take the boy out of the country, but you aren’t likely to wring the country out of the boy.
Or, as Emerson wrote on the intoxication of travel in his essay “Self-Reliance”…
“I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern Fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.”
To me, it’s not whether or not to go from the country to the city, or from New England to Europe, rather to be yourself wherever you are.
Noodling on all that, I wrote a poem.
Down the hill an acorn rolled
Until it struck a stone
So still it lay there, quite surprised
To find itself at home