I ran away from dirt roads and chicken coops. Fast and far. My small Bessarabian town had too many chores, too much sweat, too many calluses on young hands. I wanted city lights. Clean fingernails. Air conditioning.

College was my escape ticket. I grabbed it and never looked back.

Years passed. Decades. Life filled up with meetings and deadlines and traffic jams. I got everything I wanted – my desk job, my modern life far from those rural roots.

Then something strange happened.

Standing by a lake in rural Maine one day, watching mist rise off still water, I felt an old memory stir. Suddenly I was a kid again, seeing morning dew sparkle on grape vines behind our house. Smelling rain coming before it fell. Knowing which way was north by looking at moss on tree trunks.

All those chores I hated? They taught me things no classroom could. How to read clouds. When to plant. Why birds go quiet before a storm. My soft city hands might have forgotten, but my heart remembered.

Now I seek out quiet places. Remote trails. Empty forests. Places where stars burn bright and phones don’t ring. Funny how life works – I ran so far from my rural childhood only to find myself drawn back to that same simple peace.

Here in Maine’s forests, I’m not running anymore. With each quiet morning, each misty lake, each pine-scented trail, I’m doing something else.

I’m coming home.