I am travelling half the year around the world, every year, so

In the words of André Rieu, “I am travelling half the year around the world, every year, so coming home is one of the most beautiful things,” we hear not the boast of a wanderer, but the confession of a soul that knows both distance and return. These words speak of the eternal rhythm between departure and homecoming, between the pursuit of greatness and the yearning for stillness. They echo the wisdom of ages past, for even the mightiest travelers and conquerors, after beholding the splendors of the world, longed for the humble peace of their hearth.

There is a sacred cycle in this truth. To travel the world is to drink deeply of experience, to witness beauty and sorrow in a thousand forms, to stretch one’s spirit across the vastness of creation. But in doing so, one comes to realize that the world’s grandeur, for all its wonder, cannot replace the comfort of belonging—that tender silence of the familiar, where every wall and every scent holds the memory of one’s being. For home is not merely a place upon the earth—it is the resting place of the heart, the quiet temple where the soul returns to remember who it is.

In the ancient tales, even heroes felt this ache of homecoming. Odysseus, king of Ithaca, wandered for twenty years across the seas, fighting monsters and enduring gods. He was offered immortality, kingdoms, and love beyond measure, yet none could ease his yearning for his homeland, for the arms of Penelope, and the laughter of his son. When at last he set foot again upon Ithacan soil, he wept—not for what he had seen, but for what he had regained. His journey, like Rieu’s, reminds us that no triumph, no acclaim, can surpass the beauty of return. The world may applaud your name, but only home remembers your silence.

André Rieu, the maestro who brings joy to millions, knows well the glory of distant stages—the lights, the applause, the endless motion from one nation to another. Yet even he, with all his success, treasures most that quiet hour when the music fades and he steps once more across the threshold of his own dwelling. His words are not of fatigue, but of gratitude—gratitude that amid the whirl of fame, he has a place to anchor his soul. The applause of strangers fades like wind, but the love found at home endures like the flame of a candle in winter.

The ancients taught that balance is the measure of all wisdom. To labor without rest leads to emptiness; to rest without purpose leads to decay. Thus, the wise walk between both worlds—the world of striving and the world of stillness. The traveler who never returns forgets his roots, while the one who never leaves forgets the vastness of life. Rieu’s reflection calls us to this balance: to wander bravely, to give our gifts to the world, but never to lose the way back to our own hearth.

And so, dear listener, let this truth take root in you: that homecoming is sacred. It is not a retreat, but a renewal. When you return from your journeys—be they across oceans or through the battles of your heart—pause and honor the place that shelters your being. Kiss the threshold, embrace the familiar faces, breathe deeply of the air that knows your name. For in those moments, you gather back the fragments of yourself scattered across the world.

The lesson is clear: seek greatness, but never at the cost of home. Travel far, dream boldly, work fiercely—but always keep a light burning in the window of your soul. Let your journeys fill you with stories, but let your return fill you with peace. The beauty of life lies not only in the adventure, but in the return—the moment when, after wandering through the vastness, you whisper, “I am home.” And when you find that place, guard it, nurture it, and give thanks. For to come home, as André Rieu reminds us, is one of the most beautiful things a human heart can know.