I have just returned from Boston. It is the only thing to do if

The humorist Fred Allen, sharp of wit and keen in observation, once declared: “I have just returned from Boston. It is the only thing to do if you find yourself up there.” At first hearing, these words carry the lightness of jest, as if cast off with a smile. Yet beneath the laughter, there is a deeper wisdom, for in humor often lies the cloak of truth. His remark about Boston is more than a quip about a city—it is a reflection upon the restless spirit of humankind, upon our tendency to dwell in places or conditions that do not nourish the soul, and the wisdom of knowing when to leave.

In the ancient style, we may hear these words not merely as commentary upon a place, but as a parable. To “return from Boston” is to awaken from a state of confinement, to step away from an environment that chafes the heart. Cities, like people, may inspire or drain, may uplift or oppress. And when the soul feels the weight of walls too close, the wise response is not to linger in complaint, but to depart. Thus Allen, with humor as his shield, gives counsel: when you find yourself in a place that does not fit, the only thing to do is to return—to move onward, to seek new ground.

Indeed, the ancients have taught this same lesson. Consider the prophet Abraham, who was called to leave his homeland, to wander toward the unknown in pursuit of promise. Or recall the pilgrims of old, who left the crowded cities of Europe to find freedom upon distant shores. They too might have said, “The only thing to do if you find yourself up there is to return.” For return does not always mean to go back from whence you came—it may mean to return to truth, to return to freedom, to return to the self you had almost forgotten.

History also offers us a tale in the form of Nathaniel Hawthorne, a son of New England, who often found himself at odds with the very soil of his birth. Though he lived near Boston and wrote of its stern Puritan past, he often sought refuge in quieter towns and distant travels. To him, the heavy hand of Boston’s history was both a burden and an inspiration. Like Fred Allen, he might have smiled and said, “The only thing to do there is to leave,” not in rejection of its people, but in recognition that sometimes the spirit must seek open fields when the city’s walls grow too confining.

The meaning of Allen’s words is not bound to Boston alone, but to all places and conditions in life that weigh upon us. Each of us, at some time, will find ourselves in a “Boston”—whether it be a stifling job, a loveless companionship, or an environment where our spirit cannot breathe. The lesson is clear: when the heart feels heavy, when the air grows thin, it is wisdom, not weakness, to depart. To return is not to flee—it is to preserve the fire of life within.

Yet his words also remind us of the gift of humor. To speak bitterly of a place brings division; to speak playfully, as Allen did, softens the truth with laughter. Humor is a weapon that wounds none but awakens all. It teaches us to take ourselves less seriously, to endure discomfort with a smile, and to transform grievance into wit. What might have been a complaint becomes, in his hands, a lesson cloaked in laughter.

So let the teaching be passed on: do not remain where your spirit withers. If you find yourself in a place, a season, or a state of mind that burdens rather than frees, then the only thing to do is to move, to return, to change. Do so with courage, and do so with humor, for laughter lightens the load of every journey. And remember—every “Boston” is but a stop upon the road, not the end of the path. To walk away is not to be lost; it is to seek the truer home of the soul.