I travel so much on stories, so I don't take vacation much, but

"I travel so much on stories, so I don’t take vacation much, but one place I go back to again and again is my ranch." Thus spoke Bill Kurtis, and in his words shines the wisdom of a man who has roamed far and wide, yet understands that the soul requires a place of stillness. For the life of a storyteller is restless—driven by roads, deadlines, and voices from afar. But in the end, even the most tireless wanderer must return to a sanctuary, a ground that steadies the spirit. For Kurtis, this is his ranch, the place where noise falls silent and the heart remembers its root.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. Did not Odysseus, after all his voyages, crave the soil of Ithaca more than all the treasures of Troy? Did not Marcus Aurelius, though emperor of the world, retreat to the discipline of his journal, his inner ranch of meditation? For the human soul cannot wander endlessly without losing itself. Travel may bring knowledge and story, but only home brings renewal.

Kurtis reveals a paradox: though he travels ceaselessly, his heart longs not for exotic vacations, but for return. In this lies a deep teaching—adventure does not diminish the need for rest, but intensifies it. The farther one journeys, the more one requires an anchor. The ranch, simple and constant, becomes not merely land, but a sanctuary of memory, continuity, and peace. Here, the traveler is not the observer of other people’s stories, but the keeper of his own.

History offers many mirrors to this truth. Think of Thomas Jefferson, who though engaged in the struggles of nation-building, always returned to Monticello. There, among his gardens and books, he regained the clarity to govern. Or consider the poet Virgil, who retreated to the countryside of Mantua, where the peace of the fields gave birth to the immortal Georgics and Aeneid. These men knew, as Kurtis reminds us, that the greatness of the outward journey must be balanced by the nourishment of a quiet return.

Children of tomorrow, learn this: though the world may call you with its wonders and demands, do not forget the necessity of a place that is your own. Your ranch may not be fields and cattle—it may be a small room, a garden, a sacred corner of stillness. But whatever form it takes, guard it well. For without it, the wanderer becomes rootless, the storyteller loses his voice, the worker forgets his strength. The place of return is not a luxury, but the foundation of endurance.

Practical wisdom lies at hand. As you labor, as you travel, as you chase ambitions, set aside a sanctuary for your spirit. Do not believe that endless movement will satisfy you. Rest is as sacred as striving. Return often to the place that steadies you—whether it is a ranch, a home, or the embrace of loved ones. Let it heal you, so that when you go forth again, you do so not weary, but renewed.

Thus the lesson is plain: the soul requires both journey and return, both story and silence. Bill Kurtis reminds us that though the world is wide and filled with wonders, peace is found in the ground we claim as our own. Cherish your ranch, whatever and wherever it may be, for it is there that the restless heart learns to breathe, and it is from there that the traveler finds the strength to set out again.