Home is where one starts from.

As we grow older

The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated, with no before or after,

But a lifetime burning in every moment

And not the lifetime of one man only,

But of old stones that cannot be decyphered.

Love is most nearly itself

When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers.

Here and there does not matter.

We must be still and still moving

Into another intensity

For a further union, a deeper communion,

Through the dark cold and the empty desolation

….

In my end is my beginning.

T.S. Eliot (1888-1965), East Coker, 1944.