I stole this line from Facebook that was accompanied by a photo of a log cabin by the shore of a forested pond. Shades of Thoreau.

I think that’s a longing buried deep in our DNA from the beginning of man.

Millions of people with big-sounding jobs and an alphabet soup of letters after their names sweat the hours of their lives out in concrete jungles, in buildings, offices, cubicles — often windowless — waiting for two weeks out of 52 to escape to a place like Maine, a place that resonates with the soul, where they can unwind surrounded by the peace and natural sounds — including my favorite, the sounds of silence (especially from man) — and never stop to think: “Why don’t I get out of the phony world of ‘success’ as man perceives it? Why do I think that admiration and/or envy from others matter a whit?” Who are they, after all, but other people — probably living by the same internal criteria and thinking what others are thinking about them.

After graduation, many decades ago, I did what so many young folk do, I left Maine. I lived all over the country from small towns to big cities. I had my own house in the Berkshires, which I think of as my second home. The Berkshires are not like the rest of Massachusetts. There are forests and rivers and lakes all ’round, like Maine, and I had my favorite haunts, but my house was still in town. I lived in Florida and Utah. I had a house in California where I spent my last 10 years “away.” It never felt like home.

Why do we think that success is a mega-house filled with “things”? Why do we spend 90%-plus of our days surrounded by the cacophony of the man-jungle where our feet hit concrete in the morning instead of walking out the door to the sight and smell of Adam’s sun rising through the forest, greeted by birdsong?” As Thoreau wrote: “If the day and night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal — that is your success.”

That comes right after his most famous line: “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation…if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”

It was actually used as the theme of one of my favorite books and was made into a movie in the 1955 film: “All That Heaven Allows” with Rock Hudson and Jane Wyman. Hmmm, I think I’ll put this aside for viewing tonight, a sort of reaffirmation that I’m where I’m supposed to be — back in the Maine woods, where I bought my house out here, tucked into the forest, 30 years ago this year after bouncing around the country for a quarter of a century.

I’ve been up since the sun got up, done some catching up on news, a bit of writing, had my coffee — now time for cup of broth and get outside. I think I’ll set up my “outside ironing board,” check on the Eastern Wood-Peewee parents who started all over, after their first nest, in the Quonset hut, with five eggs got smashed, by building a new nest in the rafters of my porch to see if there are little peeping heads yet, etc.

Yep. I’m where I’m supposed to be. You can have your big city dwellings and keep accumulating “things,” even it’s with an eye for “leaving to the children.” They’ll be collecting their own things and odds are they’ll probably cart off what you leave behind to Goodwill.

And I think I’ll take a break from the news tonight and watch that movie. It’s on YouTube.

I may just start skipping the news as a new habit.

The world will have to bumble along without my input. As Thoreau said when he took time off from the news — newspapers — that the news ignored him as well. And he counted that as a good thing. Peaceful.

And tomorrow is supposed to be a scorcher. That sounds like a perfect day to play tourist and go across the river for lobster and steamers out over the water. While silently looking at all the tourists that have been working all year in the big city, dreaming about their once-a-year lobster on the water, I think: “I can come here any day all season long. And I get to go home for a free night’s sleep.”

Oh. The eggs hatched into four wide open little mouths waiting for incoming. Perseverance paid off.

Marion Tucker-Honeycutt, an award-winning columnist, a Maine native and graduate of Belfast schools, now lives in Morrill. Her columns appear in this paper every other week.