I spent my early years in a quiet country town, in airy fields and small houses. At play, I would lose myself in hills of queen ann's lace and transparent dandelions. Rolling and tumbling, I had not a care in the world. A soft, unpretentious brook brought whispers of coolness and color. It swelled gently, yet without much attention. All of life moved without applause. It stirred with a spectacular rhythm and simplicity innately its own.

At some point in my growing up years, all natural curiosity and receptivity took on a different phase in the more selective pursuits of culture and sophistication. I left the green fields for the brown, people-worn pavements of the city. The inclination came at a time of avoidable soul-searching. The company of "befitting" people was a way to expand the rivers of my mind, I thought, actually drawing me a little more away from myself.

Yet, any journey we take, first class or second, I learned, is one we take with ourselves. Any adventure is really one sought in conscious pursuit of who we are.

On my first brave trip, on the train going north (before the conductor bellowed the names of city stops), I had observed in the dark square window the reflection of someone peering back at me. I could not avoid her, nor could I erase the image from blanketing the outward scenes of all I saw. There she was, more familiar than I wanted her to be.

But the picture was clear. I looked her directly in the face, my thoughts running away, but my eyes fixated. I laughed so hard that the passengers turned in gazed amusement. "Do you have to follow me everywhere?" I asked. "Take your place and don't agonize me anymore." I turned at an angle and grinned, and so didn't "she." There is an eerie silence to a night train - an inescapable drama, a backdrop to the sharp turns my mind was making in the startling similarity between inner searching and outward revealings.

Maybe they call this soul-searching, (unavoidable as it turned out to be). But most amazingly, even in the sweat of running, something within was actually having fun.

In all that is worth examining and reaching for, the child in us must go with us, or even before. It is more than remembering. Greater than influences of popularity and proud accomplishment, we really just want to be free, a child again, unburdened and undefined by comparison, competition, or selfish endeavor.

All of us are really just children inside. So what does this have to do with my brave journey? A lot.

I have returned from that 20-year interlude outside the boundaries of my country roots. It brought me into contact with the people I sought. And yes, it was an adventure, and I would be lying if I said I had not been enriched in character, education, experience and outlook (though mostly through trial and error). But the peace within and the appreciation that gives true happiness came, for me at least, upon returning home.

The child never forgets home, nor the family that surrounded her, nor the impressions of kindness and care.

I never realized how wonderfully beautiful the trees are in my hometown of Attleboro, and interesting its people. Or how remarkable my siblings turned out to be; and my parents - how incredibly strong and wise.

What causes us to drift away from the treasures that are under our noses, is the need to discover the worth within ourselves first. It's not something we can borrow from others. Clearing the soul's inner lens, wiping away the fears, the fragile self-esteem, the struggling, we begin to see things differently, because we are different.

It's great to be home. To some, it takes a village, to others it takes a journey.

JUDY QUAGLIA BELANGER of East Providence is a former Attleboro resident.