I’m home. Spring is here. The garden is bursting forth, especially after last night’s rain. In the tree outside my window, a goldfinch and redpoll wait to swoop down to my kitchen window bird feeder. Life was good in Italy; life is good back home. In fact, I feel I have more solitude here than when I travel. Although I search for solitude in different physical location, I know that it is wherever I let it in. That being said, I feel like Dorothy returning from Oz knowing that there’s no place like home.