As I traveled the world and experienced life - much of which had been anticipated, too much of which had been rude awakenings and shocking surprises - time and again, I found myself saying, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.” The standard by which I measured people, places, and things, had always been home: Kansas, figuratively, Long Island, literally. No words have ever rung truer to me than the words, “There’s no place like home.” But, unlike Dorothy, I never needed glass, ruby red slippers to bring me back.
The longing, the need, the drive, are innate, perhaps embedded within our genes and chromosomes. When a baby turtle, freshly hatched from its egg, struggles toward the sea, and swims off, God only knows where the currents of life will take it. Regardless of where, or how far, somehow it mysteriously and miraculously finds its way back to the place of its birth to lay its eggs and give rise to the next generation. The cycle of life. Is that cool, or what?
With age, my visits home have become fewer and farther in between physically. However, I have never left, spiritually. My spirit will always remain on Long Island: in its winds, in the waves crashing upon its shores, soaring with its sea birds, hiding like a genie within a glistening medallion of blue sea glass, patiently waiting to be found.