All of life is a coming home. Salesmen, secretaries, coal miners, beekeepers, sword swallowers-- all of us. All the restless hearts of the world... all trying to find a way home. It's hard to describe what I felt like then. Picture yourself walking for days in a driving snow. You don't even know you're walking in circles-- the heaviness of your legs in the drifts; your shouts disappearing into the wind. How small you can feel. How far away home can be. Home. The dictionary defines it as both a place of origin... and a goal or destination. And the storm? The storm was all in my mind. Or, as the poet Dante put it... "In the middle of the journey of my life I found myself in a dark wood... for I had lost the right path." Eventually I would find the right path... but in the most unlikely place.