There's nothing like experiencing your home town as a foreigner.
In my 20+ years growing up in Central Florida, the palm trees never once glistened in the sunlight. The humidity was never a gift from heaven. And the hibiscus were certainly not as vivid and beautiful as I now see them.
When Florida formed the steep cement wall of my own personal prison, the notion of a warm winter meant simply, Ba humbug.
From prison to paradise, it is not Florida that has come a long way, but me, and I treasure each moss-covered oak; every sepia-toned, cypress-filled lake; and the herons, egrets, and cranes that call this great place home.
Although I am most thankful for our time spent in this hot, humid place, I can't help but wonder what I must now be taking for granted in our present-day "home".
So I say to myself... what a wonderful world.