I know the language of love.

I like living in a place where I don't speak the native language. It isolates me to a degree. Limits me. And I like to test those limits. By improvising. Imaginatively. By finding ways to cope. Despite the handicap of not knowing the language. Maybe it's a little like being blind or deaf or dumb. One can still make it work. One doesn't necessarily need eyes to see. One can see, for instance, by carefully listening. Or by touch. Or by asking questions. Being curious in all sorts of ways. In Sardinia, I see so much and I understand the sound/tone of language. If not all of the words. And I catch the meaningful hand gestures. And I'm still able to shop and go get a haircut, as I did yesterday, by using a few words and hand gestures. I know enough to get by. To make my wishes known. And really, I'm learning words and meanings here and there. A little bit at a time. Making myself understood. Often in imaginative ways. I'm learning despite being stupid and lazy. I already know the Italian words that describe me. Io sono stupido. Io sono pigro. These words make Italians laugh. That's a good start in cultivating human relationships. My Italian true love speaks good English. With a charming accent. She answers many of my questions and inquiries. And she actually teaches English. To Italian teen-agers. Anyway, I can't say that I'm always fully satisfied when it comes to my mastery of language. It's against my nature to be satisfied. I want to be able to struggle. To get things somewhat right. Eventually. I don't want anything to be too easy. That includes the mastery of love. The very concept of love. There's always something new to learn. One magical journey after another. Love being a constant renewal project. A new adventure every day. Nothing taken for granted. Today's love letter is outdated by tomorrow. Love is like a flower that blooms anew every day. Right here in Sardinia. I may not know the native (Italian) language. But believe me, I know the language of love. --Jim Broede