The truly free spirits.

I like to get up at odd hours. In the middle of night. At 4:30 a.m., for instance. And follow my impulse. To sit down at my computer. And write a thread or two. For my blog. With no special topic in mind. Instead, I trigger my thinking machine (the brain) and let thought flow. First of all, it ain't 4:30 a.m. Instead, it's 11:30 a.m. Because I've projected myself to Sardinia. Where my Italian true love lives. And she's 7 hours ahead of me. I can connect with her. At the moment.  From Minnesota. On Skype. If I choose. She's most likely up and at home. Though she might be at the graveyard. Putting fresh flowers on the graves of her parents. She usually does that on Sundays. I go with her when I'm in Sardinia. I like the ritual. Though once I felt uneasy in cemeteries. But in Sardinia, I'm at peace with it. I'm fascinated. By the Italian Catholic cemetery. My true love calls it the graveyard. It's unusual. Not like the cemeteries I'm accustomed to in the USA. Though I've not been in many. Seldom going to funerals. Especially graveyard services. Anyway, in Sardina, I look at the names on the graves. Some in small vaults. Containing compacted decomposed remains. The names sound Italian. With rare exception. Unlike in the U.S. Where there's a blend of nationalities. German. French. Scandinavian. Asian. Name a nationality. And you'll find it in America. In cities. In graveyards. Everywhere. Shows that America has been open to immigration. From all over the world. Maybe more so than in any other country. I like that. No problem for me welcoming illegal immigrants. If they like the American way of life, let 'em come. I go where I'm comfortable. I live on a lake outside a big city. But I also go to Sardinia. To live with my true love. For about half the year. Gives me a sense of freedom of movement. And closeness to my true love. And the spirits in the graveyard. I suspect many of 'em have left. Choosing to hang around in distant parts of the cosmos. Far from Mother Earth. They're the truly free spirits. --Jim Broede