More than nothing.

I routinely make something of nothing. Because there’s always something in nothing. If one just looks. Last night my Italian true love and I socialized. At the home of her teaching colleague, Patrizia. They gabbed. In Italian. While Patrizia’s 5-year-old son Pier Francesco picked up and played with his immense collection of toys and knick-knacks and acted like an acrobatic chimpanzee. Which I found entertaining. The kid has energy to burn, and he burns it. Wonder if I was that active and agile at 5. Can’t remember much, if anything. It’d be nice to recall life from another time. To analyze it all. I remember only seemingly little things. Which may be big things, if I think about it more.  Why? Why? Why do I remember some stuff and not other stuff? So very much of my life must have been spent in an unconscious state.  Living as a zombie. I’m more aware now. Even of what momentarily seems like nothing. Finding ways to give it significance. Writing about it. Analyzing it. I notice. Maybe I forget  or don't bother to see. But I often post the experience. The social outing. In my blog. Or in an email to a friend.  Somewhere. Some place. To make it all mindful. Meaningful.  Looking for all sorts of signs of life in Patrizia's living room. Fish. In an aquarium. Little live fish. On the way out, on the porch, bric-a-brac ceramic  swordfish on the wall. Are there swordfish in the Mediterranean Sea? I didn’t know for sure. Now I know. Yes, they thrive. Until caught. And served on a plate. To the likes of me. That’s only a little bit of knowledge. But it’s something. More than nothing. –Jim Broede