Rain. Rain. Blessed rain.

Pelting rain. Last night. And we were out in it. Driving. Shopping. And my Italian true love was complaining. Wishing for better weather. But I keep telling myself, ‘How wonderful.’ Yes, Sardinian rain. It’s special. Because this is Paradise. My Paradise. I like it because rain here has the aroma of the Mediterranean Sea. Later in the evening, when the house was cool, fetched my coat. To stay comfortably warm. My true love said no, don’t wear it. It’s wet. But no, no, no. It wasn’t wet. Maybe a few drops of moisture from the rain. But essentially dry. And I sniffed the fresh aroma once again. Wonderful. Wonderful. Thankful for the blessed rain. We watched TV. A political rally. Outdoors. In the north of Italy. And it was snowing. And cold. But still, thousands came. Bundled. Wrapped. In apparel reminiscent of Minnesota in mid winter. Heavy coats. Chokers. Fur caps. But in Sardinia. Rain. Rain. And more rain. Blessed rain. But even if it snowed, it would be blessed Sardinian snow. Which I have yet to see in three winters. In Paradise, one takes whatever comes. And feels blessed. That is, if you are me. –Jim Broede