When I'm at my creative best.

I found that even when I was a very active Alzheimer care-giver, I still made time to sit down and write. To myself. And to others. In other words, I communicated. I wouldn't allow myself to shut down. I had to keep active. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Every which way. Didn't matter whether I was 24/7 with Jeanne. Or only 8-10 hours daily during the 38 months she was in the nursing home. I felt compelled to write. In order to collect my thoughts. Some of it, I suppose, was merely to vent. To myself. To others. To the spirits. Maybe to god himself. Come to think of it, maybe I've done that all my life. Otherwise, I might stagnate. Maybe it's a form of psychoanalysis. To be aware of what's really on my mind. And to make sense of life. I find that if I don't put my thoughts into writing, they become elusive. They disappear. Or maybe it's that I turn on my thinking machine when I decide to transcribe my thoughts. Put my thoughts into concrete words. Practice the art of language. Merely by talking and writing to myself. At any time of day or night. Whenever the whim moves me. Which is often. Many times in a single day. There's nothing I'd rather do. Than think. About the profundity of life. But I find that some people don't want to think. They want the peace and quiet and solace of a blank mind. Maybe because their thoughts are unhappy thoughts. Burdensome. When that mood hits me, I work my way out of it. By using my imagination. Creating a path that leads me to where I want to go. To the light. To the sunshine. Really, to Paradise. Where I always fall in love. With life. That's when I'm at my creative best. --Jim Broede