Only the fond memories remain.

I want my life to flow. If not perfectly. In a decent direction/manner. But it doesn't always go that way. So I have learned to accept life. In whatever way it flows. Trying to make the best of it. Because I have no other choice. Because what happens, happens. Whether I like it or not. Of course, I try to make things happen. That I can live with. While remaining relatively happy.  That means focusing mostly on things that have gone right. Rather than wrong. I have also discovered that time often obliterates from my mind/memory the things that have gone bad. Time also makes it easier to remember good stuff. For instance, in the 38 years of marriage to my dear wife Jeanne, only the fond memories remain. I can't really recall any bad times. --Jim Broede

Not always calm, cool and collected.

Before a physical stress test the other day, I felt stressed. I paced the hallway. Waiting nervously for the test to begin. Anyway, I passed. With plenty of energy and stamina to spare. Despite my unnecessary bout with stress. Still, anxiety takes a toll. On one's psyche. A self-inflicted wound. A waning of one's self-confidence. Many folks, even some of my best friends, are routinely in distress from self-induced anxiety-related matters. Used to think I was immune. Always the calm, cool and collected one. But I'm not. --Jim Broede

The optimist. Not the pessimist.

I confess. I've been having anxiety attacks. Verging on panic. Indeed. A new and strange sensation. A mental hang-up. I need help. And I'm getting it. By digging deep. Into my psyche. Into my fears. The important thing. Recognition. That I have a real problem. With anxiety. I have to talk and reason my way out of the labyrinth. Bringing the situation under control. Before reaching the stage of panic. Sadly. Sadly. I've allowed myself to drift. Into anxiety. Over health-related  issues. Needlessly. A little bit at a time. I'm beginning to understand the nature of anxiety. And I've become my own astute psychoanalyst. Talking to myself. In an effort to quell anxiety. Believe me. It's been a scary time. A humbling experience, too. That a big, stalwart confident fellow like me has become fearful. It's a weakness in my psychological demeanor. An affliction. Similar in some ways to depression. Somewhere, some how, I lost self-confidence in my physical being. In my personal security. Of course, I'm still able to put on a self-confident facade. But to tell the truth. In recent weeks, I've really been an insecure human being. And I have to do something about it. This is no way to live. Fortunately,  I have the ability and wherewithal and determination to turn things around. To regain my self-confidence. By recognizing the truth of what's happening. Not only to me. But to some friends and acquaintances. They've become anxious and unsure of themselves. Some have plunged into depression. I've been a little depressed. So I'm talking about it. With my friends. With associates. With strangers, too. I'm learning how to cope. With the affliction of anxiety. I've always been able to help other people cope. But I've ignored me. Lost my way. Lost my confidence. But I'm finding my way back. I'm feeling good again. And confident. About myself. I'm the optimist. Not the pessimist. --Jim Broede

In crazy ways.

I have no fear about going crazy. After all, my kind of crazy. Is a good crazy. Or so I tell myself. It's the crazy of a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. Imagine being all those things. A writer, too. One needs to be crazy to achieve/attain all that.  Most people would be afraid to head in such a direction. It ain't normal. But I've decided to be abnormal. Crazy, so to speak. Merely because that's what I want to be. In this lifetime. Though I don't rule out other lifetimes. A continuing chain of life. For that to happen, it's a requirement. To be downright crazy.  I talk about being crazy. Because I've learned to accept my condition. No shame in that. Really, makes me proud.  To be deemed crazy. I have no desire to be normal. Like so many other people. I'm different. In what I consider nice ways. In crazy ways. --Jim Broede

In a magical and spiritual way.

Nothing wrong. With an imagined reality. I want the freedom to choose my reality.  Even if I have to deceive myself. In order to achieve conscious life. A reality. Of course, that qualifies me as crazy. But that's the inherent nature of life. One doesn't come alive. Until one goes crazy. And falls in love. Not only with an amore mio. But life itself. Not sure when I had my first conscious moment. But ever since. I've grasped for more conscious thought. By conversing. With what I perceive as other living beings. But also with myself. Trying to make sense of it all. With words. With language. With meaningfulness.  Yes, I'm constantly creating a reality. The unfolding story of my life. I'd like to create my own life. Just like the creator creates his life. In a magical and spiritual way. --Jim Broede

I will be spirit, too. Some day.

It's crazy. To think that we humans happen to be the highest form of life. There has to be something far better. And more intelligent. Spirits, for instance. One doesn't have to be physical. Life could abound. All around us. But we humans don't have the senses or the perception devises to see it. Any more than an insect can see and comprehend human life.  An insect can explore only so much. To an insect, the Earth is the cosmos. No way can an insect circumnavigate the Earth. And we humans can't circumnavigate our cosmos. But a spirit -- can zoom into other solar systems and galaxies. Because spirits can move at will. Vast distances. That we humans can't comprehend. A spirit can move faster than the speed of light. Of course, I'm fantasizing. Using my imagination. Perhaps that's all a spirit needs do to end up on Mars. Imagine it, and will it. I don't rule out anything. My Jeanne is a spirit. And I will be, too. Some day. --Jim Broede

To follow my impulse.

I continually adjust to life. On a daily basis. Is there any other way? I like mostly unplanned days. When I let things happen.  And react. On impulse.  Though I often follow a regimen. Exercising. Physically. Mentally. Often at the same time. Physical motion stirs mental motion.  Makes me wonder. If I'm a machine. Perhaps a programmed robot. With a recording device. Implanted. In me. Like now. Capturing my immediate thought. Rather than allowing the thought to elude me. Makes me feel good. Gives me a sense of satisfaction.  Accomplishment. Anyway, I don't like to follow a rigid schedule. I have an appointment. Today. At 11 a.m.  Over the next 24 hours or so. I'm going to follow a schedule.  Being put to a test, of sorts.  Being tested. Isn't my favorite pastime.  Though in my college days, tests never bothered me.  Never lost sleep. Waiting to take a test. I felt prepared. Especially if it was an oral or essay test. One that allowed for spontaneity. Allowing me to improvise. To be original. To follow my impulse. --Jim Broede

Learning experiences.

Some of my best friends give me bad advice. But still, they are friends. Because I know how to ignore bad advice. They are well-meaning friends. That counts. Thing is. That some people that aren't friends (only mere acquaintances) may give me good and solid and wise advice. Obviously, I don't always rely on friends. I'd be foolish to do that. I know myself better than some friends do. Several friends become annoyed. When I go my own way. That's too bad.  I insist that they honor and respect my independence. Some friends warn me against making 'big mistakes.' And I do. Occasionally. But I have nothing against mistakes.  When they are turned into learning experiences. --Jim Broede

An odd way to pick a doctor.

After 30-some years with a woman as my primary care physician, I have a male doctor.  Wondering now. If that's a mistake. I'm more comfortable with a woman medic. Even when it comes to dealing with man stuff. Women tend to be more understanding. They put me at ease. Furthermore, they seem to be more knowledgeable. About the dynamics of medical care. Basically, they come across as more caring. And isn't that what it's all about? My doctor of many years retired last year.  Shopping for a new doctor has been difficult. To say the least. I've settled on a man. For the time being. Because he happens to be around. Lives nearby. Walks his two Samoyed dogs. Regularly. Past my house. That's  his major qualification. Which seems an odd way to pick a doctor. Happens his wife is a doctor, too. In the same clinic. Maybe it makes more sense for me to give her a try. --Jim Broede

Helps to clear one's mind.

Like to balance my life. Between the mental and the physical. And lately, it's been more mental than physical. That's dangerous. If life is going to be out of whack, better that it be more physical.  One can get too mental. That tends to be consuming. There are times. When it's best to shut off one's mind.  And focus on working out. Physically. Helps to clear one's mind. --Jim Broede

The guidance of optimists.

Like to surround myself with optimists. Because what they have. May be contagious.  That's what I need in my life. Optimists. Not pessimists. I'm a natural born optimist. But lately, I have veered off. Into pessimism, relatively speaking. I'm not a total pessimist. By any means. But I'm not as optimistic as usual. A little less so. Still may be more optimistic than pessimistic. Anyway, that's why I recruit optimists. Soon as one is sighted, I move closer.  Figuring that's the way to get me on the right path again.  Thing about life. One occasionally wanders into a labyrinth. And it's too easy to become lost. I need the guidance of optimists. To find my way out. --Jim Broede

Life of the spirit.

Feeling out of sorts.  Don't like that feeling. I've been fortunate. Almost my entire life. Because I seldom feel out of sorts. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. But lately, I'm not right physically. And that affects my mental and emotional being. That's the danger of physical existence.  Why I'd prefer being spirit. Though I suppose a spirit can feel out of sorts, too. But not for physical reasons.  Maybe there would be a yearning to be physical again. Though I doubt it. Sometimes, I like to pretend. That I am spirit. That's when I feel my best.  Because then I'm light and vibrant. I almost forget my physicality. I have a sense of levitating. Of leaving my body. I am mesmerized.  Of course, I'm not really spirit.  But I am relatively relaxed. And I think more clearly. I wonder. If I were total spirit. Would I still be able to write? Maybe it wouldn't matter. If I had amazing clarity. I would become my thought. Immersed. My thought would become alive.  A new form of life. Of the spirit. --Jim Broede

Reason not to be depressed.

My amore mio thinks I'm lapsing into a state of depression. Because I'm writing a whole lot about death. Of course, death is not the most pleasant of subjects. It can be a downer. Thing is. I lament about death. Can't help it. I'd rather live forever. In paradise. As spirit. Therefore, I am trying to counter death. By making an end run. Around death. Yes, I'm trying to elude death. Unfortunately, I may be playing a losing game.  Death may have the upper hand. Death may be death. A return to nothingness. That could make me depressed. Of course, I won't know it. But if I survive. As spirit. Believe me, I'll be jubilant. --Jim Broede

A loosening of the shackles.

My mind is being seized. Possessed. From afar. By a wonderful and irresistible force. And I'm allowing myself to go along. For the ride. Something tells me. I could have hitch-hiked through life. This way.  And maybe I did. Without consciously knowing it. But now I am more conscious than ever. No, I am not on anything. Instead, I am mesmerized.  By pure thought.  Maybe it's a loosening of the shackles.  Worn all my life. --Jim Broede

Pulled. By a divine string.

I'm in touch. With another world. When I let my mind drift. Too often. I have put a weight. An anchor. On my mind. Afraid. Of wandering. Aimlessly. When that's what I should have done. Always. Now. Late in life. I have the courage. To drift, drift, drift. Makes no difference where I am headed.  Because I am being pulled.  By a divine string. --Jim Broede

In the abyss. Called life.

Writing. For me. It's a diversion. A turning. Within. A way to probe my interior. Of course, I could do that. Without the written word. Without recording my thought. Let the thought come. And go. And maybe disappear. Forever.  A thought seems more tangible. When put in writing. It's as if I'm constructing something. And I can see it. Feel it. Much more so. Than an elusive thought. It's good for me.  For my morale. To build a chain of thoughts.  Often, that's all it is. A chain. Something to hang on to.  In the abyss. Called life. --Jim Broede

To see and experience it all.

Maybe it's all right for life to be frightening. To see the violence. The cruelty. Makes one yearn. For something better.  Another way to welcome death. As a rebirth. Into another form of life. Where peace and kindness and love prevail. Maybe life isn't over until it's over.  Life goes on. An endless stream.  An opportunity to see and experience it all. --Jim Broede

While I am dying.

I'm good at helping other people die. For them to learn. To accept their deaths.  It's a little more difficult for me to accept my own death. Because I have this insatiable yearning. To live forever.  Not as a physical being. But as a spirit. Unshackled from the physical. Able to soar. Into the great beyond.  To reach other worlds. Other dimensions.  Allowing my imagination free rein.  That's the way the creator should have designed life.  Nothing more beautiful than exploring the endless cosmos. That would put me on equal footing with the creator.  Maybe that won't ever happen. But still, I have the option to dream. While I am dying. --Jim Broede

Better to dwell on living.

I have to learn to accept death. Gracefully. Without being nervous. Or uptight. Once I learn that, I'll be all right. Now I'm anxious about it. Maybe anxiety is a form of fear. I'd like to think. That I don't ever live in fear. But the truth is, I do. Always have. Since I was a youth. Since understanding. That some day I'll die. So I tried not to think about it. About my mortality. Seems to me that it's best to not dwell on one's inevitable death. Better to focus on living. Maybe that's the best approach. Right up to the end. To find ways to focus on living. Anyway, I have heart disease. And modern technology gives me a reprieve. Ways to delay the ineviatble. Gives me more time. To either dwell on dying. Or on living. A while longer. To savor the time I have left. Without remorse. Without regret. Without anxiety. All of this is easier said than done. --Jim Broede

To experience. Love.

To die nicely. Maybe that should be a goal of life. Is there such a way? To give thanks. To the creator. For the gift of life. Knowing full well that life ends in death.  A price worth paying.  For the opportunity. To truly live. To having discovered love.  Maybe that was why I was put on Earth. To experience. Love. --Jim Broede

In the realm of romantic idealism.

I'm beginning to wonder. If my days are severely numbered. Maybe I have a year or two left. If I'm lucky.  I'm losing heart. In more than one way. Time to prepare to die. If I'm able to survive. For several more years. It'll be with a significantly different lifestyle. Slower-paced. Less stress. Though that may be difficult to achieve. With the knowledge. That I may die at any time. Of course. That's always been a peril of life itself. From Day One.  But it was easier to evade the prospect of death. At any moment. Now I am finally recognizing my mortality.  Can't say that I am afraid to die. It's more a case of reluctance. I'd like to milk a little more out of life. On the assumption that there will be no more. That this is the only life I will ever have. The only consolation. This is better than absolutely nothing. To having never lived. In a sense, I will end up with absolutely nothing. I still hold out the hope. That there is something. Beyond my natural physical life.  A surviving conscious spirit. That would be nice, I'm supposing. The launching of another adventure.  In the realm of romantic idealism. --Jim Broede

More fascinating than deplorable.

I'm a specific being. Able to identify myself. Aware. Alive. Conscious. Makes me unique. Separates me from you and the other billions of people on Earth. Of course, my perception may be a grand illusion. But if so, I've been adequately fooled. Doesn't matter. The important thing.  I feel like a specific living and thinking being. With a given name. An identity. A supposed proof that I exist. A million years from now. There's likely to be no proof. Wouldn't surprise me if Earth was completely void of human life. Maybe there won't be an Earth no more.  A thought more fascinating than deplorable. --Jim Broede

Only when I become master.

One isn't a master at anything. Until achieving perfection. Therefore, I will never become a master. At any of my pursuits. As a writer, a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. Name it. I come up short. In everything. But that doesn't discourage me.  Because I'm still very much alive. And conscious. And lately, I have a new quest. To become a master of relaxation. To have peace and contentment. Yes, it's an impossible dream. But worth striving for. From within my self. My soul. My very being. Without textbooks. Without guidance from others. Without drugs. Mostly with my mind. I have to find a way to become spirit. While I'm still alive and physical. Raises the question. Of whether one can be physical and spirit at the same time. I suspect it can happen. If one learns to walk on water. I'm told the feat has been achieved. By another. But can't be certain about it. Could be myth. I'll become a believer. Only when I become master. Of something. Extraordinary. --Jim Broede

True peace. Precious solitude.

Peace and solitude. With a minimum of interruptions. That's what I need periodically. To think with clarity. Unfortunately, life is full of pitfalls. One gets off track. Dealing with trivial and mundane matters. Foisted on us.  Because we lack peace and solitude. Therefore, I am compelled to retreat to my cocoon. To more or less shut out the rest of the world. That is my nirvana. My heaven. My paradise. My time for reflection. And rejuvenation. Here I am. In love. With life.  Yet I occasionally reach the point of mental and physical exhaustion. I need rest. A state of tranquility. True peace. Precious solitude. --Jim Broede

Before I die.

I want all the benefits of modern medicine. To keep me alive and thriving. For as long as possible. If I had been born 50 years earlier, it would have shortened my life. I would never have reached almost 80. Not even close. I'd have died of heart disease. But now there are multiple new ways to prevent heart attacks.  Ways to live well into one's 80s and 90s. In good shape. With assists from modern technology. Gives me more opportunity. To practice being what I am. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer. Maybe I'll become something else, too. Before I die. --Jim Broede

Living. In grand style.

I'm back in the U.S. In Minnesota. After seven weeks in Sardinia with my amore mio. Of course, we're still connected. On Skype. Several times a day. There's a seven-hour time difference.  Usually put her to bed. Around 4 p.m. That's 11 p.m. for her. When she wakes in the morning. She can go to her computer. To find a love email. Waiting to be opened. A nice way to start the day. One of the nice benefits of separation.  Always trying to make the best of the situation. I have no complaints, really.  Not sure when I'll return to Sardinia. Could be in April or May. Perhaps for Easter. That's when Sardinia will be significantly warmer. Beach weather. Wasn't bad in December and January. Always above freezing. Sunny days. Daytime temperatures in the 50s and 60s. Occasionally flirting with 70.  I'm not bothered by the snow and cold of Minnesota. It's nice, too. Maybe in March, I'll go to Arizona. And stay with my daughter. Gives me the opportunity to take spring training. With the Chicago Cubs. I do that almost every spring. But missed last year.  I know how to live. In grand style.  No matter where I am. --Jim Broede

A 'grandma' in the making.

I have a burn. On the index finger of my left hand. From reaching into a small electric broiler/oven. To turn a potato. By hand. Not a wise move. The finger touched a red-hot broiler coil. I do foolish things. And when I do. My amore mio reminds me. Like a mother. To not do it again. Don't know if I like being mothered. But in a way, I find it enchanting. Gives me a chance. To suggest that she's acting like an older woman. Yes, a mother. When really she's young enough for me to be her father.  Indeed, an odd twist. My wife Jeanne was nine years older than me. Anyway, I'm a positive thinker. Maybe there's a benefit in all this mothering. For me. I can start acting like my amore mio's son. Like a young man. If she keeps it up, I may start calling her grandma. --Jim Broede

As if life will be forever.

One thing about me. I want to be independent. And no burden. On anyone. Especially on a loved one. Of course, I could accept a role reversal. Caring for my amore mio. Right up to the end. I've done that once already.  With no qualms. Out of love and duty. But if I become incapacitated. Of Alzheimer's or any other dreadful affliction. I want my care left solely to the professionals. Not to a loved one. I'd even consider suicide. As a way out of my dilemma. Yes, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm still very healthy and self-sufficient. And hope to be. For the rest of my natural life. Which means that when departing the physical realm, best that I go quickly.  Yes, I'm giving death a little more thought. Because I'm nearing the ripe age of 80. The odds keep increasing. Every year. For the infirmities of old age to set in. I dream of living forever. In keeping with my romantic idealist ways. But if I do capture forever, it won't be as a physical being. Physical life comes to an end. Inevitably. Sooner or later. Maybe the worst way to go is to linger, linger, linger. Which I find personally appalling. But don't get me wrong. I'm very much in love. With life. I rarely dwell on tomorrow. Instead, I continue to take life one day at a time. As a happy and contented lover. Dreaming. As if life will be forever. --Jim Broede

A happy and contented lover.

I live with my Italian amore mio. Off and on. In Italy. In Minnesota. We live separately, too. We find such a living arrangement  ideal. The way our transnational/international love relationship works best. For both of us. We'd have it no other way. Yes, it's possible to get too much of each other. If we were together 365 days a year. Better to have balance. Breaks for solitude. Though we remain connected. Almost daily. On Skype. On the telephone. Or by email. When we are separated, I write love letters. That's my specialty. Beautiful and intimate love letters. Friends encourage us to become a married couple. And to live together. Virtually all the time. That's the way it was with my first true love. Married. For 38 years. Until she died. In those almost four decades, we were separated for maybe 10 days. Believe me. That's an endearing relationship. Full and total immersion. Indeed, a mostly pleasant and idyllic experience. But it's all right to take a different approach. On my second time around.  Both kinds of love relationships are gratifying and fulfilling. Don't know if there's a right way and a wrong way to be a true lover.  One thing's for certain. I've been a happy and contented lover.  For a long, long time. Seems like forever. --Jim Broede

Viva l'Italia!!!

Every Italian buraucracy has many, many levels.  Impossible to count 'em all. Therefore, it's best to find an opening. A way to squeeze out of the bureaucracy. Before one gets too bogged down. And completely lost. It's like being mired in quicksand. The harder one struggles, the deeper one goes. I'm a foreigner. An Americano. That makes maneuvering through the Italian bureaucracy doubly hard.  Certainly, more difficult than the American bureaucracy. Because I'm used to it. In Italy, I've had to summon my Italian amore mio. For help. Without her, I would have been relegated to eternal hell. She was my savior. My salvation.  She rescued me. When I needed her the most.  Maybe this is all  my imagination. And it really wasn't all that bad. It just seemed that way. I'm convinced. That from a medical perspective, I could have been released from the hospital after six days. Instead, I had to stay an extra two days. To find my way out of the bureaucratic labyrinth.  Almost felt like I had escaped from prison. But hey, I accept that. Because I'm convinced that I got better medical and hospital care than I would have received in an American hospital. At a cheaper price, too. Viva l'Italia!!! --Jim Broede

The critics can go to hell.

Don't know what makes good writing. I call myself a writer. Don't know if I'm good or bad. Or somewhere inbetween. Don't even know if I qualify as a legitimate writer. But I've written. Words and sentences and paragraphs and stories,  if nothing else. Virtually all my life. Even published a neighborhood newspaper. When I was in the sixth grade.  Thought I had a knack for writing. But on reflection, that was myth.  I wasn't a natural born writer. But I've developed a style. Writing mostly in short sentences. I like one word sentences. Some of my stuff sounds more like weird offbeat poetry than prose. Maybe it's that I have no clue. About real good writing. Makes me a poor judge of writing.  Gabriel Garcia Marquez is supposed to be a good writer. Or so I'm told. He died in the past year or so. At age 87. I like some of his writing. And abhor some, too. I don't like his style. Especially when he writes sentences that meander for pages. Some of his sentences in 'The Autumn of the Patriarch' seem to never end.  As if floating off into eternity. I'm tempted to translate Marquez's writing. Into short sentences. Nothing longer than 20 words. But mostly 10 words, or less. That would make for easier reading.  Critics would encourage me to wake up. And recognize Marquez as an astute craftsman. An artist. A nifty wordsmith. One of the greatest writers of all time. Meanwhile, I'd be called one of the worst writers. Maybe deservedly so. But still, that doesn't stop me. From writing the way I want to write. The critics can go to hell. --Jim Broede

The nature and essence of life.

I keep discovering. People worth knowing. Not all that many. But enough to make me thankful and grateful.  Some of 'em don't think of me as worth knowing.  But that rarely happens. No problem. I don't foist myself on anyone. It would be a terrible life. If one never encountered people worth knowing.  Then one would never fall in love. I've only fallen in love twice. In a lifetime spanning almost 80 years. Often enough. To consider myself lucky. And blessed.  Every day. I'm not too surprised if I meet someone worth knowing. Though it happens infrequently. A few days a year. Occasions to celebrate. Feels good. Usually, I know there's a connection. Instantly. As if it was preordained. However, sometimes it takes a while. To catch the right vibes. It's all right. To take one's time. And let things simmer.  Slowly. Slowly. Amazing, isn't it? To discover. The nature and essence of life. --Jim Broede

In praise of Claudio Nuscis.

A helpful bureaucrat. They are few and far between. So when finding one, treasure him. In my case, he's Claudio Nuscis. He helped guide me through the Italian medical/health care bureaucracy. Of course, it also helped that I was being accompanied, all the way, by my indispensible amore mio. She speaks not only perfect Italian, but fluent English. There's no better translator. Which allows me to be a little too lazy in learning Italian. Yes. Yes. I feel some degree of shame. Anyway, back to Claudio.  He recognizes that the Italian bureaucracy is truly a bureaucracy. An agonizingly slow-paced, bogged down labyrinth. In which one can easily get lost. And never be found again. Even worse than the American bureaucracy. And imagine me. Trying to negotiate the Italian bureaucracy. When I'm recovering from heart-related medical procedures while spending eight days in an Italian hospital. No easy task, believe me.  But thanks to Claudio, we handled the situation. Admirably. Having completed all of the intricate paperwork. That, hopefully, will get me reimbursed for the $7,000 cost of my medical adventure. First of all, hard to believe that I got by for $7,000. Considering everything. Imagine spending eight days in an emergency room and cardiac wing of an American hospital.  And getting out. Not only with your life. But with a bill of only $7,000.  My health insurance providers should look at that as a relative trifle. An astounding bargain. Imagine what it would cost in America. I'll find out. That's a promise made to Claudio. --Jim Broede

If one gives the situation time.

Physical activity. I need it. For the sake of my mind. That's why I work out daily. Gives me peace of mind. And that triggers positive thinking. I'll even put up with physical pain. When I know it's doing me good. In the long-term. Yes, I believe in the adage. No pain, no gain. Pain is a relative thing. It's bearable. When one knows it's not permanent. For me, pain has always gone away. Eventually. Physical pain. Mental pain. Of course, some day I may die painfully.  But then the pain stops. Maybe forever. I wonder if that's the primary reason for people commiting  suicide.  To escape the pain of living.  So far, I've never grown tired of living. Even with physical pain. Even with mental anguish.  Maybe it's because things always seem to get better. If one gives the situation time. --Jim Broede

Keeps me alive. And happy.

Hate to report it. But dear Chenuska's time has come. Sad. But then, she lived for over 20 years. A long life for a cat. It would have been  emotionally hard for me to do the final deed. Taking her to the vet. To be put asleep. Better (for me) to have left the task to my granddaughter. While I'm away in Italy.  I reflect. Looking at a Christmas card photo. Way back. With dear wife Jeanne, me and the four cats we had at the time. The last of the cats to go. Dear Chenuska. I lament the passing of them all. But the fond memories. Help me get on with the rest of life. Wish everything was forever. But it isn't.  Unless we all survive. As spirits. In another dimension. And life goes on and on and on. Makes me a dreamer. Keeps me alive. And happy.  --Jim Broede   

A pretty tough guy.

Surprise! Surprise! Yes, when in the hospital in Italy, I had a big surprise. That once upon a time I had seven fractured ribs. And didn't know about it. Until x-rays by the Italian radiologist revealed seven rib fractures. Healed, of course. Apparently, the fractures happened a long time ago. Without me knowing it. The doctors were amazed. That I didn't know it. Because rib fractures are generally very painful. Anyway, I put my mind to work. When could this have happened?  Only one possibility. In 1983, I fell off a roof. And landed hard. Had an overnight stay in a hospital. Released the next day. But I was sore. For several months. Went back to work. In two weeks. With the aid of a walker and a cane. Went to Arizona for a month. To fully recuperate.  Remember having my pelvis x-rayed. But it was OK. Maybe they didn't bother x-raying my chest. My ribs. I'll have to check into that.  Imagine that. Living with seven fractured ribs and learning about it 30 years later.  Makes me a pretty tough guy, doesn't it? --Jim Broede 

Addicted to happiness.

One shouldn't postpone the pursuit of happiness. Now. Today. Happiness must be achieved. At this very moment. Don't wait until tomorrow. Or next week. I ask myself. Daily. What's going to make me reasonably happy? Always, I find something. Maybe it's no more than a love thought. I have to be happy. Can't live any other way. Sure, I go through periods of unhappiness. But it's paramount to get over it. Quickly. To take time out for a happiness break. I owe it to myself. I'm entitled to happiness.  So get out of my way, folks. I'm going to grab happiness. Even if I have to steal it. I'm addicted. I need my daily happiness fix. --Jim Broede

Call it the good life.

My amore mio and I have a transnational/international relationship. We aren't legally hitched. But we'd have no objection to marriage. If there weren't so many complications.  Maybe some day it'll all be ironed out. And become crystal clear. And practical. And the right thing to do. But now, we don't know how we'd be received. In Italy. In America. We would like to retain citizenship in our own countries.  I suppose dual citizenship would be nice. For both of us. So that we could easily go back and forth.  In an increasingly global world.  But maybe we are expecting too much. Especially considering that it's a bureaucratic world. We like each other's culture. We are personally able to blend the two. Nicely. Even if married, we would probably live apart. For much of the year. But we would live together, too. In America. In Italy. Sounds like the ideal life. For both of us. The best of two worlds. I'd like to think that all this is possible.  But it's a complicated world. However, a world that keeps coming closer together.  We see each other every day. If not in the flesh, on Skype. Next Tuesday, I'll hop on a plane in Sardinia. At 6:30 a.m. And by 5 p.m. (Minnesota time) I'll be back home. Flitting back and forth between two countries and living together in two different places, ain't all that expensive. Mostly, the air fares. Otherwise, we live fairly economically. We own our own homes. Another thing. We respect each other's independence. And careers. Me, as a writer. Cristina as a teacher of English and English literature.  Believe me, it's true love. Between a writer and a teacher. Between an American and an Italian. Really, we are living a de facto international marriage. Call it the good life. --Jim Broede

Let's be fair and decent to all.

The kind of violence and militancy that I hate most. It's the kind done with religious fervor. That's why, in many ways, I am leery of organized religions.  I try to steer clear of 'em all. There's always a danger of religious fervor. Closed mindedness.  The inability to listen to the other side. To non-believers. To atheists.   Too many religious fanatics look down their noses. At anyone that isn't their kind of believer. I'm a spiritual free-thinker. I'm for everyone having their free and independent thoughts. About religion. About spirituality. The important thing. They shouldn't foist their beliefs on everyone else.  Instead, better to pursue life in a peaceful manner.  When religions turn violent -- they're no longer espousing the sacred and decent thing.  It happens in many religions. Islam and Christianity. A shame. They both have violent histories.  Records of gross intolerance. Of anyone that doesn't share their beliefs.  Meanwhile, I don't require anyone to be a free-thinker. I'll settle for fair thinkers. And fair actors.  Let's be fair and decent to everyone. --Jim Broede

With the tongue of my soul.

I'm able to dream. Of a perfect world. And when I'm immersed in that dream. I am momentarily in that perfect world. That's why I choose to be a dreamer. It's a creator-given option. The ultimate blessing.  To imagine perfection.  The same way as the creator. I am able to leave my bedraggled world.  For a spiffy world. Of course,  I return to reality. But not until I have tasted perfection.  With the tongue of my soul.  I have quenched my hunger. --Jim Broede

In Broede's Utopia.

Unfortunately, violence begets violence. It would be a wonderful world. If there were ways to avert violence. Period. You know. And I know. That won't ever happen. Because we live in a violent world. We'd have to change human nature. For violence to not occur. Maybe somewhere. On a planet. Somewhere in the vast cosmos. Filled with billions of galaxies. Filled with even more billions of solar systems.  Filled with even more billions of inhabitable planets. Yes, there's at least one civilization so far advanced that there's a non-violent world. Where every living being has effectively renounced violence. Under any circumstance.  That's where I want to live. In a place called Broede's Utopia. --Jim Broede

Dictionaries no longer required.

Newly-admitted patient Ignazio walked into the room. In the emergency ward of the Italian hospital. He looked distinguished. Like an Italian gentleman. Neatly trimmed black and gray hair. I felt sorry for him.  Because he was greeted with silence. From the three of us (patients) already settled in the room. Including me. I didn't know what to say. At a loss for words. Because I don't speak Italian. If I did, I would have welcomed him. Instead, I hoped that the others would take charge. And make Ignazio feel part of the gang. Anyway, eventually Ignazio was duly welcomed. By his fellow Italians. Of course, I didn't catch must of what was being  said. Until later. The next day, Ignazio and I were the only two patients left in the room. And we were communicating. Mostly, with single words. His Italian. My English. It helped. That both of us had Italian/English dictionaries. We were innovative, too. Speaking in sign language. Ignazio came from the nearby picturesque village of Portoscuso. On the Mediterranean Sea. Ignazio looked old enough to retire. I asked for his occupation. He raised his hands and arms in a heavy lifting motion. Yes, he was a laborer.  With Alcoa, the American aluminum manufactuer. Until Alcoa picked up and moved its Sardinian plant to another country. A bitter blow for Sardinia's sagging economy. But all is well. Between Americano me and Italiano Ignazio. We exchanged words. Warmly. Intimately. Despite the language barrier. Ignazio introduced me to his two visitors --wife Lucia and daughter Serena.  And in walked Cristina,  my amore mio, and much-appreciated translator.  A godsend. Everybody got involved in the conversation. Camaraderie.  In two languages. Dictionaries no longer required. --Jim Broede

My longest stay ever.

Three of my eight days in an Italian hospital were spent in an emergency ward. In a four-bed room. Full most of the time. And to overflow, occasionally. When a patient or two on gurneys were rolled in. And it was noisey. Well into the night.  With patients stacked in the hallways. Waiting for formal admission. Everything was more subdued and quiet. When I was transferred to the cardiac care wing. Where I shared a room with one other patient.  It was pleasant.  On the hospital's fifth floor. Where I had a stunning view of rolling green hills, orange tiled rooftops and the Mediterranean Sea, some 20 miles off in the distance.  The food was good, too. Typical Italian fare. Pasta. Scalipini. Boiled potatoes. Minnestrone soup. Veggies. Rolls. Bottled water. Occasionally a baked apple for dessert. But only caffee latte and melba toast for breakfast.  No complaints from me. Though some of the Italians suggested the food could have been better. Anyway, the room was nicely painted. And very clean. The bed comfortable. And adjustable.  Of course, I'm never totally relaxed in a hospital setting. Wish I were home. But I made the best of my longest stay ever in a hospital.  --Jim Broede

In pursuit of a mop.

Many Italians speak more with their hands than with their mouths.  Or so it seems to me. I notice the hands. Because too many Italian words elude me. But the demonstrative hand gestures. They can't be ignored.  If one gets too close to an Italian, there's a danger of being hit by a flaying arm. Accidentally, of course. Italians are well-meaning. But dangerous.  One must remain alert. And at a safe distance.  When I want to communicate with an Italian, I frequently use sign language.  It's essential. Because of my limited Italian vocabulary.  It works sometimes. Not always. Believe me. When in an Italian hospital, I took a shower. In a stall without a shower curtain.  Water splattered over the floor. I wiped it up. With a towel. When a mop would have been far better. The next day, I spotted the cleaning lady, and didn't quite know how to ask for a mop. For my next shower. So I motioned for her to enter the shower room, and acted out, how water bounced off me and on to the floor. Then I  pretended having a mop in hand, swishing it about. She got the gist of my message. Took me down the hallway to a nurse. Where she explained the problem. The nurse gave me a bed sheet. To wipe up the floor next time. Wasn't as good as a mop. But hey, it sufficed. --Jim Broede

In any language.

Marco. Tony. Domenico. All Italians. Patients in the cardiac wing. At the hospital. In Sardinia.  Where I was being treated for and conlavalesing from a heart condition. They were patients. In other rooms. Coming in daily. To visit me. They  didn't speak much English. And I didn't speak much Italian. But we communicated. Effectively. We built a camaraderie. With each other. We played roles of language teachers, too. Tutoring. In our own languages. Trying to become  a little more bilingual.  Interesting, isn't it? An unexpected cultural exchange.  Another reason to be in love. With people. With life. No matter where one goes. Don't have to be proficient in the other guy's language.  All it takes are good vibes. The kind easily understood in any language.  --Jim Broede

Except for the occasional jerk.

Italians  are funny. And different.  I suppose that goes for any nationality. But I'm in Italy. And so that's what I see every day. Italians.  Italians.  And more Italians.  And I very much like what I see. Except for the occasional rude jerk. Like the guy at the information booth. At the local hospital in my town and winter residence:  Carbonia, in the province of Sardinia.  Cristina, my Italian amore mio, asked him for simple directions. How to get to a certain administrative office. The guy said something to the effect that the directions would be too difficult for her to understand. Like he didn't want to waste his time being helpful. Of course, that's a sign that he doesn't like his job. Therefore, he takes it out on the people he's supposed to be serving.  Seated at the information desk, one would  expect him to be a font of infomation. And courteous, too.  Anyway, we went elsewhere for directions.  To another employee at the hospital. She was good enough to accompany us along the entire circuitous route. Right into the office.  Another reason for me to like Italians. Except for the occasional jerk. --Jim Broede

Let that be my eternity.

Seems to me that age is mostly a state of mind. Too many of us are too frequently reminded that age is a chronological thing. Living in a society that dictates when one becomes aged. A senior citizen. Or elderly. For that reason, I don't like to count years, or birthday anniversaries. Best to live one day at a time. Savoring life every day. By grasping the precious moments. Of just being alive and conscious and aware of the pulsebeat of life. Gleaning something significant.  Even in a hospital bed. Looking out the window. From my fifth floor room. I see the Mediterranean Sea, 20 miles away. The rolling green hills, too.  And a cluster of orange-tiled roofs.  I notice it all. Grateful to be alive. To be blessed. Doesn't matter whether I'm 79 or 47 or 32. Nice, of course, that I've lasted this long. Better than to have died relatively young. But in some ways, I'm still very young. I'm still a romantic idealist, a free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer, a writer. Maybe until the day I die. And even then, maybe I pass on to another dimension. To another realm.  Even beyond my imagination.  But if not, I've still lived. If only for a moment. Then let that be my eternity.  --Jim Broede

The good life, shepherd-style.

Little did I expect to be sharing a hospital room with a shepherd. Especially a 90-year-old one.  But it was my privilege. Getting to know Salvatore. He's spent nearly all of his life. Tending to sheep. On his sprawling farm in rural Sardinia, an Italian province island in the Mediterranean Sea. I'm envious of Salvatore. Having long dreamed of becoming a shepherd myself. In the quiet countryside. Almost any place in the world. But Sardinia would be my first choice. Because it is paradise. And Salvatore knows it, too. He was shepherding. Until a few weeks ago. When he became ill. With heart problems. A bad back, too.  Which makes walking difficult.  Salvatore was already occupying a bed when I arrived. As a patient. At the municipal hospital. In Carbonia, the city where I'm spending the winter. With Cristina, my beloved amore mio.  It was initially difficult for Salvatore and I to communicate and commiserate with each other.  Because Salvatore speaks only Italian and a Sardinian dialect. I speak English and virtually no Italian. Lucky for both of us that my true love Cristina showed up every day. She speaks Italian and good English. And served as translator. Therefore, Salvatore and I got to know each other. Wouldn't surprise me if Salvatore recovers. And takes to the grazing fields again. Used to be that Salvatore slept outdoors. With the sheep. Now, most Sardinian shepherds have convenient shelters. But for Salvatore, there's nothing more comfortable than sleeping under an open sky lit by a silvery moon and sparkling stars.  Maybe that's a contributing factor to Salvatore's longevity.  Fresh air. And pursuit of an occupation thtat's far more pleasure than work.  In addition to sheep, he's helped raise a family of 10 children. His wife couldn't visit him. She's at home, confined to a wheelchair. They are still very much in love. Salvatore asks visitors to loan their cell phone. For a few seconds. Just so he can give his wife a soothing love greeting.  Salvatore's youngest daughter visits every day. She'll inherit the farmhouse -- a reward for being the most devoted of his children,  Two sons will inherit the farm they have helped Salvarore to operate. Meanwhile, Salvatore knows he's running out of time.  But he takes it all in stride. Satisfied. To have outlived all the males from his elementary school class.  He'd like to outlast the women, too. Won't surprise me if he does. That happens. Whn one has an unquenchable desire for the good life, shepherd-style. --Jim Broede

Alive, well, thrilled and grateful.

Part dream. Part nightmare. Spent 8 days in an Italian hospital. The good news. I've lived to tell the tale. I'm alive. And well. Albeit, there are no longtime guarantees. Life is full of surprises. From day to day. Looks like it's going to be a blessing. That I decided to check into the emergency room. At the municipal hospital. In the city of Carbonia. On the island of Sardinia,  nestled 120 miles off the Italian boot. In the crystal clear waters of the Mediterranean Sea.  Believe me. It's an idyllic place. The homeland, too, of Cristina, my beautiful and brilliant Italiana true love, also known as amore mio. Got to admit, however, that I had fearful moments. Of ever being heard from again. Imagined being held. In communicado. For the rest of my life. A prisoner. Never heard from again. Lost in a Kafkaesque Italian bureaucratic jungle. Made me wonder if I would have been better off in an American hospital. Now I have no regrets.  Long live the Italian medical system.  Despite a medieval bureaucracy.  That temporaily scared the hell out of me.  Until I learned  how to negotiate through the labyrinth. In unperturbed Italian style. At first, I was exasperated. Losing my cool. Which ain't good. Because I was in the hospital for a heart-related problem. Thank heavens, the medical staff, and especially the cardiologists,  know how to skirt the administrative logjams and get things done. Medically. And effectively. For the patient.  Yes, I was made to feel that my care and health came first and foremost.  Didn't matter that I was a foreigner. A non-citizen. With a language handicap. Didn't matter whether I could pay the bill. Until, of course, I was  on the mend and ready for release. And had to endure the bureaucracy.  Long enough for my stay to be extended for two days beyond medical necessity.  But I can live with that. Because the medical care in the Carbonia hospital is good. Really, downright wonderful. At least in the cardiac wing. Staffed with an abundance of talented and well-trained cardiologists. Most of them young and enthusiastic. Many of whom speak English. As did my cardiologist, Stefania Palmas. Anyway, I'm going to write more about Stefania. And all the amazing  people I met in the hospital. Including fellow patients. Stay tuned. To learn how I came out alive and well and thrilled and grateful from the Italian medical system. --Jim Broede

Better to take life in stride.

The greatest flaw. In people I know quite well. Is their tendency to overreact.  To all sorts of things. But especially little things. They quibble. About this and that. About events and situations they have no control over. The way other people act, for instance.  Maybe because I'm late for an appointment. Or because I forgot to do something. Relatively minor stuff. Might all be taken as a personal slight. Instead of ignoring it. They may take a personal slight. And get unduly annoyed.  Of course, I'm guilty of overreacting, too. But not all that often. Because I consider overreacting a personal flaw. Therefore, more and more, I am taking life in stride.  Without overreacting.  --Jim Broede

As if it were real.

Grasping an idea. And running with it. That's imagination. I refuse to set limits. I was born. To not only live life. But to imagine all the possibilities. Maybe that's all it takes. To achieve the impossible. Grasping an idea. And running with it. Maybe that's all life is. Imagination. I have convinced myself. That I am alive. And living in a physical vessel. When all I am. Is pure imagination.  Even my entire world. Everything. Is being imagined. As if it were real. --Jim Broede

Masterminded by the grand creator.

Don't like thinking about growing old. But I'm often reminded. That I get a year older every year. No stopping the march of time. Unless, of course, I find a way to live outside of time. Theoretically, it's possible. The creator himself is supposed to have achieved such a state. Makes me wonder what it must feel like. To not have to grow old. Einstein theorized that if one could travel faster than the speed of light, one could go on a space voyage and return at a still relatively young age. While everyone else on Planet Earth had aged and died. I'm going on the premise that all things are possible. Far beyond anything that can be imagined in modern scientific terms. Maybe there's a science beyond science. Masterminded by the grand creator that lives outside of time. --Jim Broede 

Gullible creatures.

Physical life. Sooner or later. Involves struggle. Pain. Discomfort. I don't want that. Makes me wonder. If the creator himself. Endures pain and discomfort. Maybe mental anguish. Over the shortcomings of his creation.  Don't know what I'd do in his role.  Might get on with other things. And not let it bother me. And accept the fact that I'm an imperfect creator.   Even though some of my gullible creatures think I'm god almighty.  The all-knowing, perfect one. --Jim Broede

Give me a spiritual Mozart.

If I ever end up in the spirit world, maybe it would be best to say goodby to the physical realm. Totally. Forever. Never looking back. To see what's happening.  Yes, just get on with the creative spirit life. Of course,  spirits (including the creator himself) may see we physical earthlings as entertainment. As melodrama. As soap operas.  Never knowing what's to come next. Personally, I'd be bored. I'd prefer celestial music. From spiritual composers. Such as Mozart.  --Jim Broede

Perfection.

Trying to figure out the difference. Between feeling good. And feeling perfect. Most of the time, I'm feeling good. Makes me wonder, if I've ever felt perfect.  Compleletly happy. Contented. Totally relaxed. At ease. Is there such a state? Might be that's the life of a spirit. To leave the physical behind. There is no physical perfection. Only degrees of feeling good. One must transcend the physical to feel pure bliss.  Perfection. --Jim Broede