When living alone.

Living alone. Ain't a bad way to live. Of course, I'm not always alone. Spending several months a year. With my amore mio. In Sardinia and Minnesota. And occasionally traveling together. In exotic places. From Scotland to Iceland. I like being with my amore mio. But I also adapt well to living alone. Well, maybe not totally alone. Because I have my cat Loverboy. He's a devoted and companionable buddy. I talk to him. As if he were a real person. Sharing my innermost thoughts. And even when living alone, I'm in daily touch with my amore mio. On Skype. Usually, several times a day. --Jim Broede

Sure beats bomb, bomb, bomb.

'Bomb, bomb Iran.' That's the chant of stupid Republican Senator John McCain. And he really means it. As do many conservative American politicians. Of which there are far too many. But I'm a political liberal. And I see the Middle East political dilemma differently. To me,  Iran looks like a potential ally and friend. Yes, the Iranian leadership tends to be strongly anti-American. Which is all right. America deserves to be taken with a high degree of suspicion and skepticism. For its chants of 'Bomb, bomb Iran.' Of course, bombing and warfare would be a horrible way to resolve political issues. Diplomacy and negotiations would be far better. Obama and the more liberal elements of American politic are trying that. Especially when it comes to taming Iran's desire to develop a nuclear bomb. Iran seems willing to work out a deal. In which there's compromise, aka reasonable give and take. Of all the political players in the Middle East, Iran seems to be the most civilized. The most willing to act sensibly. The most willing to send in troops to oppose and combat the Islamic State. Oddly, that puts Iran on the same side as the Americans. Imagine that. Americans having reason to look at the Iranians as  the good guys. Plus the fact that the Iranians seem willing to make a deal. On curtailing their nuclear ambitions. Plus, many young Iranians have an affinity for Americans.  Yes, the relations between Iran and America went awry. In the 1970s. When Iran seized American hostages. And held them for a long time. But the hostages came out. Alive. And imagine now. If the Islamic State held American hostages. They'd  come out with their heads chopped off. Murdered in cold blood. Like I say, the Iranians seem a bit more civilized. Let' talk, talk, talk. Sure beats bomb, bomb, bomb. --Jim Broede

Crazy roles. With more to come.

Don't mind opening my mind. To scrutiny. From outsiders. By brooding. By pondering. By reflecting. In places like this. Of course, I could keep my thoughts secret. Strictly in a private domain. Or I could write under a pseudonym. But I have no inclination to do that.  Makes me wonder. Why I'm so different. From other people. But then, maybe that's the nature of life. To be different. And the same as others. All at the same time.  On one hand, I want to fit into the world. But I also want to separate myself. From others. And lead a life of solitude. Leaves me confused. Over what to do next. To prove who and what I am. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover (of my amore mio and life). A dreamer. A writer. A thinker. A philosopher. A poet. A world traveler. A kook. So many, many crazy roles. With more to come. --Jim Broede

Just where I belong.

Physical exercise. Lots of it. Gives me confidence. And makes me feel younger than my years. That motivates me. To workout. Daily. I see old people. That do their exercising in rocking chairs. No thank you.  That's not my thing. Instead, give me brisk walking. And speedy cycling. In the great outdoors. Of Sardinia. And Minnesota. I was born to be in almost perpetual motion. Physically. And mentally, too. Of course, it was a downer. When I had to spend eight days in the hospital. A period of limited exercise. But now I'm back in the exercise groove again. Just where I belong. --Jim Broede

My daily life-giving fix.

So easy. For me. To be satisfied. And happy. On any given day. By merely walking 10 miles. Interspersed with 15 miles of biking. That's my daily routine lately. Makes me feel good. That's why I do it. Some folks tell me that's too much exercise. For a guy fast approaching the age of 80. But I know better. More importantly, I know myself. And what I can do. And can't do. Physical exercise is good for my svelte physique. But far more than that. For my mental health, too. No doubt about it. I'm wonderfully addicted. To daily physical exercise. That's my life-giving fix. Can't live without it. --Jim Broede

Resurrecting the dead.

Here I am. Sitting up. In the middle of the night. By the light of a flickering candle.  Listening to music. From the 18th century. On a classical music radio station. Imagining. Communing. With the dead. From the long gone 1700s. Turns out. It's Haydn and a melodic violin concerto. I'm thrilled. To be living in the 'modern age.' With new conveniences. New inventions. Makes me wonder. If I once lived in the 18th century. As Haydn's friend and compatriot. It's as if I knew Haydn. Tonight will maybe occur again and again. With the mere flip of a radio switch. And presto. My friend Haydn arrives. Alive and well. The dead are resurrected. Through the magic of technology. --Jim Broede

Is life for real or merely a dream?

Sleep. Allows me to stop thinking. Consciously. For a while. Though I may still be thinking. Subconsciously. Maybe my mind is always working. Always functioning. Don't know if that's a good thing. Or a bad thing. Maybe it really doesn't matter. Maybe that's the purpose of life. To think. About any and everything. No limits. Especially when using one's imagination. Makes me wonder, too. If I dream every night. But simply can't remember some dreams. Especially when I am wide awake. When sleeping. I could be living in a totally different world. Without consciously knowing it. Living two lives. Or several lives. All at once. Of course, my conscious life could be a dream, too. If it is. That doesn't bother me. Because that may be the real nature of life. A dream. Over which I have no control. Though I'm attempting to take control. By convincing myself. That I'm wide awake. And ain't dreaming. --Jim Broede

A spectacular way to achieve a goal.

We live in an age of celebrity. And notoriety, too. Because of the media. Think about it. The least of the nobodies. Can gain fame. With a single solitary act. No finer example. Than Andreas Lubitz. The co-pilot of the Germanwings flight. That Lubitz intentionally crashed into a mountain side. In the French Alps. Killing himself and the other 149 aboard. Indeed, a horrific calculated act. To make Lubitz famous. His picture on the front of virtually every daily newspaper in the world. And on every TV screen, too. There's abundant speculation. Over why Lubitz did it. I know why. Lubitz knew that when he left the world, everybody would know his name. Andreas Lubitz. The crazy guy. But in his mind, he wasn't all that crazy. He knew exactly what he was doing. Overnight, he would become the talk of the world. With everyone trying to figure him out. Well, I have him psychoanalyzed. He always wanted to be a celebrity. And he finally found a spectacular way to achieve his goal. --Jim Broede

Thinking for myself.

I believe mostly what I want to believe. Especially when it comes to unprovable stuff. Such as spiritual and religious matters. Might as well. Because beliefs are based, in large part, on one's faith. Without the need for absolute, undeniable proof. One can't prove the existence of a grand creator, for instance. Anyway, I shun organized religions. But that doesn't stop me from believing in a creator.  As long as I have the leeway to define creator. In my own inimitable way. Which I do. On a daily basis.  Because my creator is elusive. And with a hidden identity and a hidden agenda. Little wonder that I'm confused. Of course, I could get by. Merely by professing that I'm a member of a mainstream religion. Thereby allowing those in the religious hierarchy to speak for me. But that's why I'm against organized religions. Don't like anyone telling me exactly what I'm supposed to believe. I'm capable of thinking for myself. And able to talk directly to my creator. At any time. Without an appointment. I have a direct line. And no need for pious  go-betweens. To put me in access. After all, I'm a free-thinker. Which essentially means I think for myself. --Jim Broede

A safe harbor.

So, I'm reading that the suicidal and murderous co-pilot on that Germanwings ill-fated flight. Hid his mental illness. For which he was being treated. Off and on. For years. His friends and compatriots knew nothing about it. Had no clue. Maybe because mental illness is treated as a shame. Something to be hidden. I'm for openness. No secrets. Some people detest me. For being too open. Too honest. About the facts of life. I'd bring back the sanitariums. Sometimes known as insane asylums. If run properly, they can be godsends. Places where the mentally ill have a decent chance of recuperating. Of becoming well again. And if they can't be cured, better that they remain in a safe harbor. Cared for. Lovingly. Yes, another way. To design my perfect world. --Jim Broede

To reach the Alzheimer-riddled.

I have a captive audience. That is, when I'm with my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. I give him no choice. I do the talking. Some 95 percent of the time. And Ron is catching at least half of what I'm saying. Which ain't bad. He understands babble. For instance. When we go for a walk or a wheelchair ride. I'm constantly describing what we are seeing. The snow. The trees. The sky. A giant concrete water reservoir. A cell phone transmission tower. A squirrel. A deer. A guy walking his dog. The cawing of a crow. I want Ron to see and hear all this stuff, too. To absorb the scenery.  The sounds, too. To catch the moment.  Even if he forgets it all a few minutes later. The important thing. Ron's mind is being stimulated. With a vital assist from me. His attentive care-giver of the moment. Telling him. What he's supposed to see and hear. I'm trying to make it easier. For Ron to use what's still left of his wonderful mind. Ron is so very, very intelligent. Which means that even if he's lost a big percentage of his cognitive abilities/powers. He's still got a lot left. And it needs stimulation. Not merely now and then. But daily. That's the responsibility of his care-givers.  Especially the adept ones. Like me. Yes, with proper care-giving. Ron finds peace and contentment. Even a significant degree of understanding. He knows that I am his friend and helpful and truly caring care-giver. Yes, that is what it takes. To reach the Alzheimer-riddled. --Jim Broede

A crazy design for the perfect world.

Maybe most crazy people get away with being completely bonkers. Because they have mastered the art of living secretive lives. They not only live underground. Avoiding other people. But some crazies have mastered the art of masquerade. Hiding behind facades. That may be the case with the Germanwings co-pilot.  He kept his crazy secrets. Right up to the end of his secretive life. Unfortunately, he took 149 other lives with him.  And his last act was no longer a secret. Albeit, too late. Therefore, I am encouraging crazy people to come out into the open. Into the sunshine. Early on.  To give us hints. Of what you may be up to. So that you can be placed in sanitariums (insane asylums). Where you could be treated and restrained and possibly cured. Yes, another step.  In my crazy design for the perfect world. --Jim Broede

Feeling life...with one's bare hands.

The slow, methodical pace of gardening. I love it. On my hands and bended knees. One might think. I'm praying. Because I am at peace. Paying homage. To Mother Earth. By taking off my gloves. And feeling. The dirt. From which springs life. Gardening. Gardening. Brings me abundant pleasure. I've known prolific gardeners. In my own neighborhood. They thrived. They survived. Into their 80s and 90s. Seeking comfort. In their gardens.  Feeling life...with one's bare hands. --Jim Broede

The benefits of marking time.

It's all right to mark time. For a while.  As a way of getting respite. I do that regularly. As a way of taking a break. From the rigors of life.  The harsh realities.  The setbacks and disappointments. That enter virtually everyone's life. But I cope effectively. By going through periods of marking time. Which allows me to replenish my physical and mental and emotional stamina. For the next battle. For the next adventure. For the rest of my meaningful life --Jim Broede

Absolutely crazy.

Crazy, crazy. Yes, absolutely crazy people are hiding out. Living amongst us. Could be our neighbor. Even a friend. And we don't suspect that they are crazy. Because they hide behind a facade.  That make them look perfectly normal. Take that co-pilot. On the Germanwings flight. From Barcelona to Dusseldorf. He passes as a pleasant and amiable fellow. With anything but a diabolical mind. He's intent on committing suicide. And taking the 149 others aboard with him. By crashing the plane into the French Alps.  He could just as easily have found a way to kill himself. Without murdering everyone else around him.  Why? Why? Why? I keep asking the same question. Why? Why do people do strange and crazy things? Yes, because they are nuts. I see examples every day. By turning on the news.  And watching politicians such as Senator Ted Cruz rant and rave. In mean-spirited ways. Yet, he's called an intelligent fellow. Harvard-educated. Able to bamboozle enough crazy Texans. To get elected to the crazy U. S. Senate. Now he's announced his crazy intent to run for president. Imagine that. Ted Cruz as our president. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Such a thought. It's driving me absolutely crazy. --Jim Broede

Believe me. I'm perfectly balanced.

Walking and biking. They are repetitive exercises. I used to pick one or the other. For my daily exercise routine. Walking 10 miles. Or biking 30 miles. But now I have a better idea. Blending the two. Every day. Walking a slug of miles. And biking a hefty sum, too. When I experience tightness or fatigue in my legs while walking, I stop. And hop on my bicycle for a few miles. The change in motion provides relief to my legs. After 5 miles or so of biking, I resume walking. For a few miles. Alternating. Going back and forth. Interspersing the two forms of exercise. Most days. I settle for 7 to 10 miles of walking. And 10 to 15 miles of biking. My amore mio says I exercise too much. But she's wrong. Having learned to listen to my wiser body. Doing what it dictates.  Not too much. Not too little. Instead, a blend. Of walking and biking. Believe me. I'm perfectly balanced. --Jim Broede

Knowing how to give...and receive.

I peck away. At life. Doing little things. That make for an enjoyable existence. For instance. Today. Visiting my Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. And taking him outdoors. To breathe fresh air. And to stimulate him. Mentally. Physically. And now. It's late evening. And my cat Loverboy is curled up. Next to me. Dosing. Purring. Taking his turn. To stimulate me. Mentally. Physically. Yes, every day. I know how to give...and receive. --Jim Broede

My good fortune.

Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Aboard a plane. That crashes. Under mysterious circumstances. I think about it. Everybody aboard perishes. Sad. But then I reflect. How lucky I am. Having been in so very many right places at the right time. Lucky to have survived. To have lived long enough to retire.  And to flirt with old age. Also, to have been blessed with two true loves. Nice to sit here and reflect. About my good fortune. --Jim Broede

A letter to my insurance company.

Dear Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Minnesota:

While living with my amore mio (sweetheart) in her native Italy this winter, I had an emergency medical situation. And spent eight days in an Italian public hospital. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia, the second largest island in the Mediterranean Sea. Some 120 miles off the Italian boot. A one-hour flight from Rome. Believe me. Sardinia is a spectacular and idyllic place. With over 1,200 miles of blended smooth and rugged coastline, tranquil rural countryside dotted by quaint villages. With a few larger, more cosmopolitan cities mixed in. 

Anyway,  to get down to business. I was treated for a heart condition. Requiring angioplasty and other medical procedures. For which copies of attached documents will attest. Fortunately, I came out of all of this. Very much alive. The Italian cardiologists (one was Spanish) performed an angiogram, a stress test, an ultrasound exam of my heart. Plus the angioplasty, which included ballooning of an artery already containing two stents. I received round-the-clock care in the hospital (Jan. 2 to Jan. 9) from doctors, nurses and other staff. Treated, essentially, in the same manner that  any Italian citizen would have been treated. Didn't matter that I was a foreigner. And had no absolute proof that I would be able to pay the bill. After all, my life was in peril. And that's all that mattered.

Upon returning to the U.S., I was told by my American doctors that had I received the same kind of medical and hospital care in America, the cost would have likely run into the six figures.

Now for the incredible news. My total (bottom-line) bill in Italy was 5,374 euros, or $6,274 in U.S. dollars. Attached documents, with these figures circled, reflect the actual bill and personal banking transactions that allowed me to raise funds to pay the bill.  Yes, I know my Blue Cross/Blue Shield insurance company wants an itemized bill. With a specific cost tied to each procedure. But that's not the way the Italians operate and conduct business. They provide only a bottom-line bill. Without itemization. The Italian bureaucrats tell me they calculate only an estimate of what it cost to save my life. Whether I be an Italian or an American or a penniless refugee. Makes sense. In the humane Italian way. Maybe not in an American way. In the end, the Italians balance their health and hospital care budgets. Without breaking down the fine details. And without the middle man insurance companies. Everyone in Italy is covered. By sort of a socialized medicine. A neat way to go. No complaints on my part. Because it's proving to be beneficial. For me. And for my insurance company.

Think about it. If I had been billed for the actual cost for the angioplasty and other procedures, like happens in America, the amount for everything would have far exceeded $6,274. So, who am I to complain? I and my insurance company have been given a break. An almost unbelievable bargain.

Now, I am asking to be reimbursed. For the full amount of the $6,274 bottom-line bill. Under the provisions of my Blue Cross/Blue Shield insurance coverage. I am submitting detailed printed records of the hospital and medical care received.

If you need additional information, please contact me. My address is 22652 Hayward Avenue North, Forest Lake, Minnesota 55025-8222; or jbbroede@hotmail.com; or telephone 651-464-3978. I have also attached a business card. I am a writer. With a daily blog. On the Internet. Plug into the blog. You will read the details of my experience in Italy and with the Italian and American medical bureaucracies.  Let's hope for a happy ending. It will be duly reported.

Let me add. The Italians have been very accommodating. But please understand, their ways are different than the American ways. As you can see. From the bill itself. Seems to me that it was a blessing -- medically and economically -- that my medical emergency occurred in Italy. And not in  America. Please  consider, too, that I'd like to show that it was all a blessing for Blue Cross/Blue Shield, too. Especially if I can demonstrate that  my beloved insurance provided me with comfort and full reimbursement. That would be a sign that the system works.

Best wishes to everyone at Blue Cross/Blue Shield,


Jim Broede

With absolutely no regrets.

Better to be the care-giver. Than the one being cared for. In my 13 years as an Alzheimer care-giver, never once did I flinch and want to trade places with my dear sweet Jeanne. Yes, I'm better suited to being the carer. The provider. Though it took a while to learn the rudiments. Which meant taking good care of myself, too. With adequate respite. Then I became a sterling care-giver. Reminding myself. Constantly. That I was the one in the most enviable position. I dread becoming the victim. Of Alzheimer's. Instead, I became the beneficiary. Learning how to do the right thing. For my longtime true love. In the process, I was rewarded. By becoming a better human being. With absolutely no regrets. --Jim Broede

A fabulous cure. For lethargy.

Lethargic. I hate the word. And the feeling. Fortunately, I've learned to combat lethargy. By taking charge. Of my mind. And my body.  I work out. Daily. Whether I feel like it or not. It's called discipline.  I like the feeling of being self-disciplined. I walk a brisk mile. Then two, three and four. Most days 10 miles.  I feel better, mentally and physically, after the 10th mile. Than I did after the first mile. No more signs of lethargy. Instead, I feel the pulse beat of vigorous living. Today, I'm adding 20 miles of biking to my regimen. And several hours of yard work. Gardening. And not least. I'm sitting down. To write. About a fabulous cure. For lethargy. --Jim Broede

All is well. In my nifty little cocoon.

Yes, I acknowledge. That the world abounds. With some very unhappy and disgruntled folks. Revolutionaries. That want to bring about change.  Any which way. Including violence. Many of them are religious fanatics. Doing the killing in the name of their god. They appear to be crazy. But still, they attract followers.  It's as if their craziness is contagious. Of course, I am crazy, too. But in different ways. I try to do no harm. And try not to foist my ways on others. Better to retreat. Into isolation. Rather than change the world. Though if I were king, the violent crazies would be ordered into treatment. Just as well, I'm not king. Or dictator. My regime would be toppled. By the crazies. Therefore, I live and let live. And avoid contact with the crazies. And try to get on with life. Pretending. Pretending. Imagining. Imagining. That all is well. Or at least it is. In my nifty little cocoon. --Jim Broede

Better to just enjoy the ride.

No doubt. Life is an adventure. Especially when one looks at the entirety of it all.  Take the story. Of anyone’s life.  Each of us becomes conscious. Gradually. Of our very existence. In a world populated. By billions of people. And here I am. A specific single solitary soul.  Expected to make sense and meaning of this blessed life. Yes, blessed. How can it be anything else? A wonderful opportunity. Finding pleasure and happiness. And not least, love. Why? Why? Why am I here? That’s one of the first questions I asked. Once I learned a language. Gosh. I have the ability. To truly communicate. To carry on a conversation.  With myself. And with others. To figure it all out. By asking. Why am I here?  Some days. I don’t bother asking any more. Instead, I merely settle. For being.  Don’t need an explanation. Better to just enjoy the ride. Maybe that’s the reason. Nothing more. Nothing less. –Jim Broede

At One with all of creation.

I like living. Without a whole bunch of commitments. April. May. June. For three months. I pretty much have an open schedule. Very few obligations. Other than being true. To myself. Normally, I have plans. Projects. But I've  consciously avoided commitments. Better for me to have free time. Allowing me to relax. And to avoid stress. I'll do as I please. Respite. Accomplished in an easy-going manner.  In recent days I've turned to gardening. And fixing up my heavily-wooded lakefront yard. Gives me a feeling. That I am at One with all of creation. --Jim Broede

Before the dawn of civilization.

Maybe it's that I want to avoid the perils of life. Which means. Escaping from civilization. The masses. The mobs. The politicians. They pose the real danger.  Fortunately, there are remote environs. Undiscovered niches. Unspoiled terrain. Maybe that was the thrill. The motivating force. For pioneers. But then the others arrived. Often in droves. Think about it. Once upon a time, Mother Earth was inhabited by mere thousands of people. Not millions. Not billions. An interesting discovery. Neanderthals may have used the talons of white-tailed eagles to make jewelry 130,000 years ago, long before the appearance of modern humans in Europe. Read it in the New York Times. Yesterday.  I'd love to turn back the clock. And walk and talk with the Neanderthals. To sense the world. Before the dawn of modern civilization. --Jim Broede

Off the beaten track.

There's something to be said. For living off the beaten track. In relative isolation. Away from the rest of the world. I can settle. For a desert. For a mountain top. For the middle of a primeval forest. Away from civilization. Strange, isn't it? I want everything. Which means getting away. From just about everyone. Except a few choice compatriots. Including my animal friends. --Jim Broede

Am I asking for too much?

I love life. But I want something better. A higher level of consciousness. I want more happiness. More love. More meaning. More to savor. Is that wrong of me? Should I be satisfied? And expect no more than what I've got?  I crave for a higher form of existence.  For whatever lies beyond the horizon. Seems to me that life should be limitless.  With no boundaries. I want to achieve everything imaginable.  Am I asking for too much? --Jim Broede

I'll keep my older streamlined mind.

My aging mind. Seems more perceptive than the younger version. Maybe that's the blessing. Of  aging. Of course, the aging  mind is less agile. Not as fast as the younger one. But there's an advantage. In slow and  methodical thinking.  The older mind also has a reservoir of knowledge. On which to base conclusions/perceptions. Not least. My older mind has a a more voluminous vocabulary. In which to communicate. I'd not trade my older streamlined mind. For the younger model. --Jim Broede

Only in paradise.

My biggest mistake. Is to doubt myself. To lose confidence. And I suspect. That probably goes for almost everyone. When I'm in a groove. It's possible to achieve the seemingly impossible. Or some sort of variant. That makes me happy. And restores my confidence. The labyrinth. Becomes a charming garden. Full of flowers.  Of every imaginable color.  And with a fragrance. One sniffs. Only in paradise. --Jim Broede

Destined to thrive.

Even when having bad times, I'm having good times. Yes. I'm never devoid of  access to good feelings. To good vibes. Maybe that's my saving  grace. The ability to generate positive and optimistic thoughts.  And eventually my better side takes over. I have a fervent belief. That things will get better. They always do. If I wait it out. With a high degree of faith.  That I am destined to thrive. That I am blessed. --Jim Broede

Time to focus...and to savor it all

It's important. To be able to say 'no.' I have a few friends who always say 'yes.' As a result, they have taken on too many responsibilities. They are overloaded. Spread thin. And stressed. Occasionally, I fall into the same trap. Saying 'yes,' when I should be saying 'no.' Fortunately, I've been saying 'no' with increased frequency lately. Little wonder. I'm feeling better. And more relaxed. I like days when I do too little. Rather than too much. Gives me time to focus...and to savor it all. --Jim Broede

Going to hell.

I’d not want to live with certain religious fanatics. Especially the ones that wouldn’t respect my desire to be a spiritual free-thinker. And demand, instead, that I follow their fanatical ways. Or risk being executed. That ain’t a nice way to live. In fact, it’s downright preposterous. And unacceptable. I’d be dead in no time. What’s even more preposterous. The world is full of these sorts of religious fanatics.  Another sign that the world is going to hell. --Jim Broede

It's worth a try.

Take the Israelis and the Palestinians. Two tribes. That can’t get along with each other. Oh, a few do. Individually. But collectively, they dislike/distrust/abhor each other. Meanwhile, I’d be able to live with Israelis. And with Palestinians. And find ways to get along. But then, I’m not an Israeli. Or a Palestinian. Maybe that makes the difference. Instead, I’m a romantic idealist. And a spiritual free-thinker. Maybe that makes the difference. Therefore, I encourage both sides in this political divide to become romantic idealists and spiritual free-thinkers. Let’s see. If that solves all sorts of political problems. It’s worth a try. –Jim Broede

The perils of life.

We are living in a world. Where people don't want to get along with each other. Or so it seems. There's less and less give and take. Especially on political issues. Political parties want everything to go their way. Zero tolerance of the other. All or nothing. It's a sad state of affairs. Compromise is considered a dirty word. Makes me leery of the future. All the more reason to retreat to my cocoon. To escape from the world. To live in isolation. With my amore mio. With a few friends.  Because engagement with the world. Makes happiness and survival perilous. --Jim Broede

Another nicety of life.

Okay.  Okay. So my amore mio. Prefers a brilliant colorful flower garden. To my relatively drab waves of pacysandra. No bother. No problem. She'll have free rein. This summer. To plant flowers galore. In fact, no reason to wait. I am open to directives. Flowers it will be. The yard is big enough. For everything. And more. Yes, another nicety of life.  We both can have our ways. --Jim Broede

Paying proper homage.

Lately, I have been finding happiness. On my knees. And in my hands. Touching dirt. And leaves. Yes, getting a feel for Mother Earth. Doing yard work. Gardening. Welcoming spring. Nothing more satisfying. Than crawling. In huge swaths of pacysandra. A ground cover. That I find aesthetically preferable to traditional grass. Pacysandra flourishes. In vivid green. In the shade. Yes, the moment the snow melts. Pacysandra. So hardy. So resilient. In the autumn. When the leaves fall. There's no reason to rake. Instead, the dried and crisp leaves form a blanket. Over the pacysandra. As the snow melts, the leaf-blanket becomes damp and compacted. Easily picked up. By my bare hands. As I kneel. In an uncovering ceremony. Paying proper homage. To my dear, dear waves of beautiful pacysandra. --Jim Broede

Infinite reasons to be happy.

Really, I'm never unhappy. That is, completely unhappy. Always. Even in bleakest moments. I have something to be happy about. To cling to. Because I am in love. With life. And with a true love. Such as my amore mio. Maybe it's that I go through periods of being annoyed. With something. With an annoying aspect of life and death.  But always. Some way. Some how. I find happiness. Around the corner. Sure, I get pissed. With politics.  With bureaucracies. With the absurdities. But the moment that I step back. And look at the big picture of life. I find infinite reasons to be happy. --Jim Broede

My peculiar and shifting moods.

When I'm in a funk, it really isn't a funk. When defined as a dejected mood. For me, a funk is to be in something less than an exuberantly happy mood. I can be in a funk, and still be happy. But less than exuberantly so. Actually, to be funky. Also can be connoted as earthy or down-to-earth. Or pleasantly unconventional. Funny thing. A single word (such as funk/funky) can have so many and varied meanings. Anyway, I'm often at a loss to find the correct words to describe some of my peculiar and shifting moods. --Jim Broede

Tended to. By god-like beings.

Give me life in the 4th dimension. Being a simple 3-D creature ain't good enough for me. Living in a 4th dimension would make me feel more at home, more god-like. And maybe I'd even have a yearning for life further beyond -- into a 5th and 6th dimension. Tried to stir a conversation. Today. With my amore mio. About how we limited 3-D folks probably wouldn't even know it. If we were being visited now. By intelligent living beings from the 4th dimension.  Because we can't see beyond 3-D. Unfortunately, my amore mio prefers focusing on more mundane stuff. Like preparation for her English literature class. Not profound speculation about ghosts. Because that's what a 4-D character might look like. To me, in my narrow 3-D world. A wisp. A cloud. Maybe disconnected blobs of flesh. Think about it. Imagine a two-dimensional world. Resembling a sheet of paper. How would you appear to the inhabitants of such a world? And say, you tried to interact with them. They'd see you only as a cross section of you intersected in their universe. They would see irregular shapes. Not the full you. Similarly, those of us living in 3-D would be unable to see a full being in the 4th dimension. Someone in  4-D could easily pick up something in the 3-D world. Make it disappear. Like magic. Like an act of god. Fantastic stuff, isn't it? Just trying to imagine superior forms of life. When I die. That's where I want to go. Into the 4th dimension. Where I could be kept alive. And tended to. By god-like beings. --Jim Broede

The happy struggle.

It's all right. To struggle through life. Maybe that's the finest part of life. The struggle. To get things right.  A sign that one cares. Some days. I struggle and struggle and struggle. And that makes me more happy than tired or frustrated. Because I am learning. That I was born to struggle.  Yes. That's the proper way. To struggle through life. Happily. --Jim Broede

Doing proper maintenance.

Some times I am selfish. By doing what is best for me. Rather than for others. I do it. Without qualms of conscience. Because I am a care-giver. And to be good at it. I have to take care of myself. If I can't do that. How am I going to be in a position to truly care for others? Another thing. There's no better time. To care for one's self. Than when one is alone. The perfect environment. For turning inward. And doing proper maintenance. --Jim Broede

About things. About life.

I'm feeling good. About things. About life. Because I am giving free rein. To my imagination. In ways that make me happy. No reason to worry. Or fret. Because I am engaged. In life. With the people I meet. At least one or two strangers. Every day. Yesterday. A woman from Haiti. She speaks French.  And an old man. With a cane. Having difficulty rising from his chair. I offered to help. No. He's going to do it himself. But he appreciated my gesture. We exchanged good vibes.  That's all it takes. To feel good. About things. About life. --Jim Broede

Amusingly confused.

I like playing mind games. With my inner self. Or my soul, so to speak. In an attempt to milk the most. Out of life. That's an effective way.  To remain calm, cool and collected. That's all I can trust. My mind. And mostly my imagination. Of course, that means having to resort to self-deception. To a degree. The creation of an imagined reality. That I can buy into. In very believable ways. Little wonder. That I have resorted to writing. A blog. To keep track of it all.  Otherwise, I might forget. About where I am drifting. So nice. To have daily reminders. That keep me amusingly confused. --Jim Broede

Whether it be meaningful. Or not.

Maybe life was meant to have no meaning. And here we are. Searching for meaning. As if that's what we are supposed to do.  We make it an obligation. A mission. To find meaning. And truth be known. There is no meaning. Life is life is life. Without meaning.  But that's hard to accept. It's like living a wasted life. But maybe it's impossible to waste life. Because life is what it is. Life. No more. No less. Better to accept it. Rather than reject it. Therefore, I will savor life. This moment. That moment. Whether it be meaningful. Or not. --Jim Broede

The absurdity of life.

Indeed. I am lost. Wandering. All over the place. I'm supposed to be making decisions. That help me find my way. And I have no clues. It's strictly a day to day thing. A case of random selection. Taking this or that turn. Some days. I don't feel like turning at all. Merely stagnating. Afraid to proceed. Or maybe it's that I need a rest. A break. A timeout. Better to drift. Doesn't matter where I end up. Yes, I was born to be a drifter.  To drift aimlessly. Better that. Than making sense of the absurdity of life. --Jim Broede

What am I to do next?

Life is an attitude. An opportunity to fill. An otherwise blank mind. That's how I emerged. Into the world. Into existence.  Squeezing out of the womb. With a totally blank mind. Ready to observe. But not yet ready to make sense of life. Of the world. Of me. Of everything. And here I am. Almost 80 years later.  Still trying to make meaningful sense of it all. I have a blog. A mostly senseless journal. Full of what I call broodings. Ponderings. Reflections. Inanities. That's me. All right. But then, maybe I'm not all right. Maybe I am lost. In a wilderness.  In a world I don't understand.  Not only that. Maybe I don't even understand myself. Tell me. Anyone. What am I to do next? --Jim Broede

Ready to be lived. To the fullest.

I'd just as soon go on living. Without thinking of my eventual demise. Just let it happen. Without giving the matter much thought.  Because I'm too busy. Living. The rest of my life. Best way for it all to end. Is in an instant. By dropping dead. Unexpectedly. Suddenly. Without any forewarning. That seems like a fine way. To deal with my mortality. No sense in being preoccupied with death. Ain't worth worrying about.  Because what will happen, will happen. Meanwhile, there's my remaining life. Ready to be lived. To the fullest. --Jim Broede

I'm working on Napoleonic status.

My amore mio tells me. To quit imagining. That I am Napoleon. That they put people like that away. In booby hatches. But I won't quit. Imagining virtually any and everything. No limits. Creating my own worlds. And often they become unequivocally real.  Think about it. Once upon a time, I imagined being a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. Now it's as real as real can be.  Granted, I haven't yet achieved true Napoleonic status.  But I'm working on it. --Jim Broede

A very real imaginary life.

Being a writer. With a vivid imagination. Allows me to pretend. To write stories of fiction. And pretend they are real. I can pretend almost anything. That I am Napoleon. And put it into story form. In my head. On paper. On a computer screen. Any which meaningful way. I can immerse myself in fantasy. And even make it all feel real. By going into a hypnotic trance. Convincing myself that I am the story's protagonist. Actually living the experience. My age is an asset. The older I get, the easier it becomes to live a very real imaginary life. --Jim Broede

A sure-fire cure for depression.

Don't know what depression is supposed to feel like. Therefore, don't know if I've been flirting with depression. I suspect that there must be degrees of depression. And that depression more or less comes and goes. Wanes. Fluctuates. Maybe even from hour to hour. Maybe depression is mythical. And mystical, too. My assumption: Depression is a state of mind. When writing/thinking about depression, it often makes me feel better. Perhaps less depressed. That is, if I was ever 'depressed' in the first place. Depression may be an elusive commodity. Maybe it's really nothing more than anxiety. I am a worry wart, of sorts. Though I am more optimistic than pessimistic. Or so I subjectively proclaim. Anyway, in recent months, I have been feeling glum. Not all of the time.  But off and on. Glum for no other reason than that I worry. About a variety of things/matters. About my health. About life in general. I worry about running out of time. About facing up to my mortality. Which can be a somewhat glum pursuit. That mimics depression. Maybe the answer is to NOT face up to my mortality. And simply get on with life. Without being worried or concerned about my mortality. To pretend that I'm not going to die. Sounds like a good solution. And a sure-fire cure for depression. If that's what it happens to be. --Jim Broede

Better late than never.

Funny thing. The older I get, the more sense it makes.  To not get too far ahead of myself. And to live one day at a time. If I think 10 or 20 years ahead. The odds are that I won't be around. At least not on Mother Earth. That's a little bit of a downer. In my younger days, it was easy imagining living another 50 or 60 years. And still be alive. And thriving. Now I focus on being a happy fella.  In the moment. Or in the relatively short term future.  I have lost the advantage of youth. The ability to postpone. To put things off. But now, delay could be costly. I may be running out of time. But that may be a plus. Making it imperative. That I savor life and love. Daily. Without miss.  Yes, I have adopted the adage of old age. Better late than never. --Jim Broede

Goodness. In being.

Peace. Tranquility. I'm able to achieve it. Most days. By merely being. Me. I become one. With creation. Blending. Blending in. Going with the flow. Letting the current take me. To wherever. No set destination. Because I have faith. In the natural flow. I put up no resistance. Better to feel. That my fate. My destiny. Is whatever was meant to be.  Goodness. In being. --Jim Broede

To do as I please.

Unplanned days. That makes for the good life. To wake in the morning. Without a set agenda. Merely letting the day develop. Rather than feeling that something specific must get done. No appointments. No commitments. I'm flexible. I can do things. On a whim. Usually, I sit down at the computer. And write. A thought or two. That might ignite me. And send me off. In an unanticipated direction. I fill the void. With whatever brings happiness. Contentment. Maybe even tranquility. And bliss. Knowing that I am free. To do as I please. --Jim Broede

A way to live and speak. Forever.

Give me sprightly music. Out of the 18th century. Haydn. Little wonder. That Haydn lived into his 80s. Because he had a sprightly and upbeat attitude. A good sense of humor. His music resonates with me. So wonderful. That I live in an age of technology. That brings me Haydn. Daily. I highly recommend listening to Haydn. Especially for those of you that tend to go into funks. Into anxiety. Into depression.  Haydn will take you by the hand. And lead you out of the darkness and into the sunshine. Into Paradise. Yes, Haydn found a way. To live and speak. Forever. --Jim Broede

The good life. Always.

The weather. It's having a good affect on me. For 10 days now, temperatures 20 to 30 degrees above normal. Here in usually frigid Minnesota. Not only feels like an early spring. But summer, too. Forecast of 70 degrees today. And sunny. I've been raking leaves. Left over from fall. My pacysandra (a ground cover) is blooming.  And I walked eight miles yesterday.  Maybe 10 miles today.  A  bike ride, too. Of course. We Minnesotans know. A springtime blizzard can't be far away. But I don't mind. I'll make the best of it. Getting good exercise. Shoveling the driveway. And listening to the chirping birds. The good life. Always. --Jim Broede

The clever little Loverboy.

It's nice. Getting up at 1:30 in the morning. After a few hours of sleep. Nothing bothering me. I have a clear mind. And I feel rested. Therefore, no need to stay in bed. Interesting observation. My cat, Loverboy, almost always gets up with me.  As if he's duty-bound. To keep me company. Always at my side. At my feet. At my beck and call. We are almost constant companions. Lately, I have allowed Loverboy to stay in bed. With me.  Because he was sick a few days ago. Had to go to the vet. Where he stayed. Caged. Overnight. That was stressful for Loverboy. When he came home. He didn't eat for two days. Maybe from the stress. Of having been away from home for 24 hours. Decided to spoil him. With the best of food. The same stuff I eat. Roasted chicken. Finally coaxed him to nibble. To dine with me. Makes me wonder. If Loverboy faked his illness. In order to be treated like royalty. Yes. I wouldn't put it past. The clever little Loverboy. --Jim Broede

A late, late bloomer, am I.

I feel my best. Late in the day. Late at night. A sign that I am a slow starter. A slow learner, too. Slow. Slow. Slow at everything. That's another reason.  For why I need a long, long life. So slow. That I'd not reach the finish line. Unless I have a long, long time. Maybe that's why I am destined to live into my 80s. Maybe 90. Now that's a positive thought.  Slowly. Ever so slowly. I am becoming more positive. I need time. Really. Quite possibly. Forever. To accomplish my mission. I am barely getting into my rhythm. A late, late bloomer, am I. --Jim Broede

I believe in a charming falsity of life.

False hope. Ain't the worst thing in the world. Because hope is hope is hope. Doesn't matter whether it is false or not. Call it self-deception. That helps one get by. For the moment. Getting by is an important (maybe even critical) part of life. One doesn't really know if some hopes are false. For instance, hoping for an afterlife. A continued consciousness. An existence after death. So what if it's false? If it is. One will never know. Because one will have transcended into nothingness.  But to dream of an idyllic afterlife. That's a romantic notion. The idea of meeting up (a reunion) again with loved ones. Even a pet dog or cat. That's a truly pleasurable and morally uplifting notion. Nothing wrong with that. Even if it never happens. I reserve the right to design life. My way.  With my self-deceptive imagination.  With my embracing of so-called false hope. Maybe it's that I believe in a charming falsity of life. Enough to make me a reasonably happy being. --Jim Broede

In mostly pleasurable ways.

How does one get pure pleasure from life? For me, it’s in finding meaning. To virtually everything. To events. To the characters/personalities around me.  To friends. To acquaintances. So far, I have identified two true loves. Gems. If I had nothing else in my life. Maybe that would be adequate. Depends on the degree of meaning I give to them. And the influence they have on me. Of course, much also depends on who I am. What I’ve become. Me. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. And not least, a writer. The written word. Spontaneous thought. My boldest attempt at defining myself. Elaborating on the true meaning. Of my life experience. In mostly pleasurable ways. –Jim Broede

Just around the corner.

I come closest to stopping time. When I am happy.  Because then I am in no hurry to get on to the next moment. Better to stop. And savor the happiness. Making it linger. Because the next moment may bring sadness. But I don’t stop. Because I am greedy. I want another and another and another. Of everything that brings me happiness. I can’t settle for one thing. Inevitably. In grasping for more precious moments, I stumble on a disaster. That’s the nature of life. One can’t be protected from everything. All I know. Is to keep looking. And sooner or later, I’ll always find true love and true happiness. Just around the corner. –Jim Broede

Complications ain't necessary.

So many ways. To work myself out of a funk. Mostly. By running life. My way. I take charge. And create an existence. That makes me comfortable. So simple. Occasionally. I make life complicated. When it really isn't.  Better to stay on the simple and uncomplicated path. I'm amazed. At the extraordinary large number of people. Choosing to make their lives complicated. Ain't necessary. --Jim Broede

Based on Broede principle.

My friend. Cherie. Often tells me how to write to her. In specific ways. I'm supposed to conform. To her ways.  And above all else. I'm supposed to not make a blog piece. Out of stuff that I tell her. Sometimes, I comply. Other times, I don't. Generally, I do things my way. Rather than ways dictated by friends and acquaintances. Makes me feel more comfortable. That way. Of course, it wouldn't take much effort. To comply with Cherie's wishes. But I don't always do it. Based on Broede principle.  --Jim Broede

Reason. To break societal rules.

No reason for me to be a conformist. I've been one. More or less. For a long, long time. Though I have a reputation. For being a nonconformist. For not going along. With many  traditional practices of society. Unfortunately. For the most part. I tend to conform. It's less troublesome. But I'm learning to be a true troublemaker. Even making trouble for myself. By finding reason. Daily. To break societal rules.  --Jim Broede

I have no birth date any more.

Commemorating anniversaries. I don't like the practice. Because it seems so stupid. Furthermore, I don't like getting older every year. Best to lose track and thought of one's age. If one lived outside of time, there'd be no reason to celebrate birthdays. Age wouldn't matter.  Maybe that's what I'll start doing. Pretending. That I live outside of time. By refusing to provide my birth date. On any documents. Better to list 'unknown.' If other people want to celebrate their birth dates -- that's fine.  But they aren't going to pull me into their asinine practice. --Jim Broede

Little wonder. I love to play god.

When focused on others, I am no longer focused on myself. That can be a good thing. And a bad thing, too. Because to be beneficial to others, I have to take good care of myself. My friend Julie doesn't take care of herself. Instead, she's been far too focused in the past six years on taking care of others. She has neglected herself. And in the process, she has done harm. Not only to herself. But to the others that she's been trying to care for. It's  a vicious and destructive cycle. For everyone. We all have been guilty of this. At one time or another. I did it with my dear Jeanne. Until I put her into the nursing home. And got adequate respite. I began to take better care of myself. I still haven't fully learned the lesson. I do neglect myself. On occasion. When I am truly caring for others. I lose balance. And that makes me less of a care-giver. I have to take a few steps back. Daily. And be a little bit selfish. I take steps forward. And take steps back. I'm moving in two directions. That's the nature of life. Life isn't static. Life is fluid. In constant motion. Physically.  Mentally. Emotionally. Anyway, I'm a truly caring person. But I can be construed as uncaring, too. Especially when focused on myself. But that's a real part of being caring. I'm well aware. That if I don't take adequate care of myself --nobody else is going to do it for me. Not even a physical therapist. Or a psychotherapist. I have to take charge. On all levels. Little wonder. I love to play god. --Jim Broede

For Julie: Still a long way to go.

My friend Julie is making progress. Slowly coming out of her funk. But she has a long, long way to go. In large part, because she wants to be liked by everyone.  Even by people who aren't worth knowing. That's a big mistake. One should be selective. Yes, limit one's self to a select few compatible friends and associates. Don't try to be everything to everybody, I tell Julie. It's all right to write off most of one's acquaintances. And focus, instead, on a few worthy intimates. Otherwise, one becomes spread too thin. Julie had a bad day yesterday. Because of a three-hour phone conversation. With her less than empathetic sister. The sister isn't good for Julie. Yet Julie puts up with her. Julie would have been far better off. If she had ended the conversation In 15 minutes. And gone out for a walk. With pet dog Sasha. Or with husband Rick.  Or with me. We would have exuded good vibes. In an effort to make Julie's day.  Instead, Julie allowed herself to be dragged down. By a bad-vibes sister.  Julie has to learn to take the initiative. By protecting herself. From the likes of her own sister. --Jim Broede

My mythical world.

Hope is hope is hope. Doesn't matter if it is false. Hope is the feeling that what is desired is also possible. Or that events may turn out for the best. That's what my dictionary tells me. And that's a big part of life. The reason I'm a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a writer, a dreamer. I've been hoping (and wishing) all of my life.  My entire foundation is built on hope. And dreams.  Our finest myths spring from hope. From what we wish to be true.  And much of my hope comes true. When I take charge. When I play god. I am all-powerful. That's when I become most alive. If god is dead. Allow me to take his place. Allow me to create the mythical world. --Jim Broede

My way.

I must get my angst under control. Imagining life the way I want it to be. I want to be god. The boss. The guy that decides all of life's outcomes. Of course, I won't get my wish. But I could be happy. Playing god. Calling all of the shots. In an effort to create the perfect world. Perfect, that is, from my perspective. Might not be what other people would have in mind. But I'm going to ask god for a little favor. Give me a little corner. In some distant part of the cosmos. Where I can create a world. My way. --Jim Broede

Without a yesterday or a tomorrow.

Of course, there are ways to cope with angst/dread. By learning to live life one day at a time. Which is easier said than done.  People consumed by angst/dread tend to get too far ahead of themselves. Even a single tomorrow is in the danger zone. To be happy. To be at ease. To be in love with life. It's best to be consumed by the moment. To be immersed in now. Without a yesterday or a tomorrow. --Jim Broede

With rest breaks. Outside of time.

Another word for angst. Dread. Maybe that's what I feel. Dread. That time is running out. Every day. I step closer to my ultimate death. It can't be that far off. A relatively small percentage of my life remains. And I fear/dread lapsing into a state of absolute nothingness. From where I came. Out of nothingness. Unaware of existence. Unaware of creation. Of any life form. That is what it must be like. Living outside of time. No way of measuring anything. I've often wished. Right here. For the privilege of living outside of time. Conditionally. As long as I could perceive time from the outside. Theoretically, that would allow me to exist. And I could still have the ability to imagine. That I am still alive. A functioning, conscious being. Yes, it's difficult wrapping myself around such an outlandish concept. But I'm prepared to try virtually anything. In order to cultivate my survival instinct. I want eternal consciousness. With the option of falling asleep. For short periods. To allow my consciousness the opportunity to rejuvenate. Really, that's what I have now. An off-and-on switch. Which makes for a pleasurable and stimulating life. With rest breaks. Outside of time. --Jim Broede

A dream. Not only weird. But funny.

Talk about weird dreams. I had one tonight. That I was a kid. In a very weird family. That slept in flooded bedrooms. Literally. Water came all the way up to the bed. So that one was immersed in water. As one slept. But my bedroom was dry. Yes, I was allowed to sleep in a dry bedroom. But if I wanted to go to the bathroom, I had to walk into a flooded bathroom. And that annoyed me. Made me ponder that my family was not only peculiar. But downright crazy.  I raised the issue. And was told. I could do whatever I liked. Free to choose my option. A flooded bedroom or a dry bedroom. But I asked, ‘What about the bathroom? Seems to me I have no choice. Because there’s only one bathroom. And it’s flooded.’ At the time, I didn’t see that as funny. I was feeling angry. But now that I’m awake. The dream seems not only weird. But funny. Makes me wonder if there’s any underlying significance to it all. –Jim Broede

Finding my way out of angst.

I'm discarding the word anxiety. And replacing it. With angst. I can't find angst in my English dictionary. Seems that the word was introduced into English from the Danish, Norwegian and Dutch and German word angst. Used in the works of Kierkegaard and Freud. And used in English to describe an intense feeling of apprehension, anxiety and inner turmoil. I've read much of Kierkegaard. And he helps me feel what I am feeling. When he talks about angst. It has a much deeper meaning than the word anxiety. Kierkegaard used angst to describe a profound and deep-seated condition. He said animals are guided solely by instinct. But that humans enjoy a freedom of choice that we find both appealing and terrifying. I'm trying to find my way out of angst by focusing on the appealing. Rather than on the terrifying. --Jim Broede

I like to stir trouble.

I make it a point. To confess. Daily. By writing. Whatever comes to mind. In a public forum.  In my blog. I've posted over 7,500 threads. In the last six years. All sorts of thoughts. Observations. Yes, even confessions. About things I do wrong. Mistakes. Blunders. I even confess. About being  a fool. And crazy.  My blog is called broodings. Yes, Broede's Broodings. Could just as well be called Broede's Confessions.  Some highly personal stuff. About me. But also about other people. Some of whom might take offense. When I first started the blog. I alienated lots of people.  And some responded. With nasty words. Insults. Which I never took seriously. There's humor in most vitriol.  Yes, I confess. Sometimes, I like to stir trouble. --Jim Broede

If one learns to adjust.

So, what else is new? To be truthful, I've had bouts of mental pain and anguish. All my life. They come and go. With sustained periods of happiness between. About time for me to recognize. That's the nature of life. Sure, it would be nice if life flowed smoothy. All of the time. But that's far too much to expect.  Or even to desire. Better to have ups and downs. Teaches one the art of acceptance. Maybe that's what I like most about life. The unpredictability.  Everything going smoothly. Then suddenly, an earthquake. One's world is shaken up. Mentally. Physically. Every which way. Much of it imagined. Because we humans tend to overreact. And expect the worst rather than the best. Another reason. To plod through life. Taking one's time. To analyze the situation. Invariably, the same conclusion. Life ain't so bad. If one learns to adjust. --Jim Broede

In a life raft. Rather than a canoe.

I am learning acceptance. Of some degree of apprehension. As a normal part of life. Knowing, too, that I can make apprehension go away. By merely forgetting about it. And getting on with life. In pleasurable and satisfying ways. A little like putting up with headaches or body aches. . Which come and  go. Accepted as infrequent annoyances. Stuff one learns to live with.  That is the nature of life. The stream does not always flow smoothly. Therefore, I must find ways to adjust. To cope. With occasional turbulence. By having fun. While I bounce over the rapids. In a sturdy life raft. Rather than a fragile canoe. --Jim Broede

To be a decent human being.

I'm learning to set aside my fears. By reasoning. That there's  nothing to fear. But fear itself. FDR had it right. One has to move through life with confidence. Fearlessly, more or less. That's how I became a lover. Knowing, really, that there was nothing to fear. And that the rewards would be immense. And everlasting. So off I went. In pursuit of love. Without the least bit of fear and trembling. And with an awareness. That I was born to be a lover. A few other things, too. But lover is a requirement. For one to be a decent human being. --Jim Broede

In easy reach. Of my finger tips.

Forging ahead. That's what I'm doing. Looking over the horizon. Because there's always something new to see. To behold another wonder of life. Much to ignore, too. But amidst the turmoil, there is peace and tranquility. Always a haven. No matter where I go. I find safety. And friends. In that sense, I am never lost. Never alone. And I am always in love.  What more can I ask? When I have it all. In easy reach. Of my finger tips. --Jim Broede

To better understand thyself.

Maybe I should create a story. With my imagination. Yes, write a short story. A feel good story. With me as the protagonist. I should become immersed in this creation. For days on end. Maybe weeks. I have created a labyrinth. In which I'm lost. Can't find my way out. That's the start. To figure out. How am I going to get out of this mess? Do I go about it methodically? I must experiment. Trying this and that. How do I collect my wits? Am I in this labyrinth all by myself? Can I rely on others for help? Maybe I should look at my dilemma as an adventure. Gleaning something useful. And even entertaining. From the experience. That could be a way to offset my fears. Perhaps this labyrinth is nothing more than an imagined labyrinth. Created. In large part. By my fears. Of being lost in a labyrinth. I have been using my imagination. In negative ways. I have to use my positive imagination to slay the negative one. It's as if I have a good side. And an evil side. Makes me a balanced being. Maybe too balanced. Ultimately, my good side has to prevail. Otherwise, I'll be in trouble. Maybe this is the beginning. Of a lengthy psychoanalytical process. An understanding of my malfunctioning. Which gives me the opportunity to get it right. To find my way out of the labyrinth. Maybe the labyrinth isn't to be feared. Maybe I can go in and  out. At my pleasure. At my whim. To better understand thyself. --Jim Broede

Life ain't so bad. Even at 40 degrees.

My amore mio. Complains. Of a 'cold' snap. In Sardinia. Because the overnight temperatures dip into the 40s. And here I am. In Minnesota. Where we romp. Outdoors. Because it's early spring. Sunny days. Temperatures in the 40s. With predictions of 50s later this week. Maybe even a 60. Yes, my amore mio is spoiled. That's the nature of a Sarda. They live in Paradise. Sometimes without knowing it. Sometimes, I forget, too. I am in Paradise. Because I have my amore mio.  I am able to console. Able to tell her. Life ain't so bad. Even when it's 40-some degrees. --Jim Broede

With no thought of morrow.

I want to live. Without pangs of anxiety. Without apprehension. Just merely for the enjoyment and pleasure. Of feeling alive. Worry-free. Of course, that’s an impossible dream. Yet, I do snatch worry-free moments. But those instances are becoming fewer and farther between. I have anxiety attacks. With increasing frequency. Daily. Anxiety. A peculiar feeling. Hard to describe. It’s pervasive. Takes over my physical  being. As well as the mental. Tension. Discomfort. Apprehension.  I have lost my way. Lost my rhythm. My flow. Up at 5 in the morning. Writing this. In a state of limbo. Somewhere between worry-free and anxiety. A neutral zone. Maybe that’s as well as it gets these days. Fortunately, I still have a neutral gear. An idle. A getting by. I need more. I need to thrive. Need to become fully integrated into the life stream again. Flowing. Flowing. Thriving. Thriving. With no thought of morrow. --Jim Broede

My quest: To become a hypnotist.

I'd like to become a hypnotist. My own way. By merely following my instincts. Not by reading 'how to' books. I'm interested. In only hypnotizing myself. Into a tranquil and totally relaxed state of being. I'm experimenting. I'm succeeding. To some degree.  My elbow. Propped on the desk top. Pencil in hand. Using the tip. To gently and lightly stroke my forehead. The pencil tip slowly wanders. All over my face. Tickles my sideburns. Meanders around. To the back of my neck. My eyes remain closed.  The touch becomes lighter and lighter. Barely touching my skin. I'm breathing. Long and deep breaths. Slowly, slowly exhaling. I'm feeling good. Makes me wonder. If I'm in a hypnotic trance. --Jim Broede

My new-found tricky maneuver.

My problem. I want to feel in tip-top shape.  Mentally. Physically. All the time. If I'm only 80 or 90 percent, it has a negative effect. On my morale. Might even cause me anxiety. Or worse yet, depression. I have a high tolerance for pain. That is, if I know it's temporary. That it'll go away. Eventually. Oh, the perils of aging. One no longer feels like a well-conditioned athlete. Of course, I'll settle for a well-conditioned 79-year-old. Notice, I don't say 80. Yet. No sense in getting ahead of myself. Meanwhile, I'm trying to unlearn my counting skill. Not sure any more what comes after the number 79. I think it's 78. Followed by 77. Yes, I have a new-found ability. To trick myself. Into getting younger and younger. --Jim Broede

How to counter lethargy.

Maybe this sounds whacky. Bed rest is my worst approach. When feeling tired/lethargic. Better to exercise. Vigorously. To get one's pulse rate going at a good clip. Works for me. More often than not. Forces me to become active. Lethargy breeds lethargy. Energized activity breeds energy. It's a means of waking up the body. And the mind, too. I'm really at my best. When I get into a groove. Walking 10 miles a day. Adding up to 70 miles in a week.  Don't have to do the 10 miles all at once. Better to divide it up. Maybe into 3 or 4 outings.  Interspersed with mindful writing respites. --Jim Broede

The freedom of blessed thought.

I'm practicing. The refreshing of my mind. I should do it. Daily. But sometimes I forget. And thoughts become stagnant. Maybe it's that I'm lazy. Or neglectful. Really, there's no legitimate excuse. My mind was designed. To give me the freedom. Of blessed thought. --Jim Broede

I've learned to take the detours.

Hell exists. In the Middle East. Maybe even in Ferguson, Missouri. Yes, hell can be just around the corner.  Fortunately, I've been able to avoid visits to hell. Most of my life. But I know that hell exists. But so does paradise. I highly recommend. Taking detours. To stay far, far away from hell. Sometimes, I've stumbled into hell. Accidentally. But I waste no time. Escaping. Fleeing. Hell is the last place I want to be. Matter of fact. Wish I could say. I've never been to hell. But one good thing. I've learned to take the detours. --Jim Broede

In an earthly paradise.

I have checked into a Swiss sanitarium.  Yes, I'm able to move about. With my mind. Though I remain in Minnesota. Physically speaking. But that doesn't stop me. From going to a mythical Switzerland. And making it all feel real. That's my favorite scheme. To keep my sanity. In a crazy sort of way.   I have a beautiful view of the Alps. Without even opening my eyes.  And I breathe the crisp fresh air. And sense the scent of moist melting snow.  I am here. Just to rest. In an earthly paradise. --Jim Broede

A wonderful struggle.

I get too analytical. Which means, thinking too much. Thinking is all right. To a degree. But thinking can be overdone. Especially when it leads to fear and trembling. Scary stuff. When, as a kid, one lets the imagination go too far. Maybe for the thrill of being frightened.  Better to think of happy and pleasant scenarios. To imagine drifting on a cloud. But for a kid, that's boring stuff. Better to cavort with ghosts and goblins. I have learned to revere and treasure. Peace and tranquility. And especially love, above all else. I was born without a true understanding of love. Unable to put 'love' into meaningful words.  Maybe that's still a struggle. But a wonderful struggle. --Jim Broede

Always a tomorrow.

One’s life evolves in so many interesting ways. Every day, a new chapter. A new revelation. In the continuing story of one’s life. I’ve compared it to living in a novel. I am the protagonist. The observer. The teller of the endless story. Of how I became a romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer. With still more to come.  I am not only reading this ‘novel.’ I am living it. That makes it more than fiction. Makes it real. A real and true aliveness. A real and true consciousness. And there are so many characters in this story. You, for instance, the reader of this account. This page. Many of you have entered my life’s story. Especially you, my amore mio. From Sardinia. You have brought me much happiness. You have helped to make my story a true love story.  We all have entered each other’s lives in significant and meaningful ways. In big roles. In minor roles. Entering and leaving the scene. Some gone forever.  But you, my amore mio, are with me every day. Some days in the flesh. Other times. From a distance. On Skype. But every day. We are together. One way or another. My first true love is gone. For over eight years now.  But, oh, what a love. For 38 years. Still alive. In a spiritual realm. Because that is the way the story is being written. The way I choose to write it and live it and believe it. I have been blessed. With two true loves. That’s the core of my life’s story. And to think, it’s still being lived. Another page. Every day. Chapter after endless chapter. Maybe it’s a story without an ending. That’s the way I’m trying to live it. Forever and ever. One day, one page, one chapter at a time. Always a tomorrow. --Jim Broede

I am. For the moment.

I want to be at peace. At ease. And content. With life. And I wonder. What it takes. To achieve such an end. I'm trying to do that. Tonight. In the quiet of my abode. With my eyes closed. As I sit at my desk. Pondering. This single moment of existence. Isolated. From all the rest. And I tell myself. Be at peace. At ease. And content. And I am. For the moment. --Jim Broede

To be able to live with myself.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. So many decisions. Makes me nervous. I hate to make decisions. About so many things. Such as whether to spend almost $1,000 to solve the medical problems of Snowflake, the 10-year-old cat I adopted 4 days ago. Or to use my 30-day option to return Snowflake to the Humane Society. And let somebody else wrestle with Snowflake's fate. I could look at this from a strictly mercenary position. Saving money. Instead of saving a cat's life. But then, it's not going to break the bank. And even if it did, so what? More important to do the right and decent and humane thing.  Really, the decision isn't all that difficult. Because I want to be able to live with myself. And with Snowflake, too. --Jim Broede

My definition of fair-minded.

Really. I'm having fun. When I become annoyed. With politicians. Gives me the opportunity to become critical. Sarcastic. Insulting. Denigrating. With no qualms of conscience. When I call them the scum of the Earth. And that includes Supreme Court justices Antonin Scalia, Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito. Because they are politicians. In robes. Disguised as fair-minded justices. Of course, arguments could be made. That all nine of the justices are politicians. Of one stripe or another. But I have to admit. I'm biased. My definition of fair-minded is someone who thinks like me. --Jim Broede

Give me a fun-filled life.

Fun. Fun. Having fun. Isn't that what life should be about? Occasionally, I forget how to have fun. I'm impressed. By the Chicago Cubs new manager. Joe Madden. Because he wants his players to have fun. Playing baseball. Hey, it's a game. Supposed to be enjoyed. A fun game. Players get paid. To have fun. To enjoy what they are doing. They are elite athletes. Have to be. To play baseball professionally. And one of their primary missions should be to have fun. A rollicking good time. If it isn't fun. And they are playing only for the money. Maybe they should consider other careers. Where the primary reward. Is to have fun. Is it wrong? To say that life should be fun-filled? Nope. I'm at my best. When I'm having fun. --Jim Broede

Better to become truly alive.

Thursday morning.  I feel apprehensive. Anxious. Now I have to overcome my forebodings. By talking to myself. Becoming my own psychotherapist.  Finding reason to be optimistic. To be happy. Just being alive. Maybe I should lie down. And try to quell my anxiety. By resting. Pretending I'm in a Swiss sanitarium. Being treated. Kindly. Soothingly. Now an interruption. A phone call. From the physical therapist. Prescribed by my doctor. For the kind of exercise that relieves stress. I have an appointment. For 2:30 p.m. Monday. With a therapist named Sol.  He has the potential. To do more good. Than a psychotherapist. I will move about.  Today. Slowly. Methodically. And seek a rhythm to my movements. A balance. Between rest. And physical activity. Relief for my crazy mind. Through physical movement. A reminder.  That I am alive and conscious and physical. Far more physical than spiritual. I am solid. Rock core physical. That should be my salvation. My mission. To embrace my physicality. And the physical life all around me. My two lovely cats. Loverboy. Snowflake. They are here to console me. To guide me. Reminders of the physical nature of life. For the moment. Now I am practicing the art of breathing. Breathing life. Into my being. I'm writing this longhand. Because it is the physical way. Writing. More accurately, scribbling. But more importantly, breathing. Breathing. Nothing more physical than that. The breath of life. Gives me consciousness. The ability to feel life's endearing pulse beat. The grandeur of life. I'm off now. To practice more breathing. To practice being alive. At One with the life force. Only that will put me at peace. With myself. With my surroundings. With everything. Bringing me precious moments. To be savored. For a long, long time. This is what I deserve. What everyone deserves. Yes,  no need for all this apprehension/anxiety. It makes absolutely no sense. Better to become truly alive. --Jim Broede

With milk or tea or nectar.

No hot tea for me tonight. Instead, a tall glass of cold milk. And two slices of cinnamon toast.  So many ways to relax. To indulge one's self. To feel good. About life.  The gods on Olympus. Dined on nectar and ambrosia. But I can settle for less. And call it the same. Life is that way. Doesn't matter. Whether one is a god or a mortal. Life is meant to be lived. Fully. With milk or tea or nectar. Take your choice. --Jim Broede

A bite and a sip at a time.

I am learning. To take baby steps. Relearning. The same way that I came into the world. I forgot the rudimentary way. To learn about life. Baby steps. Baby steps. And more baby steps. Huge and gigantic strides ain't necessary. A mere baby step. That's all it takes. To head in the right direction. Slowly. Methodically. Life was never meant to be rushed. But savored. A bite and a sip at a time. --Jim Broede

Tonight. Good enough for me.

A nearly full moon. Lights up the land. More than the sky tonight.  Reflecting off the snow-covered ground. Six below zero. Fresh air. And a silent night. And I am told. Spring is coming. In two more days. Temperatures will be well above freezing. And stay so. For an extended time. Maybe 10 days. Before the official coming of spring. Balmy. Balmy. For Minnesotans. But really doesn’t matter. Because I have tonight. And that’s good enough for me. –Jim Broede

Happiness in form of a Snowflake.

My dear cat Loverboy seemed forlorn. Because he lost his longtime mate, Chenuska. While I was away this winter in Sardinia.  Chenuska was 20-some-years-old. And had to be put to sleep. Because of maladies associated with old age. Anyway, I went to the local Humane Society. The other day. And asked for a declawed female cat. There was only one that fit the description. A 10-year-old white cat. Appropriately named Snowflake. Her owner had a stroke. So Snowflake had to find another home. She has one now. With Loverboy and me. The two cats are becoming acquainted. Slowly. They haven't touched noses yet. But it's merely a matter of time. Nobody can resist Loverboy. They'll make a happy couple. And make me happy, too. --Jim Broede

Getting too close to the character.

There has to be something radically wrong with me. More mentally. Than physically. I have pangs of anxiety. Apprehension. Uneasiness. I seem to have lost confidence in myself. In my very being. At times, a mild sense of doom. Panic. Yet not panic. Because I pull myself together. To a degree. I calm myself. Bit by bit. Not completely. But in manageable ways. Maybe I'm overreacting. I keep telling myself. Get a hold of yourself, Jim. You can manage your life. Like you always have. But I can't seem to escape the apprehension. The feeling of insecurity. Of losing control. Maybe I am lapsing into a form of depression. I don't know. Other than it's a strange feeling.  This creeping apprehension. It's abnormal. It shouldn't be. I have doubts about myself. About my abilities to cope. Because of this feeling of anxiety. Worry. Worry over what? This creeping apprehension.  Here I am. At 3 something in the morning. Writing my thoughts. This seems to help. Seems to relieve the anxiety. Bit by bit. I am talking to myself. I am trying to become my own psychotherapist. I am trying to get to the bottom of my problem. And I assume it is a problem. Where do I go from here? I need reassurance. That I am okay. That this is merely another phase in life. Always. Always. Finding ways to cope. To survive. And get on with the rest of life. Maybe it's that I've had anxiety before. But this seems more acute. More scary. In the past, I have been able to cope. By convincing myself. That I can handle. Whatever comes. In innovative ways. Even by pretending. That I am mentally well. Mentally and physically and emotionally capable of anything. Maybe I fear. That I won't be able to do that. As I age. Maybe that's at the core of my anxiety. I am trying to be honest. Terribly honest. Brutally honest. With myself. In an effort to grab hold of this anxiety. While I still can. Before it overwhelms me. This must still be a mild form of anxiety. I am trying to grab hold. Now. By talking to myself. By mulling over things. Maybe I'm talking to my creator. Himself. I need help. And I'm trying to help myself. More than anything. I need to rely on myself. I have to take this whole thing a moment at a time. An hour at a time. A day at a time. And steer my way out of this labyrinth.  Rebuilding confidence. In myself. I am imagining a character in a short story. Or a novel. This is the protagonist. I wonder. If I am getting too close to this character. --Jim Broede

One day, one thought.

Discipline. I have to discipline myself. Channel my thoughts. Into the right channels. Too many wayward thoughts. I need a corral. To contain my thoughts. Where I can tame them. One at a time. No sense in riding a wild horse. A wild thought. Might get me to where I don't want to go. I want happiness. Always have. I can have it all. If I take it. Carefully. Focused. On one day, one thought. --Jim Broede

Wearing my blinders. All of the time.

Race horses wear blinders. I'm no race horse. But I like the idea of wearing blinders. Being focused. On my goal. Looking straight ahead. No glances to the side. No distractions. Another thing. Unlike a race horse, I don't have to win the race. Better to achieve a goal. Slowly. Methodically. Unfortunately, sometimes I lose focus. Forgetting to wear my trusty blinders. But I recently donned a nifty pair. And I'm not going to take 'em. off.  I'm going to bed tonight. Wearing my blinders. They are permanently attached. --Jim Broede

Makes absolutely no sense.

I have so many reasons. To feel optimistic. About my heart. About my health. Including a stress test. Passed with flying colors. And assurances. From my cardiologist. That palpitations are strictly benign. No serious threat. To life or limb. But I am in a funk. Full of anxiety. A disturbing side of me. To be disliked. A sickness. Of the mind. For no earthly reason. Makes no sense. But then. That is one weird aspect. Of life. Makes absolutely no sense. --Jim Broede

To survive. With peace of mind.

I pretend. To have never been in serious depression. Of course, that's a lie. I have been able to successfully lie to myself. For long periods. To pretend that all is right. When it isn't. But then again,  I imagine stuff being wrong. When it isn't. That's the incredible nature of life. So much of it. Self-deception.  Truth and fiction. Interwoven into the fabric. In an effort to find happiness and calm and tranquility.  So difficult. To face a brutal truth. Little wonder. That one has to pretend. In order to survive. With peace of mind. --Jim Broede

Finding a way. Out of my funk.

Perhaps I am in depression. A mild form. Don't know. I feel uneasy. Apprehensive. Maybe it's anxiety. Nothing more. Nothing less. I read. That anxiety and depression are closely linked. Makes me wonder. When does anxiety lapse into depression? There must be degrees. And causes. I'm beginning to feel scared. But scared of what? Don't exactly know. A sign that I'm not facing up. To whatever it is. Am I avoiding a truth?  Because I'm scared. Of something. But what? Perhaps my own demise. My mortality. Am I losing control of my life?  Maybe I have fooled myself. Almost all of my life. Into thinking that I was in control. When I wasn't. Maybe I have to find new ways to fool myself. More effectively. I am trying to occupy my mind. With positive thoughts. Maybe the answer is to quit thinking about myself. To turn outward. To pay more attention to activity and events around me. Today. It is snowing. A white blanket covers my Earth. Time to go for a walk. I brought home a cat yesterday. A companion for Loverboy. Her name is Snowflake. Very appropriate. She's a totally white cat. I am introducing her to Loverboy. Gradually. Think I heard Loverboy hiss. A mild, maybe friendly perfunctory hiss. Anyway, I'm going to try forgetting myself today.   I have to find a way.  Out of my funk. --Jim Broede

I shall prevail.

I must learn to reject creeping anxiety. By pondering the consequences. Anxiety does me no good. It is self-destructive. It is as if my being is possessed. By something evil. I am being challenged. To right the ship. To salvage the best of life. Not the worst. Oh, creeping anxiety. Go away.  I want no part of thee.  I have valiantly rejected and spurned you. Throughout life. And now you try to capture me. In a weak moment.  I shall resist. I shall win. I shall prevail. --Jim Broede

Wow! Fantastic! My salvation!

Call it creeping anxiety. Perhaps that is what I have. Maybe I had a mild form of it. When turning 40. Now I contemplate turning 80. I have choices. Imagining a bleak future. Or imagining a blissful life. As spirit. Makes me wonder. If everything I've experienced so far. Is imagined. In a sense, it is. Because I choose to give meaning. That makes me happy. Until I lapse into creeping anxiety. I must learn to stifle negative thoughts. Not merely by blanking out my mind. But by imagining a new life form. I do it. In large part, with my writing.  Writing is a physical activity. Limiting. But the imagination. Sets me free. I can even imagine forever. Wow! Fantastic! My salvation! --Jim Broede

The path to continued happiness.

Thought I might lapse into anxiety/depression in old age. Could be the easiest and most convenient form of suicide. For the elderly. The loss of will. To live physically any more. Maybe it's the most natural way to die. A form of acceptance. Better that than constant anxiety/depression. Maybe death is a new form of happiness. I ponder that notion. By finding ways to milk more out of life. Yes, even in decrepit old age. One must achieve that love for life mostly with the mind. Because the physical element of life is on the wane.  That's the way it is. Of course, even the mental goes on the wane, too. Eventually. With feeble-mindedness. All the more reason to lose the will to live.  Makes me wonder. About Methuselah. It must be a myth. How could a physical being live for 900-and-some years? Impossible. It would be easier to walk on water. Meanwhile, maybe there is a way to avert anxiety/depression. With one's imagination. By thinking of ultimate life. As spirit. Ongoing life. Beyond the physical. The imagination is allowed. To go to any place. No limits. Maybe I've been imagining my physical existence. All along. Now I have to focus on the non-physical. On the spiritual realm. Is that the path to my continued happiness? --Jim Broede

Facing the hard truth.

Don't try to do too much at one time. Especially when coping with mental problems. Such as anxiety disorders. That's what I tell myself. Take baby steps. Build confidence. That's usually the problem. Loss of confidence. Even a confident guy like me. Loses his confidence. Occasionally. Hate to admit it. But that's part of the solution. Facing the hard truth. --Jim

A chink in my armor.

I am practicing. Rehearsing. For a trip to my cardiologist. Usually, it's a fearful trip. Full of unnecessary anxiety. I don't sleep well. The night before. Because I'm anticipating. A fearful experience. Hey, the guy isn't going to hurt me. He's there to help. To give me insights. On how to cope. With a heart condition. I'm generally a healthy fellow. In good shape. For my age. But I worry. About something going wrong. About a worst case scenario. I know. That can exacerbate a benign situation. But when one has an anxiety disorder, logic and common sense don't always prevail. I hate to admit it. There's a chink in my armor. --Jim Broede

The master of the blank mind.

Walked today. For two miles. While trying to keep my mind blank. Kept repeating. 'Clear my mind. Clear my mind. Clear my mind.' Yes, clear my mind of all thought. While keeping my body in motion. Like an automaton. A robot. Seems to have had a relaxing effect. I was breathing long and deep breaths. Yes, too often. I find myself. Thinking too much. Too many thoughts. I need to clear my mind. Of all thought. Without falling asleep. It would be nice. If I could do that. At will. In order to relieve stress and anxiety. I will practice this. Daily. My intent. To become the master of the blank mind. --Jim Broede

Whether others like it or not.

Yes, I know. I'm not supposed to be at the center of my universe. That this makes me narcissistic.  And many psychiatrists say that ain't good. To admire my mental and physical attributes. But I acknowledge the truth. That I'm narcissistic. Possibly making me a bad guy. Yes, I could be a better human being. By being less self-absorbed. And I'm working on it. But I have to confess. It feels good. To be self-centered. To know thyself. As an imperfect human being. And accepting that. As fact. I will always be imperfect. There's no hope for me. Perfection is beyond my grasp. Therefore, I have to learn to live with me. And tell myself. I'm going to find ways to be comfortable. In my own skin. Whether other people like it or not. --Jim Broede

Don't anyone hold their breath.

I understand myself. Maybe too well. Allowing myself. To put up with many personal foibles. Merely because I understand. That I am imperfect. And so is everyone else.  So it's all right to be the imperfect and sometimes annoying me. I know plenty of annoying people. Even some of my best friends. And I put up with them.  So they might as well learn to put up with me. A case of tit for tat. Of course, I'm aware. That I will never overcome many of my foibles. Because I have no desire to. I'd have to be motivated. Maybe. Some day. I will. If I learn to cultivate the will. But hey, don't anyone hold their breath. --Jim Broede

A dangerous game.

I wonder. If depression is contagious. To the best of my knowledge, I've avoided true blue depression. All of my life. But when I'm around depressed people. For extended periods. I tend to feel out of sorts. Maybe a little depressed. I have to get away. And not take large doses of their depression. Their state of being. Affects me. In negative ways. If I were a therapist. And treated the depressed. Full-time. I would need frequent breaks. I would have to compartmentalize my life. Finding ways to get away from it all.  To rejuvenate myself. I try to imagine.  What it must feel like. To be in deep depression. Maybe that's dangerous. Like an actor. Trying to immerse himself in the role.  To play the actual character.  I suspect. That's a dangerous game. --Jim Broede

My sunshine. In the middle of night.

I'm up at 3:35 a.m. And it's convenient for me. Because it's a good time, especially on a weekend, to connect with my amore mio. In Italy. Where it's 10:25 a.m. Yes, when we are separated, there's a 7-hour time difference.  When pursuing an international/transnational relationship. One lives with two clocks. I put Cristina to bed. At 4 in the afternoon. My time. But it's 11 in the evening. Her time. And when returning from a lengthy sojourn in Italy this winter, it took me two weeks to readjust. From jet lag. Anyway, I've forgotten, for the moment, that it's not the middle of the night. Because I've been connected (on Skype) with beautiful Cristina. Where it's mid-morning. And a sunny day. Indeed, she's my sunshine. Even in the middle of the night. --Jim Broede