It all comes naturally.

Long ago. I faced up to the fact. That I’m not good at some things. Such as mechanical skills. Can’t fix stuff that’s broken. Better to summon a plumber or an electrician or a mechanic. I’m not a handyman. Never will be.  Oh, I’ve made attempts. At being Mr. Fix-It. But to no avail. I was worse off. For even trying. Because it called attention. To my ineptitude. My inability to master the simple. I’m better off. Tackling complex matters. Such as philosophical discourse. Or writing poetry. Maybe that’s why I became a romantic idealist. A spiritual free thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. It all comes naturally. --Jim Broede

A call for world government.

I could become a fan of world government. In an effort to serve the common good. Some issues/problems are so big and important and crucial that they require united action. Take the environmental threats posed by climate change, for instance. We have divided fronts now. Over what to do about it. Therefore, action is delayed. Maybe postponed. Until it's too late. That's where I'd have world government step in. To force the issue. Over parochial protests. For the sake of the planet. Yes, for the common good. If we allow selfish interests to continue to prevail -- we do a disservice to mankind.  Let's do what's best for the ever-burgeoning population. The eight billion inhabitants of Mother Earth. If that means resorting to world government, so be it. --Jim Broede

The definition of hell.

I criticize my friend Julie. For being reclusive. Hiding out. When she's in depression. And had too much to drink. But then, I'm reclusive, too. I love solitude. Makes me happy. At peace.  When I have no interruptions. And I'm able to turn inward. Yes, there's a time to be a recluse. For the purpose of soul-searching.  To retreat to a desert. Or a mountain top. Or to another planet. Another dimension. But Julie does it. To get away from herself. She abhors what she has become. And doesn't know how to get back on track again. She's wandering. Aimlessly.  Such a sad plight. Maybe this is the definition of hell. --Jim Broede

Time to define the common good.

Yes. Yes. I know. It’s difficult to come to agreement. Over what’s the common good. But let’s give it a try. By continually talking about the common good. And what it is. That should be at the core/focus of political discussion. Can most of us agree? That we should be in pursuit of the common good? Too often, I’m suggesting, that special interests wield the most political power. At the expense of the common good. I’d like it. If more politicians zeroed in on better ways to serve the common good. A good start. Let’s require. Each politician. To tell us his/her definition of the common good. --Jim Broede

Better to have lived.

There's a problem.  I have turbulence in my life, too. Because life doesn't flow in perfect harmony. So many disruptions. But still, there are tranquil and tender moments. To savor. I am able to catch my breath. And be thankful. That I am alive and conscious. And in control. If not always. For periods. That make it all worthwhile and fulfilling. Better to have lived than not to have lived. --Jim Broede

       

Let's give god a break.

Yes. More and more. I wonder if I should mind my own business. And steer clear of problem-plagued people. But then, we all have our share of problems. Coping with life. Some cope better than others. So, I would think. That it'd be the decent thing to do. To help those in big, big difficulty. Namely my friend Julie. The alcoholic. The depression-riddled. Those on the religious right. Say pray for Julie. But I suspect that god prefers to mind his own business. And wants Julie to find her own solutions. Maybe with the help. Of close friends. Or maybe even society as a whole. Yes, a society structured for the common good. So that it's unnecessary for god to step in. --Jim Broede

The craziest role of all.

Every night. When I go to bed. I must ask myself. Would I want to do a repeat performance? And do the same things again and again. Over and over. Would I find enough to savor? As if I were acting. In a stage play.  Imagine. A Shakespearean actor. Playing Hamlet. Every night. Might drive me crazy. But let's say, that I am compelled to play myself. Maybe that would be the craziest role of all. --Jim Broede

I don't get it.

Even if there’s no eternal recurrence. It may be a good idea. To live one’s life. As if this will be one’s only life. That there are no second chances. That it’s wise to get things  right. Now. That one won’t have another chance to alter the eternal/forever outcome. One must determine one’s destiny. Now. Now. Now. There are no more reboots.  Only reruns of this life. Over and over and over. Now is the time for the pursuit of happiness. And fulfillment. And true love. Yet I see so many people around me. Living in sadness. Hating every living moment. I don’t get it. --Jim Broede

I focus. On what I can do.

I have to be a man in motion. Moving. Walking. There’s no other way. To be a living human being. Strange, isn’t it? I’m not a dancer. I don’t know why. I go through motions. But I don’t dance. At least not in conventional ways. My mind dances. To and fro. I can skip. And hop. Jump, too. But that’s not dancing. I observe. And watch other people dance. Smoothly. With all the proper steps. But I can’t follow. Let alone lead. I don’t sing, either. Or play a musical instrument. Can’t carry a tune.  But I love listening. To music. Especially classical. Haydn. Mozart. Beethoven. But I can’t make music. Or dance. Maybe that’s a double handicap. But I’ve learned to live with it. There just are things I can’t do. Little wonder. I focus. On what I can do.  -Jim Broede

To savor the pleasures of love.

Here’s a thought. That I’m pondering tonight. A quote. From the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche:

“What if a demon were to creep after you one day or night, in your loneliest loneness, and say: ‘This life which you live and have lived, must be lived again by you, and innumerable times more. And mere will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and every sigh—everything unspeakably small and great in your life—must come again to you, and in the same sequence and series. . . . The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned—and you with it, dust of dust! Would you not throw yourself down and curse the demon who spoke to you thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment, in which you would answer him: ‘Thou art a god, and never have I heard anything more divine!’ “

Yes, Nietzsche is asking us to pretend that we had to live our lives over and over again. The same exact life. Repeatedly. Forever and ever. Would that scare the willies out of me?  Or would I consider it a blessing?  And be happy about it. Yes, folks, I could accept the notion of eternal recurrence. Living my life over and over again. Without being bored. Fully able to savor the pleasures of love. --Jim Broede

An aloof guy.

My best guess. Is that god is sort of an aloof guy. When it comes to the sordid happenings in his creation. Maybe, by design, he really doesn't care that much. After all, if he did, it probably would drive him crazy. Otherwise, I'd expect him to do something about it. By intervening. Therefore, I'll follow his example. By staying somewhat aloof myself. By not caring too much about the bad stuff. Better than getting upset and anguished and going bonkers. Better to turn a blind eye. And get on with life. Don't know if I really believe this. But hey. I surmise. If god can be aloof. So can I.. --Jim

Maybe birds are superior.

Really, I am my own best psychotherapist. Only I can delve into myself.  My inner being. And that's a process that takes a lifetime.  Maybe multiple lifetimes. Of course, I try to probe other beings. Not merely human. I imagine the spiritual to be superior. And so that's what I want to be. Superior. Elevated. Life should be a process of ascending. And there is no right way or wrong way. Birds have mastered the art of both ascending and descending. Floating. Up and down. Like spirits. Maybe birds are superior. --Jim Broede

       

On a soft puffy cloud.

I want to go into psychotherapy. And be hypnotized. In a way. That expands my power of positive thinking. So that I fret and worry less. And fortify notions that have made me who and what I am. A romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. I also want to be put into a trance. That makes me feel as if I'm floating. On a soft puffy cloud. --Jim Broede

I want true love. Even in politics.

Why shouldn't we look to politicians?  To bring about the common good  They are supposed to be our leaders. They have the power. To get things done. In fair and equitable ways. To benefit society as a whole. Instead, too many of them represent special interests. They ignore the common good. And I shouldn't let that get me down? Well, I beg your pardon. It gets me down. And I want to do something about it. I want change. For the common good.  For a better society. A better world. In which true love prevails. Even in the political realm. --Jim Broede

More like a young gazelle.

I've never liked the idea. Of some day becoming an old man. Much rather be young. Or even middle-aged. In my youth, old meant becoming decrepit. And doddering. I thought of 80. As ancient. But now that I'm there, I've revised my outlook. Old is 100. Eighty seems relatively young. Funny thing. When turning 40, I panicked. Thought I was running out of time. But dear wife Jeanne. She was nine years older than me. Found solace in that. Being the youngest of two lovers. Now I'm the survivor. Life goes on. Happily. Bountifully. With my Italian amore Cristina. She's significantly younger than me. Maybe that's why I don't feel like an old man. More like a young gazelle. Keeping up with Cristina. --Jim Broede

Ain't fair. Ain't right.

What is the common good? That's a question I keep asking. To myself. Because I'm supposed to. That's what life should be all about. An unselfish approach. Some argue that the 'individual good' should be first and foremost. And I say fine. That's  what occurs. When we, as a society, work for the common good.  Everybody benefits. Every individual.  Unfortunately, I see societies that allow the rich/elite 'few' benefit at the expense of the 'many.' Ain't fair. Ain't right. --Jim Broede

      

Come forth, god. No more secrets.

God/the creator is too secretive. Doesn't tell me enough. About himself. And his intentions. Of course, I can listen to so-called experts. Theologians and high potentates. But heck, they probably know little more about the mind of god than I know.  They're in the dark, too. I'd rather talk directly to god. Man to man. Face to face. And get the straight scoop. What does he expect from me? And others. I want to hear from him. Speaking my language. English. And if I don't quite understand what he has to say. Then please. Give me the opportunity to ask clarifying questions. Give me conclusive answers. Not riddles ad gobbledygook. That keep me guessing. I crave answers. In the most simple and direct terms. Tell me, dear god, am I making an unreasonable demand?  By asking you to come forth. And to reveal yourself. Openly and clearly. Please, no more secrets. --Jim Broede

       

Simply getting on with life.

I worry too much. About running out of time. About dying. Before I'm ready to die. Which may be never. In my younger days, it was far easier. To not worry about dying. Because I had statistics on my side. A good chance of living for another 30 or 40 years.  In those days, I hardly gave s thought  to my mortality.  Now it's a virtual certainly that I'll be dead in the next 10 or 20 years. Maybe far less. People in their 80s are dropping like flies. Of course, on good days I don't think at all about dying. But I can't help but give it some thought. Funeral directors keep trying to drum up business. With reminders. Encouraging everyone to make preparations for their own demise. But I suspect it may be better for my morale. To be totally unprepared. And simply get on with life. Without worrying about one's pending death. --Jim Broede

       

My simplistic approach.

Yes, I concede. I may be too hard, too harsh on alcoholics. Because I don't fully understand what it's like to be an alcoholic. Will power. Will power. And more will power. That's my simplistic approach. That's all it takes. To stop drinking. Easy for me to say. Because I'm not addicted to alcohol. But I am addicted. To other stuff. Such as daily exercise. I need my daily fix. Preferably a 10-mile walk. I choose not to quit my exercise routine. Because I'd be a nervous wreck. I'm addicted. But if convinced that walking was going to kill me, I'd most likely quit. Pronto. Meanwhile, I have nothing against alcoholics. As long as they don't hurt other people. Unfortunately, many drinkers pose a peril. Especially on the roads. --Jim Broede

Thank you, dear Jeanne.

I'm in constant pursuit of happiness. And in the process of achieving happiness, I'm comfortable. I have relative peace of mind. I fall in love. Of course, there's also a price to pay for love. Sorrow. From the loss of a loved one. I have a friend. Who seems to grieve forever. She feels deprived. And loses sight of the spiritual connection of everlasting love. The aim in life should be a continual pursuit of happiness. Jeanne and I were married. For 38 years. In all that time. we were separated for maybe 10 days. Indeed, we had togetherness. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. And we still do -- spiritually. And Jeanne tells me to get on with life. In loving ways. In pursuit of happiness. Wouldn't surprise me if Jeanne -- from her perch in the spiritual domain --- arranged for my chance meeting with Italian amore Cristina. Jeanne's way of seeing that I remain happy and contented and in love with life. Thank you, dear Jeanne.--Jim Broede

Even if it's a little bit offensive.

Don't know if I always do it intentionally. But I've been known to offend more than my share of people. By speaking my mind. Most times I do it. Because being honest often seems to be the right thing to do. Yes. Yes. There are exceptions to the rule. Sometimes, for the sake of kindness and human decency. But overall, honesty is the best policy. Even if it's a little bit offensive. --Jim Broede

A secret Muslim.

I can be master of what's commonly referred to as BS. That is, if I so choose. I use BS in a humorous vein. Yes, to be funny. But I find that many politicians use BS. To be serious. They know that dumb people fall for their line. Some of it preposterous stuff. They get away with it. Because  they know how to lure in the gullible.  Take, for instance, polls that show 30 to 40 percent of the Republican base believe that President Obama isn't an American citizen. That he was born in Africa. And that he's a secret Muslim. --Jim Broede

       

In quest of a more-perfect world.

It would be nice. And convenient. If I could stop time. And step outside of my on-going existence. Maybe for a day or two. Perhaps a week.  To review and assess things. To evaluate the course of my life. In an objective manner. It would be a time-out, so to speak.  I'd like the opportunity, too. To call in god/the creator. For a consultation. And a recommendation. As to what I should consider doing next. With my remaining years. When I reenter time and resume my life again.  Of course, I'd also take the opportunity to interview god. For clues. As to what he has in mind. Long-term. For his obvious wondrous, but imperfect creation. I'd ask if he's had misgivings. That perhaps he would consider making mid-course corrections.  In quest of a more-perfect world. --Jim Broede

Otherwise, I'll be stuck. Forever.

Could be that I/we evolve into different levels of consciousness/understanding. We are required to grasp it all. At each level.  We are at the relatively low, three dimensional  human level now. As for me, I suspect a four-dimensional spiritual level comes next. Followed by a fifth dimension. And a sixth, seventh and eighth. An infinite number of dimensions. I'm given as much time as needed to graduate from each dimension. Which means, perhaps living over and over and over in the same dimension. Until I get it right. Yes, it's a funny notion. That I may be required to see the humor in it all. Otherwise, I'll be stuck. In the same dimension. Forever. --Jim Broede

If I had lost my fertile imagination.

What is forever? It could be argued. That my single lifetime. Is my forever. From the moment I'm born. To the instant I die. Because after that. There's a possibility of absolute nothingness. For me, at least. Time has stopped. Unless I am some how still aware of my existence. So that I can measure time. In one form or another. Not necessarily physical. Possibly as a thinking and conscious spirit. Without physical form. My question: Does the world exist if I'm not consciously in and of it?  It's fascinating. Merely thinking about the meaning of life. As to whether life really exists. If I'm not aware of it. If I had lost my fertile imagination. --Jim Broede

       

I'd promise to keep her warm.

I'd like to think of myself as the master of persuasion. By convincing my Italian amore. To spend two weeks of winter. In Minnesota. With me. So far, I've managed to lure her to the USA for the Christmas-New Year holiday. But it came conditionally. We met in Arizona. Dear Cristina wants no part of a frigid White Christmas. She's seen snow only once in Sardinia.  And rarely a freezing temperature. Yes, she likes to stay abundantly warm.  And frowns on air-conditioned restaurants. Even in the summertime. Of course, I try to ease her fears about Minnesota winters. With promises of keeping her warm. In my arms. I'd hate to think of the consequences. If my arms weren't warm enough. --Jim Broede

Ironic, isn't it?

I hate. Even the thought. Of being unhappy. Because it's terribly depressing. And a waste of my good time. I'm able to tolerate. To some degree. Being around unhappy people. Because the contrast. Makes my personal happiness. Seem more robust. Odd, isn't it? The darkness makes the lightness seem spectacularly radiant. Anyway, I try my best. To cheer up friends lingering in the doldrums. With happy thoughts. Some tell me to shut up.  Makes me laugh.  Exactly what I wanted them to do.  Ironic, isn't it? --Jim Broede

A dysfunctional blessing.

I grew up in a dysfunctional family. And that has helped to make me very functional. And happy, too. Life works in strange and mysterious ways. --Jim Broede

The best of times.

When I am fully and truly living in the moment. Those are the best of times. And they could come at any given moment. --Jim Broede

Under the right circumstances.

Life is what one makes of it. Put me in hell. And it could become heaven. Paradise. Depending what I make of it. Put me in Greenland. In an igloo. Appropriately attired.  With my amore. I could think of far worse places to be. Yes, I could find happiness. And contentment. In Greenland. Or cold and bleak Minnesota, for that matter. Under the right circumstances. --Jim Broede

Does that make sense?

Living one day at a time. Makes every day a nice day. Today, I will walk 10 miles. Like I do most days. And I'm listening to music. Bach's Brandenburg concerti. Played by a guitar trio. And I'm writing. Whatever comes to mind. And I'm chatting. With amore Cristina. On Skype. Every day I have it all. Even when I don't have it all. Does that make sense? I have no craving for everything. Just give me enough. To make me happy.  And content. Today. --Jim Broede

       

Life has been idyllic. Ever since.

I haven't set a firm date yet. For my return to paradise. Could be in three weeks. Or in three months. Might hinge on how I handle winter. Here in Minnesota.  Of course, winter ain't hell. If one has a positive attitude about snow and cold. But life could be so much better. And warmer. With amore Cristina. In Sardinia. Where there's no snow or freezing temperatures. But hey, regardless. I have daily contact. On Skype. With dear Cristina. Anyway, I have a life in Minnesota, too. Indeed, a balanced and happy life.  Usually, Cristina joins me. In Minnesota. In the summer. But we are thinking. That next summer.  It would be nice to travel in Europe. Together.  Prague. Budapest. Vienna. The Italian Alps, too. Where we stayed. The first time we met. Seven years ago. Life has been idyllic. Ever since. --Jim Broede

       

A sign of a beleaguered mind.

Perhaps I think too much. One's mind can be too active. Taking on more than it was designed to handle. That happens to me. Maybe more than occasionally. Might be wise. For me to shutdown my mind. For one day a week. To think about nothing.  Just idle away time. I expect the day off would rejuvenate and refresh a tired mind. I've had some worrisome thoughts lately. Usually, that's a sign of a beleaguered and overworked mind. --Jim Broede

       

Despite the onslaught of winter.

I'm tempted. Today. To go back to bed. And not go outdoors. Because it's looking. Like the first real day of winter.  Wind-whipped snow. And bitter windchill temperatures. Of course, I could bundle up. And face the music of whistling wind. But I can listen, too. From under the cover of a down-filled comforter.  Maybe I'll leave the decision. Up to my dear cat and bosom buddy, Loverboy. Oh, no need to fool anyone. I know his undeniable choice.  He's a full-fledged coward. We're going back to bed. For now. Until I summon the courage. To walk my daily 10 miles. Despite the onslaught of cold and cruel winter. --Jim Broede

The truth? Or a bold-faced lie?

I tell myself. That I feel good. Even if I don't. It's a game that I play. And it's worked. All my life. I'm gullible. Easily fooled. But it's working. Less and  less. Because I'm trying to learn. To face my inner and brutal truth. But I suspect. I may be fooling myself once again. Because now I'm beginning to feel bad. When probably, I'm feeling good. I'm so very, very confused. Don't know any more. Whether I am feeling good or bad. Boils down. To no longer knowing whether I'm telling the truth. Or a bold-faced lie. --Jim Broede

To savor. Whatever comes my way.

I have no qualms. About adapting. To weather extremes. In my land of choice.  Minnesota. Let it be 30-below this winter.  And a blistering 100 degrees next summer. I'll survive. And love it. Because there's such a nice blend. Of the in-between stuff. Weather. Weather.  I like it all.  For obvious reason. I'm alive. Conscious, too. Able to savor. Whatever comes my way. --Jim Broede

In an alive and conscious manner.

Being alive and conscious. Seldom am I bored. Because I remind myself. Daily. That I'm an alive and conscious being. That excites me. Gets my blood flowing. Keeps me enthralled.  And in pursuit of happiness. Often. All I have to do. Is merely let things happen. Naturally. And then make the most of it. In an alive and conscious manner. --Jim Broede

Makes me an optimist.

Attitude. Attitude. Attitude. I can't say it often enough. For me, I have to retain an upbeat attitude. Toward life in general. Occasionally, I slip. And become annoyed or bothered by the unfortunate breaks in life.  When things go wrong. But I've discovered that bad stuff often leads to good stuff. Makes me an optimist. Even when I'm down. --Jim Broede

No thanks, to organized religions.

I'm neither a Christian nor a Muslim. Which means I'm looked on. With askance. By a few devout Christians and a handful of wild-eyed Muslims. Yes, the religious fanatics. The ones taking a holier-than-thou attitude. Toward me.  Of course, I'm accepted. As a pretty decent fella. By the vast majority of Christians and Muslims. But still, I have a few Christian friends and acquaintances telling me I'm going to hell, period. Only because I'm not a Christian. Meanwhile, I'm told in news reports to be wary of fire-breathing Muslims that have turned to terrorism.  That they may chop off my head at any moment. Simply because I ain't a Muslim. Indeed, a sign that religion is being carried to extremes. Little wonder. That I'm shunning organized religions.  In favor of being a free and independent thinker. On spiritual matters, at least. --Jim Broede

Unfortunately, I have no answer.

I have enough. To make me reasonably happy. Therefore, I don't qualify as deprived. But others do. The so-called unhappy have-nots of the world. Some of 'em are downright angry. Over the state of affairs, and their deprivation.  And they try to do something about it. By becoming terrorists. Often as willing suicide bombers, and more.  Going on killing rampages. Like in Paris last week. Seems to me that they're crazy. And that they could find better ways to become happy and decent human beings. Of course, this leaves me puzzled. I'm unable to fathom the intricacies of some human minds. Or maybe it's simply that the excessively deprived tend to become abundantly depraved. Makes me wonder what to do about it. Unfortunately, I have no answer. --Jim Broede

My only salvation.

Always. I'm asking. Where can my imagination take me next? That can be dangerous.  Taking me. To where I don't want to go. But still. I have a desire. To take risks. Knowing full well. That I have the option. To return. To safety. And security. Though I may feel queasy. About being trapped. With no escape. Yet. I have always eluded death. Perhaps. My imagination. Is my only salvation. --Jim Broede

I was created. To feel alive.

One thing. For sure. If I'm feeling a bit morose. Or melancholic. No need to panic. For I'll find my way back. To where I belong. My retreat. My cocoon. My paradise. Maybe it's my yen for the good life. For spiritual comfort. Always. Always. There's a place to go. Upward. Into infinity. Give me a form of life. Without end. I was created. To feel alive. --Jim Broede

My hero: Old coot Methuselah.

Living into my 80s. Might as well look at it as an adventure.  Rather than a journey into old age.  Better to look at age as a relative thing. Compared to the legendary Methuselah, I'm still an adolescent. It's alleged that Methuselah lived to 900-and-something.  I'd settle for half that. Makes me wonder if the old coot followed a rigid health regimen.  My guess is that he wasn't a smoker. And that he exercised regularly. At least that's two things I have going for me. Never smoked. And I'm addicted to exercise.  --Jim Broede

Something to think about.

To muse. It's a little bit like talking to one's self. Often without any forethought. Pondering. Aimlessly. Saying whatever comes to mind. Not necessarily with rhyme or reason. Often, I'm unaware of what's on my mind. I'm blank. Empty. No better time to muse. Makes me more mindful. Gives me something to think about. --Jim Broede

God help us!

I am sick and tired. Of what's going on in the world. And I don't want to take it any more. Because it's driving me into depression. Yes, the answer may be to ignore it. Shut it all out. I used to do that. But it's becoming increasingly difficult. I'm inundated. With reminders. The media. It's everywhere. Overheard conversations. My neighbors. Speak in woeful terms. About world events. I want to be happy-go-lucky. And I'm repeatedly told. That's impossible. That I should remain cognizant of political wranglings. Right here in America. That we Americans need to be constantly defending ourselves. From outside threats. But when I listen to our politicians. I'm appalled. The threat comes from within our own ranks. I hear crazy talk. Crazy ideas. A lack of sanity. I need to escape. To a mountain top. Or a primeval forest. Maybe to another planet. God help us! --Jim Broede

High above the rest of creation.

My imagination saves me. Keeps me from going crazy. Because I imagine living in my own sane world. When really the rest of the world has gone crazy. Yes, I create an imagined sanity. For me. When everyone else is nuts. I’m the only sane one left. To flourish. On a heavenly spiritual plateau. High above the rest of (crazy) creation. -Jim Broede

Alive. In my own story.

I'm reading books. Novels. Of fabricated stories. I enter these stories. And get carried away. Into make-believe worlds. Where I'm allowed to make up my own stories. So cunning. So beautiful. So amorous. Intended. As a break from real life. When suddenly. I realize. That the unreal has become real. Because here I am. Alive. And conscious. In my own story. --Jim Broede

       

Please. Please. Give me the option.

This is something new for me. A degree of melancholia. Like I've never felt before. Maybe I am lapsing into a psychosomatic illness. A mental malaise. That's affecting me physically. Making me feel tired. And downbeat. A weird thing. Most days, I can get up the gumption. To walk. To stroll 10 miles. A leisurely pace. Maybe 18-to-20-minute miles. Even when I'm feeling queasy. I do this. To relieve my anxiety. That's what it is sometimes. An overwhelming anxiety. A discomfort. A melancholia.  I speculate. Maybe it's the result of turning 80. In September. A psychological thing. A reminder of my mortality. And that I don't have all that much time left. I have had other trauma in the past year. Eight days in an Italian hospital. For a heart problem. Angioplasty. A near-death experience. In a horrid traffic accident. In Yellowstone Park. Maybe it all adds up. To a cumulative psychosomatic effect. I don't know. I don't know. I'm trying to get to the bottom of it. Maybe I need a thorough physical. At the Mayo Clinic. For reassurance. That the origin of all this is more mental than physical. That there are effective ways of dealing with this stuff. I've always fancied myself as being in love with life. But this anxiety makes me wonder. If I'm capable of living life. Forever and ever. Maybe not. If I become ill. And in despair. I'm in love with life. Conditionally.  As long as I feel good. With it. Mentally. And physically. I wonder if one eventually tires of life. My father did. So did my mother. Maybe everyone does. In the end. In the physical sense.  In the declining stages of physical life. Please. Please. Give me the option. Of a pure, unimpeded spiritual existence. So that I can enjoy and savor life. Forever and ever. --Jim Broede

I'm learning. Slowly. But surely.

A stress switch. That’s what I need. To turn on and off. To control the stress. Which inevitably comes. Because that’s the nature of life. One can’t avoid some degree of stress. The challenge is to manage it. Well. I do. And I don’t. Oh, if only I had that wonderful switch. So that I could turn it off. Time to regain my composure. To find a way to cope. Unfortunately, I’m too stupid. Too often allowing stress to eat me up. Even when I don’t consciously know it. Yes, I’m guilty. Of letting things get out of hand.  When they could have been nipped in the bud. If I had pulled the stress switch. Early on. But I’m learning. Slowly. But surely. --Jim Broede

A take-it-or-leave-it option.

I'm trying. In earnest. To not feel old. But I have an unfortunate notion. That upon reaching age 80. I'm supposed to feel old. Because when I was 20 or 30, I considered 80 to be old enough to already be in the grave. Broedes customarily checked out in their 50s and 60s. My dad was a goner at 38. A suicide. Now here I am. Wanting to cling to precious life. At more than double the age of my father. I even imagine living forever. Albeit. In another dimension. As spirit. Who knows? Maybe my father survives, too. In the spirit world. Maybe there'll be a reunion some day. And I can ask him. If spirits ever commit suicide. Or are they compelled to live forever. Like it or not. I could settle for freedom of choice. A take-it-or-leave-it option. --Jim Broede

At least. Life is good for a laugh.

I love life. But not all people. I wonder if anyone does. I suppose there are things. About life. That I don't love, too. Guess all I can do. Is to try. Being a better lover. A dreamer, too. Meanwhile, I'm trying to focus. On the funny and often ironic sides of life. --Jim Broede

In order to keep my sanity.

Seems like everything is in turmoil. The entire world.  Every time I read or turn on the news.  People disagreeing with each other. To the point of killing. Senselessly. Even the politicians. From the same parties. Castigating each other.  More refugees. Fleeing their countries.  And  here we are. In America. Many of us. Turning cold shoulders. To so-called illegal immigrants. Who have come in search of a better life. What has happened to all of us? Have we lost sight of the common good? If we ever had it. Tonight I have turned off the news. I am listening to great music.  The classics. That have survived despite the endless conflagrations. I'm reading poetry, too. Good stuff. I am shutting out the bad stuff. In order to keep my sanity. And my love for life. --Jim Broede

It's not too late. For Julie.

Maybe it's foolish. To try to change anyone.  Better to let them be. Maybe that even goes for my dear friend Julie. The drunk. Riddled by depression.  Just let her be.  Love her for what she is. A basically decent human being. With foibles. We all have destructive faults. Of one kind or another.  Could be argued, of course, that some people should be saved from themselves. And it would have been best.  For society. For everyone. Take Adolph Hitler, for instance. Anyway, let's be practical. Julie is real. At this very moment.  It's not too late. To change Julie's course. --Jim Broede

Being under the weather ain't so bad

Under the weather. That's how I feel. Never ill. Never sick. It sounds so much better. To be under the weather. Because the weather keeps changing. Sometimes, dark and cloudy. But more often than not, the clouds break. And I'm basking under the sun.  I'm under the weather. The good weather. --Jim Broede

My craving: To be in motion.

A man in motion. That's what I always want to be. Constantly moving about. I'm most at ease. Most relaxed. When walking. The only way I can live. Well into old age. Is by walking. Even if it has to be in slow motion. To stay alive. I must walk. Must be in physical motion. If some day I become spirit. No longer physical. I must still remain in motion. Drifting. Or even catapulting myself. From one place to another. Yes. Yes. I crave to always be in motion. --Jim Broede

Yes, curiosity is an attribute.

I like people who talk to themselves. Out loud. And in writing. For others to hear. Without any qualms. Of being overheard. Eaves dropped upon. Even by strangers. To share one's thoughts. That's an attribute. You are doing me a favor. Because I love to listen. To ponder. To compare. And so often. To respond. To connect. In small ways. In big ways. Or perhaps not at all.  I am curious. Yes, that's an attribute, too. To be curious. About life. About the world. About other people.  --Jim Broede

       

The case for friendship.

I have friends. That come and go. Maybe they are convenient friends. Nothing special. But there for convenience sake. Either for them. Or for me. Of course I have close friends, too. Friends that I like to be around. That I'd really miss. If we didn't see each other or converse regularly. But there are more convenient friends than close friends. More like acquaintances. I have no need for many, many friends. But I'd hate to live without any friends. --Jim Broede

Better to slog along.

As I age, it's as if time is passing me by. I am unable to keep up with all the changes. To some large degree, I'm living in the past. Because I find it difficult adapting to the present. Keeping up with the times. For instance, I seldom use a cell phone. I don't text. I use a computer. But I'm not computer savvy. I know the basics. Enough to get by. I'm not a modern man. Precisely, because I've let time pass me by. Maybe with no regrets. Because it would be too difficult for me to keep up. Better to slog along. --Jim Broede

Here's one of my secrets.

Maybe it's unwise. That I have a habit. Of not keeping secrets. Especially my own secrets. They never remain secrets for very long. Because I broadcast secrets. So that they aren't secret any more. It's a form of honesty. That doesn't always endear me to others. Because I generally have nothing to hide. Even the bad stuff. I encourage others, too. To come out. From behind their facades And let everyone know.  Who and what they are.  Of course, that takes some guts. Fortitude. And honesty. Sometimes, I get into trouble. For revealing other people's secrets. Did it often. When I wrote for newspapers. That was my job. And I did it well.  I reveal my own secrets. In order to set an example. For others. Best to practice what one preaches. Here's one of my other secrets. I don't always practice what I preach. --Jim Broede

No need to count the tomorrows.

Tell me, my fellow octogenarians, how is one supposed to feel? When reaching the ripe age of 80. Of course, I'd like to feel better.  Physically. And mentally. More like in my younger days. Rambunctious. Able to burn both ends of the candle. Maybe it's meant that I slow down. Slacken my pace of living. But come to think of it. I still have the option. To make the most of each day.  By taking life one day at a time. By not getting ahead of myself. No need to count the tomorrows. As long as I'm fully immersed in living today. --Jim Broede

When my spiritual side prevails.

When I get nervous. Cranky. Bothered. By little things. It's best to get off. By myself. Into my hermit stage. Away from people. A retreat. Into my cocoon. For solitude. For reflection. A turning. Within. Into my inner sanctum. To lose sense of my physical being. So that I can focus on my spirit. The truly meaningful part of me. Don't get me wrong. I love the physical life, too. But everything feels better. When my spiritual side prevails. --Jim Broede

A new plateau to discover.

I confess. Turning 80. Has had a traumatic psychological impact. Much more so than when I turned 40. That wasn't a good time, either. I was fast running out of time. Now. Forty years later. I ask, 'Where has all the time gone?' I'm more conscious of my mortality. In a negative and selfish way. I always want more time. Forever. Oh, I'm so greedy. Eighty isn't good enough. Nor is 90. Or 100.  Anyway, maybe there's something better. Around the corner. A new plateau to discover. --Jim Broede

Until numbers become meaningless.

I hated arithmetic. And math. Anything connected to counting. This and that. Especially the years. When turning 40, I wanted to lose track. Of the years. Counting. Counting.  Now that I'm 80. I've doubled my time on Mother Earth. But it only reminds me. That time  is running out. Rarely do people live past 100.  I don't have another 40 years. Maybe not even 5 or 10. Numbers. Numbers. They can be depressing. Reminders. One more year. Is one more less. Until numbers become meaningless.  That's the way it should have been. Right from the start. --Jim Broede

Living outside of time.

I'm trying to imagine. Leaving my body. My physical being. To grasp. What it feels like. Maybe I've done it. In a dream. Without knowing it. Or maybe I've come close.  In moments of near-perfect relaxation. To no longer being anchored. To the physical world. To hover. Above it all. I wonder. If that's when time stops. So that one can stay put. Forever. Or until time starts again. Yes, if one lives outside of time. It's only the moment that counts. --Jim Broede

The way I operate.

Lately, I have been annoyed. Over an array of little things.  Of course, that could be my fault. For allowing trivial stuff to bother me. But then again. It could be part of a plot. By people who dislike me. In an effort to drive me crazy. However, I will have the last laugh. I will stay sane. And find ways to drive them crazy, instead. That's the way I operate. --Jim Broede

No ifs, ands or buts about it.

My Italian amore is the most beautiful woman in the world. Not everyone will agree with me. But that doesn't matter. For me, she's the most beautiful. If others don't see it that way --that's all right. They are entitled to their opinion. I have my own concept of beauty. And she's the most beautiful. No ifs, ands or buts about it. --Jim Broede

Idyllic. And full of love.

If it happens. That my life has been a dream. And not real. Well, that's not the worst possibility. Endless nightmares. If I have to settle. For a life of dreams. Forever and ever. I can take it. Because my dreams seem so very real. Idyllic. And full of love. --Jim Broede

I don't feel all that bad.

When declaring, 'I don't feel well.' It's not necessarily a cause for alarm. It could mean. That I'm feeling less than perfect. Mentally. Physically. I always want to feel very, very good. Almost perfect. Therefore, when I go to a doctor. He must learn to put my complaints in perspective. I'm feeling less than perfect. Most likely, not bad. For instance, I've had a chronically stiff neck. For years. And I've learned to live with it. Because it isn't lethal. Or life-threatening. But still, I wish to be rid of it. As well as any other aches and pains. But at age 80, I'm a realist.  I have to put up with a body that's less than perfect. Same goes for my mind. Sometimes , it's a bit troubled. Maybe I could use some psychotherapy. One thing I always want from a doctor: Encouragement. Hey, that I'm not all that bad off.  Because I have a good attitude. Toward life.  And its pitfalls and imperfections. --Jim Broede

My quest. My means of survival.

I wonder. How much of my physical being. Is controlled. By my mind. A whole lot, I suspect. Too often. I allow my physical state. To dominate. To control my mind. Maybe 'mind' is a misnomer. Instead, let's substitute the word 'spirit.' I grasp a thought. In a non-physical sense. Of course, I can speak a thought. And record the sound. Or put the thought in writing. To make the thought more tangible. It can be argued. That the thought emanates from my physical brain. And that without physical existence, I would have no consciousness. But once again. I wonder. Can I exist? Can I think? Without being in the physical realm. Can I leave my body? And live as a totally free spirit. That is my quest. My means of survival. --Jim Broede

It sure beats dying young.

Being a bundle of energy. Every day. Used to be. That was me. When I was younger. Now I'm 80. And I begin to wonder. Where has all the energy gone? The get up and go. I'm losing it. That's the biggest adjustment one must make. Yes, I've been told. That reaching old age. Ain't for those of faint heart.  Maybe I'm still reasonably energetic. For my age. Worthy of a consolation prize.  But I want more. And can't have it. That's a shame. I want to still be able to run a 7-minute mile. Now I have to settle for walking a 17-minute mile. I can still do 10 miles. Non-stop. Maybe even walking a marathon. If I had to.  Maybe I should be grateful. No need to lament. Because I can still move about. And stay awake. For 16 hours. Plenty of time. To read. To listen to music. And to write about growing old. Yes, it sure beats dying young. --Jim Broede

Having today is better than nothing.

I am losing confidence. In my physical being. Which is disappointing. And maybe even tragic. When living in a physical world. Therefore , it should come as no surprise. That I find it necessary to cling to my spiritual being. It's my only way to survive. Over the long term. If my spirit happens to be bogus. Than my future ain't very bright. Unless I prefer absolute nothingness.  Anyway, I sense having a spirit. Though I could be fooling myself. But the fact that I can imagine a spirit. That's a good sign. Especially if my spirit happens to be non-physical in nature. If so, I have a future. If not -- well, there's still a physical today, and maybe a tomorrow. To savor. That's better than nothing. --Jim Broede

My great experiment: Marking time.

I'm marking time. And not feeling bad or guilty about it. As I perceive it, marking time is like marching in place. In the time or beat of music. It's good exercise. I'm in no hurry to go any place. A way to relax. And feel secure. To contemplate. My next move. Too often, one feels it's necessary to be on the move. Constantly going. From one place to the next.  That could serve as the definition of a liberal. Never holding the same position two days in a row. That it's evil and a waste of time. To mark time.  I'm not so sure about that any more. I've decided to experiment. By marking time. For a few days. Or maybe longer. To see what it feels like. --Jim Broede

       

Living a dream.

I could spend the rest of my life. Reading books. Listening to music. Writing. And being perfectly happy. Of course, I'd exercise, too. Taking long walks. For contemplation. Time to corral my thoughts. I'd go non-stop.  Round-the-clock.  Even when sleeping. I'd dream of imaginary worlds. Makes me wonder. If that's what I'm doing now. Living a dream. --Jim Broede

The wherewithal to dupe myself.

I wonder. If god/creator is merely a concept. An idea. A state  of mind. At best, a creation of one's fertile imagination. Perhaps no more or no less than a spirit. Exactly what I want to become. By shedding my physical being. Yet remaining fully alive and conscious.  Living on the same plane as my imagined god/creator. Is that too much to ask? Certainly, it isn't blasphemy. To have such a thought. To evolve. Some day. Into the exact image of god/creator. As an equal. Achieving the highest form of life. Even if it's only imaginary. As long as I have the ability to make it feel real. The wherewithal to dupe myself. Into believing any and every thing. --Jim Broede

My queasy feeling.

I try to navigate life. Without becoming a victim. That ain't always easy. For instance, if I were a Jew in Nazi Germany. I'd have to find a way to escape. To a safe haven. Even in modern day America. I could feel like a victim. Especially if I were black. And poor. Fortunately, I'm white. And reasonably well-off, financially. But I'm fearful of certain political trends. Merely by looking in on the debates of the Republican presidential aspirants.  If any of these guys (or one woman) becomes president, it may not be as bad as Nazi Germany. But it'll be bad enough. For me. To avoid becoming a victim. Discriminated against. I could easily  be labeled un-American.  A threat to society and the new American way. Where dissent is no longer tolerated. Maybe it's my imagination. Playing tricks on my fears. And life won't be so bad. With Republicans in control of the White House. But believe me. I have a queasy feeling. --Jim Broede

A way to save Julie.

After years and years as a care-giver. For her Alzheimer-riddled parents. Dear friend Julie. Has an amazing opportunity. To become a better human being. For the experience. Instead, Julie has become a mental and emotional and physical wreck. Fighting a losing battle against depression and alcoholism. Sad. Because. Unlike Alzheimer’s. There are effective treatments. For Julie’s maladies. Often leading to recovery. But Julie steadfastly refuses to go in for treatment.  To volunteer for readily available help. Indeed, an ironic situation. Julie instinctively and devotedly knew how to help others in peril. But not herself. Now she’s drained. Out of emotional stamina. Out of the wherewithal that it takes.  To put her life back together again. Of course. I argue daily.  That we sideline observers. Husband Rick. And multiple dear friends. Could intervene. And force Julie into treatment. But we don’t. Because of an odd mistaken notion. That the impetus must come entirely from Julie. Yes, it’s un-American to force Julie into treatment. Takes away her freedom. To do as she pleases. Personally, I’m sick and tired of the asinine American way. Give me a break. Give me common sense. A way to save Julie. From herself. -- Jim

To wherever my imagination roams.

My gawd! I'm 80, and counting. Incredible. A remarkable feat. To still be alive. And kicking. Of course, I'd rather be 40. With the prospect of living another 40 years. Anyway, I'm trying to not think of myself as old. Or dangerously close to the end of life. But still, I'm more and more cognizant of my mortality. I'll be lucky to survive my 80s. Which I'd welcome. If I could remain healthy and vigorous. Mentally and physically. I try to remain the optimist.  And to live life fully. A day at a time. Imaginatively. That's my saving grace. My imagination.  Which has me living forever. Not as a physical being. But as a living and tangible and conscious spirit.  Able to explore the limitless cosmos. To wherever my imagination roams. --Jim Broede

To be. Or not to be.

My dear friend Julie. She's an interesting case. Possibly because she's had so very much trauma in her life. Or so I suspect. I've been personally lucky. Because my traumas have been well-spaced. And I've been able to deal with them. One at a time. And thereby turn traumatic experiences into blessings. Julie, meanwhile, has been deluged with trauma. Virtually non-stop. Since childhood.  Yes. Yes. That's it. Julie has to learn to cope with a bevy of accumulated traumas. Stuff she's ignored. For far too long. Little wonder. That Julie spends more time in depression. Than out. Little wonder. That Julie hardly ever gets through a day without her primary fix. Wine. Wine. And more wine. Julie is sick. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. She recognizes it. But not quite enough. To seek help. To check in. For sustained treatment. Julie's diseases are treatable.  But in America, we allow people the free choice. To be or not to be. And Julie chooses not to be well. Not to be happy. --Jim Broede

A trauma that became a blessing.

When my dear sweet wife Jeanne became Alzheimer-riddled. Maybe that qualifies as the most traumatic event of my life. Fortunately, I learned to deal with it. So did Jeanne. But it wasn't easy. It was a struggle. For much of the 13-year sojourn. Initially, I was in denial. Persuading myself. That Jeanne was misdiagnosed. But I learned to accept the verdict. And the inevitable. A steady decline in Jeanne's condition.  Took me several years. To learn to make the best of the situation. Being a 24/7 care-giver was the hardest. But I adapted. Adjusted. During the last 38 months of Jeanne's life I became an 8-10 hour a day care-giver. Supplementing Jeanne's care at a nursing home. Never missed a day. As Jeanne's advocate and protector. Gave her special attention and care. Daily outdoor romps in a custom-built wheelchair. Showers. Every night. Just before bedtime.  Hand-fed meals in the pleasant privacy of her room. A daily dose of good vibes therapy. In all sorts of imaginative ways. Care-giving became a fulfilling and loving pleasure. The most gratifying experience of my life.  What started out as a devastating trauma, turned out to be a love feast. Helped to make me a better human being. Yes, the Alzheimer's experience became a blessing.  No longer trauma. --Jim Broede

My glamorous approach to trauma.

Traumatic experiences. I've had my share. In my 80 years of living. A friend tells me, that some of my trauma should be treated. In professional psychotherapy. For my own good.  To better understand. How traumatic events have affected my life.  Maybe in negative and detrimental ways.  Without me being fully aware of it. I have nothing against seeing a psychiatrist. But I'm my own best psychotherapist. May sound like bragging. But I've always found ways to effectively deal with trauma. Even as a youngster. I'm able to elevate and  distance myself from trauma.  And see it all. In an objective manner. Turning the experience into a positive thing. The friend surmised that my father's suicide, when I was 13, must have been difficult to cope with, psychologically. Yes, it was. Initially. Until I concluded. That the suicide was a positive thing. For dad. For me. For the family. For everyone. As the years passed, I was able, more and more, to glamorize the suicide. As being the catalyst for much good. In my life. In my mother's life. In the lives of so very many people. And that, at the time, in 1949, it was my dad's best option. Perhaps even an act of courage. Yes. I would tell a psychiatrist. That's an example. Of how I typically deal with the trauma in my life. By glamorizing the long-term outcomes. --Jim Broede

Getting on the proper track.

My psychological worst. Comes when allowing little, inconsequential stuff bother me. To the point of fretting. And anguishing. Needlessly. Yes, I should merely step back. Distancing myself from the annoyance. And getting on with the frolicsome life. Really. When I think about it. Life was meant to be enjoyed. Savored. And here I am. Too often complaining. Over trivialities. But some good comes from it. Ultimately. When I get on the proper track. Again and again and again. --Jim Broede

I work for free.

I'm my own best psychotherapist. Because I talk to myself. And listen, too. Without telling lies. Willing to face brutal truths. About myself. Occasionally. I've gone to a professional psychotherapist. Yes, paid good money. To be psychoanalyzed. But that's a rip off. Because in the psychotherapy sessions, I'm the one that does all the work. The talking. The actual analysis. The psychotherapist merely sits back, and listens. Then collects his fee. Without the slightest qualm of conscience.  Therefore, I might just as well do it all.  Plus, there's a bonus. I work for free. --Jim Broede

The pleasure in not being the best.

Don't know why it's so necessary. To be the best. At anything in particular. Seems to me that even being moderately good. At something. Should be sufficient. Especially if one enjoys what he's doing. Perhaps only dabbling. At a particular skill or endeavor. Let's say that I choose to run a marathon. And I get tired after 15 miles. And drop out. Still, I've achieved something significant. Maybe even remarkable. By the fact that I participated. Gave it a go. I call myself a lover. And a dreamer, too. Doesn't matter. If I'm not the best lover. Or the best dreamer. I can settle for merely being me. For putting forth a decent effort. I'm leery of people who want to be recognized as the best. As the winner of the World Series, for instance. Turns out that the Chicago Cubs didn't win the top prize. But as a Cubs fan, I'm still happy. Doesn't matter that the Cubs didn't go all the way. They were good enough to suit me.  To give me pleasure. Even in years when they finished last. --Jim Broede

Doesn't get funnier than this.

I have weaknesses. Liabilities. Imperfections. But that doesn't stop me. From declaring. That I'm perfect. Just for laughs. But the funniest part of this whole business. Is that some people don't laugh. They think I'm being serious. About being perfect.  That I actually believe it. And therefore, I'm nuts. Instead, it's part of my shtick. In preparation. For my lofty goal. To become a stand-up comic. Could be. I'll have lots of competition. From natural born comedians. Seeking the Republican nomination for president. After watching their three televised debates, I couldn't help but admire their performance. They so adeptly feign being serious. When it's obvious they can't be. I rolled on the floor. In loud guffaws. When I saw their hilarious act. These Republicans have pulled it off. With aplomb. They'd be wise. Hiring me as their manager.  I'd get them booked. At comedy clubs all over. Believe me. It's the funniest stuff I've seen. In a long, long time. --Jim Broede

Too stupid. To even care.

I have no complaints. About the months of September and October. Here in Minnesota. They’ve been wonderful months. Near-perfect weather. From my point of view. A nice preparation. For inevitable winter. Mother Nature has been good to us. I appreciate it. No snow yet. And only two frosts. Of course, if I’m a true lover. I’ll love an occasional blizzard. And 30-below-zero, too. Whatever Mother Nature dishes out. Though I wonder. If Mother Nature is no longer the Supreme Ruler. Over weather conditions. Yes, we inhabitants have seized control. From Mother Nature. Perhaps in a reckless manner. Thinking that we know better than Mother Nature. Or maybe it’s that we are too stupid. To even care. Oh, dear Mother Nature. I’m with you. On your side. Because you care. About the long-term negative effects of global warming. --Jim Broede