Happy. About Jack's bright future.

I could be unhappy. Every day. Because there are things and thoughts that could easily make me unhappy. Instead, I refuse to let stuff bother me. Even the fact that my son is dying. I deal with it. In positive ways. Such as assuming that Jack will be moving on to a better life. In a spiritual realm. In that sense, death ain’t so bad. It’s like being born again. That’s what I’m telling Jack. And he’s buying into it.  Of course, he wants to stick around for a while longer. So that he has the opportunity to watch one more Super Bowl. This Sunday. I hope that Jack is granted his last wish. Though there may be better things to watch. Where Jack is going. Makes me happy. About Jack’s bright future.  --Jim Broede

Give me unhinged perfection.

Look at it this way. I’m as powerful as god. In that I don’t allow loved ones to die. I take it upon myself. To relegate everyone – not only loved ones but everyone – to a spiritual realm. There’s no discrimination. Everyone goes there. Even Hitler. Everyone has a chance for redemption. And forgiveness. And to live out their spiritual life. In a state of grace. Forever. In a spiritual dimension existing outside of time. This is god’s ultimate  act. Total redemption. Total forgiveness.  An utter state of blessed bliss.  Pure, pure love. Sure, you’ll tell me this is preposterous. A fairy tale. The work of an unhinged imagination. But hey, if I were god. I’d settle for nothing less than unhinged perfection. --Jim Broede

When it's not true.

I woke up this morning. At 4:15. Wondering. Wondering. What I could have done. To alter Jack’s life. Through some sort of intervention. To have made him a happier being. A better-adjusted son. Should I feel guilty? For allowing Jack to be Jack. Of course, I won’t allow myself. In the end.  To be held responsible. Jack made his choices. Free and clear. And I made my choices. Free and clear. To allow Jack to go down destructive courses. This makes me wonder about friend Julie. Maybe this is why I advocate intervention. For Julie. To save Julie. From herself. People around Julie. Friends and acquaintances. Allow Julie to self-destruct. To languish. As an alcoholic.  In a state of depression. And we watch and watch and watch. Endlessly. And when Julie ends up dying  A tragic death some day. We’ll all walk off. Scott free. And get on with our lives. Without any qualms of conscience. Because we all did everything we humanly could.  When it’s not true. --Jim Broede

Even better than the Super Bowl.

My son Jack. Has a reason. A desire. To live for at least one more week. So that he can watch the Super Bowl. On TV. For one last time. Jack has been sent home. From the  hospital. To die. It’s just a matter of time.  Jack has lung cancer. And it’s spread to other parts of his weakened and frail body. He can barely speak. He whispers. He’s off medications. Except for pain. I’m impressed. By the way Jack is dying. He’s still focused. On life. The stuff he enjoys. Football. The Super Bowl. To Jack. Nothing is trivial. Everything is meaningful. During his waning days in the physical world. Jack seems happy and contented. I tell him he ain’t really dying.  He’s about to transition. To the spiritual realm. Believe it, believe it, dear Jack. It’ll even be better and more exciting than the Super Bowl. --Jim Broede

Reason for celebration.

Death. It used to be the real downer. In my life. I didn’t like dealing with death. With the loss of friends and loved ones and my pet cats.  And I’d just as soon not have to deal with my own inevitable demise. I didn’t even like to use the term ‘death.’ That is, until I learned to redefine death. As not really meaning end of life. Or entry into absolute nothingness. So to feel better about the whole thing, I began to imagine. Living forever. In a non-physical form. As spirit. It made sense. To assume that anything I could imagine. Could become real. True as true can be. A thousand years ago, it would have been very difficult. To imagine landing on the moon. Or sending space ships beyond our solar system. But it’s all happening. And more. Therefore, why can’t there be other dimensions?  A spiritual realm. To be discovered. Upon one’s physical death. That means my dear sweet Jeanne still lives.  In the great beyond. Soon to be joined. By our dear son Jack. Reason for celebration. No lamenting. No mourning. No grieving. --Jim Broede

He's ascending. To a better life.

I lament. I mourn. I grieve. Over my dying son. I will go. And see him. To tell him. He’s loved. But I wonder. If that’s enough. I hate death. Because I momentarily fret. And protest. That I’m being robbed of a loved one.  But upon reflection. I know better.  I am not losing Jack. He’ll still be very much alive. Inside me. In spirit. And I have an abiding faith, that Jack will live and thrive. In the spiritual realm. Where he will be united with his dear mother. Anyway, it’s more evidence. That I’m a romantic idealist. And a spiritual free-thinker. I believe what I want to believe. Jack really isn’t dying. He’s ascending. To a better life. --Jim Broede

Time for a return to the loony bin.

These are crazy people. Lunatics. But harmless, I suppose. Escapees from an insane asylum, perhaps. And they all have the same thing in mind. They want to run for public office. Actually, president of the United States of America. Yes, it’s sheer lunacy. They look and sound crazy. Very weird. One even claims to be a brain surgeon. Another wants to build a silly wall along the U.S.-Mexican border. To keep out undesirables. Another is a fat, roly-poly fellow.  Claiming to be the governor of New Jersey. What next?  Maybe Napoleon lives. That could be the stone-faced guy touting himself as a Harvard-educated political genius.  Ready to conquer not only the USA. But the entire world. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy stuff. Makes one wonder. If the men in white coats will be here soon. To take everyone back to the loony bin. --Jim Broede

The spirit is thicker than blood.

Children. Children. How should children be raised? As a parent, I’ve been inclined. To encourage independence.  To make for an easy transition. For an easy departure. From the nest. To the outside world. It’s all right to be free and clear of one’s parents. To go one’s own way. To build one’s own life. Away from one’s original family. To be independent. To choose one’s own course. That’s the way I did it. The way I grew up. I separated. I distanced myself. From my parents. From my siblings. Oh, not totally. I kept nominal contact. But I’ve ventured far beyond my blood relationships. To new friends and acquaintances. Beyond the horizon. Into the aura of true  love. And I’ve learned something along the way. That the human spirit is thicker than blood. --Jim Broede

Taking my jolly good time, too.

Yes, I’d love having  the Methuselah gene. Living to the ripe age of 969. That means I’d outlast my friends and acquaintances. In fact, I’d outlive every living soul that’s on Earth today. Imagine that. Of course, that means attending a fair  number of funerals. But at least it wouldn’t be my funeral. And after decent periods of mourning, I could get on with living. Happily. Though those who died, might be happier than me. Having ascended to a much-preferred spiritual realm. Thing is. I can be happy. Under many, many varied circumstances. I try to make the best. Of every situation. That I find myself in. And there’s so much that I could accomplish. By sticking around for another 889 years. Allowing me to take my jolly good time, too. --Jim Broede

My way: To become a helper.

Often. I do the practical thing. Which is. What’s best for me. First and foremost. Don’t know if that’s selfish. I’d like to think not. Instead, it’s a way to put me in a position to take good care of others. Including my troubled friends. Strangers, too. As a pragmatist.  I’ve learned to put myself first. So that I can be called upon. For help. I accept the fact. That some friends are too beleaguered to ever help me.  Yes, I’d rather be the helper. That comes dashing to the rescue. Than the one in dire need of help. --Jim Broede

Before my gawking eyes.

I’m told. By a friend. That if I lived as long as Methuselah. I’d be lonely. Because all of my dear friends will have passed. But that makes an assumption. That I won’t be cultivating new friends.  Yes, old friends are replaced. Friends keep coming and going.  My first true love. Dear Jeanne. She has passed. Now I have my Italian amore. Dear Cristina. Always. Always. I have opportunities. To fall in love.  Again and again. Imagine. Living 969 years. Watching. Observing. The endless parade of characters. Passing. Before my gawking eyes. --Jim Broede

An effective form of massage.

Fortunately, I don’t have to choose. From the politicians seeking the Republican nomination for president. But let’s say, that I had to. I was being forced. At gun-point. To pick one. Or be shot. Indeed, that would be a pity. So, from that putrid smelling scrap heap. I’d hold my nose. And single out Donald Trump. Only because Trump desires to be a wheeler-dealer. Therefore,  he’s the one most likely to abandon conservative principles. And negotiate deals. With Democrats. An achievement that would bring him much recognition and praise. Yes, an effective form of massage. For Trump's Alpha male ego. --Jim Broede

A good start: Obey the speed limits.

I have friends. Living fast-paced lives. Far too fast. They don’t take time out. To rest. To take a breather. There’s too much turbulence in their lives. The human body. The human soul. Weren’t designed to proceed at the speed of light.  One is supposed to savor life. By moving at more the pace of a turtle.  Or a  snail. After all, what’s the hurry? Here I am. Analyzing their situations. When really, they should take charge.  Maybe a good start. Would be to obey the speed limits.  Slow down. Slow down. Slow down. --Jim Broede

My one and only son.

I let Jack be Jack. Don’t know if that was wise. Can’t say, for sure. Here Jack is. Dying. In his 50s. Lung cancer. Jack was a smoker. A drinker, too. He did pretty much as he pleased. In the process. He abused himself. And maybe others, too.  Jack became my one and only son. When he was 8. When I married Jeanne. And there I was. With a ready-made family. Jack and 12-year-old daughter Kiki. Turns out. That everything evolved reasonably well. For Kiki.  Far more ups than downs. Too many downers in Jack’s life. Maybe I should have intervened. More than I did. Maybe I was too much an observer. Rather than a participant. That’s the way I am. Maybe I’m protecting myself. By not getting too emotionally involved. I allow people to be themselves. Because I don’t have the power to change them. They have to take charge of their own lives. I can’t save anyone. But myself. Of course, I think Jack could have done better with his life. Who am I to say that Jack wasn’t happy? He had three relationships. That produced three children. Two sons and a daughter. One son died. In his 20s. An accident. He drowned. His other two children. Now adults. Have distanced themselves from Jack. Maybe I’m guilty, too. Of distancing.  Protecting myself. From anguish. That comes with too much emotional involvement in the lives of others. --Jim Broede

Does it really matter?

Dear Jack. Have you ever dreamed the best dream of all? Your spirit. Leaving your physical being.  Drifting. Drifting. Drifting away. On a smooth sea of tranquility. Or better yet. Into the vast regions of an infinite cosmos. That’s a glimpse, dear Jack. Of being truly free. And truly alive. Being at one. With the life force.  That’s what you are coming to. A place where love permeates every living spirit. Don’t know if you’ll ever be allowed to return to the physical realm again. Does it really matter?  --Jim Broede

I crack jokes. About sad people.

I refuse to be sad. For a long time. Sure, I have moments of sadness. And even sad days. But I can’t stand staying sad. I am compelled to find my way out of the doldrums. Maybe that’s why it’s difficult being around people in depression. They exude bad vibes. And if I don’t get away. I become sad. For them. Instead, I trot off. To the nearest comedy club. Where I crack jokes. About sad people.  --Jim Broede

Makes me a survivor.

I muse. At the passing of my friends and acquaintances. And though this may sound strange, I’m thankful. That it wasn’t me. I’d rather attend other people’s funerals. Than my own. I’d like to outlive everyone. And the best way to do that, is by reaching a very, very old age. Sure, it’s sad. To see a loved one die. I grieve. I mourn. But then I get on with life. Makes me a survivor. --Jim Broede

Hallelujah!

A son is a son is a son. I’ve never differentiated. Between a step son and a biological son.  Because my son Jack is my spiritual son. We have a connection. In spirit. Jack. Jack. Jack. What can I say? Jack is dying. He’s in the fourth stage of lung cancer. I’m looking for meaningful words. A spiritual message. To send to him. I believe. Not in organized religion. But in a wonderful spiritual dimension. Only because that’s what I want to believe. As a free-thinker. Anything I can imagine. Is possible. And if Jack doesn’t have the  imagination. I’ll imagine for him. Jack being free of the shackles. Of physical being. Free to move about. To soar. To glide. To catapult.   From the physical world. To the spiritual realm.  Jack is about to make the same journey. As did his dear mother Jeanne. And yes, Jack’s mother still lives. Out there. In the great spiritual beyond. Where we all go. Eventually. Yes, life is eternal. Forever. Believe it, my dear spiritual son. Paradise exists. Outside of time.  Yes, Jack. The best of times are yet to come. You haven’t been fully born yet. You will finally be truly and blissfully alive.  Hallelujah! --Jim Broede

My advice to Julie.

Maybe my friend Julie needs to become an actress. Perhaps the best actress in the world. Julie wished she had become a writer. Of children’s books.  But Julie  did other things.  And today, Julie is an alcoholic. In the throes of depression.  Yes, she’s unhappy. Maybe if Julie had pursued her dream, she would be a different person today. Happy. Happy. Happy. My advice to Julie.  Become an actress. Immerse your soul. In a role. In which you achieve your most fervent and cherished dream  Thereby, becoming what you always wanted to be. -Jim Broede

On becoming the real thing.

I am an actor. A very good actor. Capable of pretending almost anything. With the help of a fertile imagination. When I’m sad, for instance. I do a turnabout. Simply by playing  the role of a happy and joyous man. So convincingly, that I actually forget ever having been sad. There I am. Miraculously catapulted. Into the domain of happiness. Yes, I’ve become who and what I am. With the help of my amazing acting ability. Able to play the part. So well. That I am no longer an actor.  I’ve become the real thing. --Jim Broede

Yes, Julie deserves a better life.

Maybe we all find ways to protect ourselves. From the hard and harsh realities of life. But some ways are more sordid than others. Take my friend Julie, for instance. She drinks and drinks and drinks. Drowning her sorrows. In a sea of wine. Where she becomes  schnockered.  Where she momentarily forgets being unhappy. She escapes into oblivion. Or into semi-consciousness. A self-induced dementia. How ironic. The very thing she saw. When caring. For too many years. For her Alzheimer-riddled parents.  Yes, maybe it was the exhaustive and emotionally draining care-giving. That pushed Julie over the edge. Into the abyss. Into the wine bottle. Mom and dad have found their relief. In death. But Julie lingers on.  Fooling herself. Into thinking. That she’s found a safe haven. When really, it’s a living hell. Makes me wonder. If it’s time for Julie’s friends. To intervene. To stop this nonsense. It’s time to rescue Julie. Before it’s too late. Julie needs to be protected from herself. Yes, Julie deserves a better life.  --Jim Broede

A test for true unconditional love.

I wonder. If true love. Means accepting a loved one. Unconditionally.  Though I might try to draw the line. My wife Jeanne was my true love. For all 38 years of our marriage.  Even when Jeanne had Alzheimer’s. Those were difficult times. For both of us. But I was able to stick with Jeanne. All the way. But let’s say. Hypothetically. That Jeanne was a rampaging alcoholic. And refused to go in for treatment. Despite repeated pleadings. I might have issued an ultimatum. Find a way to become a recovering alcoholic. Or else our marriage will be in jeopardy. I would never have abandoned the Alzheimer-riddled Jeanne.  Because she had no control over her fate. But hey, had she been an alcoholic.  I can’t say for sure. It could have pushed so-called unconditional love to the breaking point. --Jim Broede

To be real as real can be.

Maybe the secret of happiness. Is to believe what one wants to believe. No matter how preposterous. Yes, to enter the world of fantasy. And truly believe. In convincing and undeniable fashion, that it’s reality. Such as belief in an afterlife. Many terrorists. Are alleged to believe that after blowing themselves into smithereens, they are bound for a blissful paradise. Meanwhile, here I am. A man who shuns organized religion. But still, I cultivate a belief in an  eternal spiritual  life. Into a dimension that will allow me to circumnavigate the cosmos. To other planets. To other solar systems. To other galaxies. Absolutely no limits. Sure, it sounds preposterous and other-worldly. But I’m willing to set aside my doubts. And buy into the assumption.  Because that’s what I want out of life. The making of anything that I can imagine. Into reality. I want everlasting life. To be real as real can be. --Jim Broede

My own self-contained world.

I hear the complaints. From people. Claiming they lack political clout. Instead, power is concentrated in the hands (and pocketbooks) of the wealthy. Mainly billionaires.  And big corporations. I suspect that’s true. Because money talks. Of course, I talk, too. But I have scant money to back up my words. So I have to seek power. Not in the big, big world. But in my own self-contained little, little world. A cocoon, so to speak.  Where I let in a few trusted friends. Of course, I still venture out. Into the big, big world. For abundant human contact.  But then I retreat.  Virtually every day.  Into my hideaway. Where I seize control. Over my own destiny. And do you know what? The little, little world I’ve created from within feels more awesome and more meaningful and more stimulating than the big, big world on the outside. --Jim Broede

So much more to explore and savor.

I wonder. If it’s too easy. To go through the motions of living. Sometimes, I suspect. That’s how I started out. In life. As an empty vessel of motion. Not yet the discoverer of the emotional. I looked at life clinically. In a puzzled manner. Unable to comprehend meaningfulness. Until I stumbled across the vague concept of love. And there I was. Launched. Like a ship. Sailing on the sea of  love. And every day. I see the splendor of the open sea. Until I reach a new port. Where I disembark. And go inward. To further see the beauty of creation. Knowing, too, that there are still limitless spiritual dimensions. To explore and savor. In my multiple roles. As a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer and a writer.. --Jim Broede

Tell us, Julie. Why are you waiting?

Empathy. Empathy. Yes, I have empathy for the Alzheimer-riddled. Maybe slightly more so than for people afflicted with other maladies. Such as alcoholism and depression. I draw a line. Because those with Alzheimer’s are fated to bleak futures. No recovery. Their conditions will steadily worsen. There’s no cure. No hope. But for the alcoholic and the depressed, there’s a decent chance for recovery. Yes, my friend Julie. If she put her mind and soul to it. Could recover. Fully. And lead a healthy and happy and productive  life again. Julie has a choice. To go in for effective treatment. For the cure. Her parents didn’t have such an opportunity. They went the Alzheimer way. To slow, lingering deaths. Makes me wonder, Julie. Why are you waiting?  You know what you have to do.  --Jim Broede

Best of all. Emotionally.

Good emotions. Bad emotions. Positive emotions. Negative emotions. I’m trying to eliminate. From my life. The bad or negative stuff. Such as anger. I’ve been relatively successful. In controlling anger. I’ve turned much of anger into mere annoyance. Often laced with humor. If I can find ways to laugh, I’m home free. Thing about anger. It’s self-defeating. Makes me feel uncomfortable. Out of sorts. Anger, really, is loss of self-control. Much better to be in control of the situation. Gives me a good feeling. Physically. Mentally. And best of all. Emotionally. --Jim Broede

My quandary: Nothing is something.

Just thinking. That I have nothing on my mind tonight. That makes me a liar. Because I have something on my mind. The fact. That I have nothing on my mind. I’m at a loss. Over where to go from here. I’m trying to put nothing on my mind. To make my mind a total blank. But that’s frustrating me. This idea of a blank mind. Absolute nothingness. Keeps popping to mind. It’s driving me crazy. One of these days. I want to achieve my goal. Of truly having nothing on my mind. That leaves me in a quandary. Because nothing is something. It ain't nothing.--Jim Broede

Better than indifference.

I've learned to take criticism in stride. Because there’s something nice about being criticized. My critics may not like what I do or say. But when they take issue with me. It’s sort of a compliment. A sign that they are paying attention. And if they are offended, so be it. Maybe that was my intent. To be offensive. To annoy. To rattle. To get people to think. About what I have to say. Even if they don’t like it. That’s better than indifference. --Jim Broede

Far beyond my wildest dreams.

I want the right. The privilege. To migrate. To another planet. Maybe even in another galaxy. Far, far away. From planet Earth. Life hasn’t been all that bad here. But still, I’d like to locate in a better place.  More in tune with my vision of paradise.  Really. I suspect I’m looking for another dimension. Beyond the physical world.  Give me the spiritual realm. And maybe some day an existence even far, far beyond my wildest dreams. No limits. --Jim Broede

No more nightmares. Only dreams.

Maybe that’s the best part of life. The ability to dream. Once upon a time, I dreamt only in my sleep. But now. I have developed the craft/skill of dreaming upon awakening. Occasionally, I spend the entire day in a state of dreaming.  Good dreams. I have abolished nightmares. --Jim Broede

Living in good times again.

Really, there should be no such thing as a regrettable day. At least, in my perfect world. I imagine ways to reverse even the worst of times.  Knowing. That ultimately. Things will get better. And bad times are only a distant memory. And I’m living in good times again. --Jim Broede

A sad state of affairs.

When do the mentally ill become incompetent? An interesting question, indeed. I ponder such. When thinking of my friend Julie. When she’s in the deepest of depression. When she takes to the wine bottle.  Certainly, there are moments. When Julie needs care. To protect Julie from herself. But there are moments of reasonable clarity, too. And maybe that’s even most of the time. I’m making a personal judgment. But I don’t have the final say. About Julie. Others are in a better position. To decide Julie’s fate. And everyone seems to be waiting. Waiting. Waiting for Julie to make the ultimate decision. When she already has. To not get well again. Yes, a sad state of affairs. --Jim Broede

Peace and harmony. In paradise.

Here’s the difference. Some seek a way. Within organized religion.  I, meanwhile, find my way to the spiritual realm from outside organized religion. Both are valid routes. In my opinion.  To each his/her own. There isn’t a right way and a wrong way.  Instead, individual ways. One doesn’t have to be a Christian or a Muslim or a Hindu or of any organized religion to be ‘saved.’ Ultimately, everyone advances to the spiritual plateau. Even atheists. Even Hitler. Because in the spiritual realm, love prevails. There is forgiveness and repentance.  Believe it or not. Hitler repents. And his victims forgive. Ah, wonderful peace and harmony. In paradise. --Jim Broede

A moment of ecstasy.

When I live in and for the moment. It’s almost as if time has stopped. Because I am totally immersed in the moment. With no thought of the past. Or the future.  Maybe that is the most thrilling part of life. A moment of ecstasy.  --Jim Broede

Hitching a ride on a light beam.

To be a spirit. Must be similar to being a ray of light. Therefore, a spirit can travel at least 186,000 miles per second. Yes, maybe even quantum leaps faster. So that a spirit can reach another galaxy in a few seconds. I can imagine. Hitching a ride on a light beam.   For a nice smooth journey. To the farthest corners of the cosmos.  So nice. No ticket required. I can ride for free. --Jim Broede

The penalty: For caring too much.

Caring. Caring. Caring. It’s possible to care too much. About someone. Or about something. Silly. Silly. Silly. To care to the point of physical and emotional exhaustion. Where does one draw the line? And back off. Take respite. Otherwise, one won’t be around to care. Over the long term. My friend Julie. Cared too much. For and about her Alzheimer-riddled parents. Maybe that’s why she’s in deep trouble. She never learned to take care of herself. Never learned to draw the line. Now she’s paying the price. As an alcoholic. In depression. In a state of despair. For having cared too much. About others. But not about her own well-being. --Jim Broede

Life from the inside and the outside.

I’m trying to imagine. What it’d be like. Living outside of time. I’d be on the same level. The same plateau. As the creator, I suppose. If the creator can live outside of time, don’t the rest of  us have the same right? I wonder. If I could see what’s occurring inside of time. From my perch on the outside. Just to satisfy my curiosity. Maybe the ideal situation would be to have the privilege of flitting back and forth. Inside and outside of time. An interesting thought, isn’t it? Looking at life. From two vastly different dimensions. --Jim Broede

True paradise.

I’m assuming. That everyone who ever lived in the physical world. Is still alive and well. In the spiritual realm.  Even the bad and the ugly. As spirits, they’ve all become good and beautiful.  Overwhelmed. By the amazing power of love. They’ve repented. And thereby been forgiven. For their indiscretions. Indeed, that’s the nature of life in true paradise. --Jim Broede

Please, give me equal treatment.

Life isn’t long enough. I need more time. Preferably forever. But certainly at least 1,000 years. Maybe I could settle for being a Methuselah. Sort of a compromise. Of course, when I turn 969, I’d probably ask for an additional 1,000 years. Because I miscalculated. I still would need more time. To accomplish everything. To my supreme satisfaction. Heck, I won’t even come close. If I have only 80 or 90 years. To pack it all in. That’s hardly a beginning. I’ve barely got a feel for the life force. Having wasted far too much time.  But truth be told. There’s been little time to start with. I deserve a better deal. All I want now. Is the opportunity to make my case. With the powers that be. Don’t I deserve the same break? The same blessing?. As Methuselah.  Please, give me equal treatment. --Jim Broede

A risky business.

I like the concept. Of multiple competing gods. Each with his/her own specialty. The Greeks had it right. More gods than one could count on the fingers of two hands. Made for potential strife. And insecurity.  It was difficult keeping track of all the gods. Some gods seemed to overlap into other gods’ jurisdictions. I suspect that the so-called supreme god had to keep looking over his shoulder. After all, one of his underlings might be planning a coup d’etat. Yes, being a Greek god was a risky business. --Jim Broede

A craft to master.

I have a friend. With difficulty.  Managing her emotions. She takes stuff  too personally.  Yes, she’s what I would call overly sensitive. Gets her feelings hurt. Too easily. She needs a thicker skin. I know how to handle her. And to protect her from emotional onslaught and turmoil. Of course, I can’t protect her totally. From the world, in general. That would be impossible. But I’m trying to teach her. Ways. To not allow annoying people to get under her thin skin.  Believe me. It’s a craft. That comes in handy. One that I have long mastered.   --Jim Broede

Beyond human comprehension.

Something nice. About the search for meaning. I have multiple choices. Free to choose several meanings. Or no meaning at all. Which really is a form of meaning. Total acceptance of a situation. Without an apparent meaning. Based solely on faith alone. That it’s the right thing to do. For reason beyond human comprehension. --Jim Broede

Weird and funny thoughts.

I like moments. When I’m waiting. For a thought. To pop into my head. I have a momentary blank mind. Wondering. What’s to come next? To prove. That I’m an alive and conscious and functioning being. Suddenly. I am aware. That I was born. To contemplate. This and that. Nothing in particular. And then run with it. To a destination. Where I find meaning. Though. Along the route. I pause. To ask. Why must there be meaning to life? Perhaps. It’s all right. To live a meaningless life. More proof. That I have weird and funny thoughts. --Jim Broede

Comfortable. In my own skin.

Putting one’s life in perspective. Maybe that’s my biggest attribute.  Jotting down my thoughts. My musings. My broodings. My reflections. Doesn’t matter what they are called. As long as the stuff I put on paper or a computer screen, make sense. To me. Doesn’t really matter. If my thoughts make sense to others. Fine and dandy. If I reach the outside world. But that’s not most important. Better that I understand me.  My motivations. My values. My goals. So that I can deal with my life. Effectively. On a daily basis. That’s why I write. Hardly ever go a day. Without writing. It’s a compulsion. An addiction. Fortunately, a positive one. And I write. In a style. That pleases me.  In words that I understand. Yes, once again, that’s more important. Than swaying others. Into my fold, my orbit, my realm. In the process, I’m learning. To manage. My intellect. My emotions. My spirit. Yes, even my physical being. The gamut. The meaningful things. That give credibility to my life and soul. So that I’m comfortable. In my own skin. –Jim Broede

An inner glow. On the coldest days.

Wow! My wish for extreme weather is being granted. Another Arctic air blast has arrived.  Here in Minnesota. And it’s supposed to stick around for five days. Sunday’s high temperature – yes, the high -- is supposed to be 8 degrees below zero.  After an overnight low of 18 below. This morning, in preparation for the delightful frigid onslaught, I installed a thin see-through  insulation. On the windows. In dear cat Loverboy’s room.  Because he’s a sissy. Meanwhile, I’ll try to set a fine example. By walking outdoors. Daily. For 10 miles. I’m not a lamebrain though. Venturing out. Mostly when the sun is shining. The cars are nestled in the garage.  But still, I’ll start them several times a day.  I have provisions. To last me a week or more. Happy. Happy. Happy. To feel the thrill of true winter. In an age of global warming. I’ll pretend. For a while. That I’m in exotic Norway. Yes, there are similarities. Between Minnesota and Norway. Little wonder that Scandinavians settled in Minnesota. Reminded them of their homeland. Nirvana. Paradise. Anyway, another sign. That I am in love. With winter. With life. With the fresh, clean and stimulating air. Little wonder. I’m feeling an inner warmth. On the coldest, coldest  days. --Jim Broede

Which really. Ain't all that bad.

Can’t keep up. With the rapidly changing world. Nor do I want to.  That’s the  thought. Flitting  through my mind. Once upon a time. It was important. To keep up. To be modern. Up to date. But now. I find it more rewarding. More pleasurable. More relaxing. To blend. Old ways. And modern ways. With the balance in favor of old ways. Maybe that’s easier. Than accepting the challenge . Of being a model modern man. I am what I am.  Left behind. In my own world. Which really. Ain’t all that bad.  --Jim Broede

Forever.

There’s something nice. About the thought. That I have forever. That I’m never going to run out of time. Therefore, there’s no reason. To hurry.  I’m allowed to take life slow and easy. To waste time. Because I have an eternity. To dabble.  Sure. Maybe this forever stuff is pretense.  Fabrication. But it does no harm. Thinking. The way I want life to be. And so. I am blessed. With a fertile and vivid imagination. Little wonder. I’m a writer. Able to create stories. Scenarios. That keep me alive. Forever. --Jim Broede

None of my business. To play god.

I know of several relationships. That have gone bad. For long, long times. Makes me wonder.  Why they last. Would make sense. To either repair the relationships. Or break them off. And get on with life. In happier ways. Of course, relationships can be restored. And when that happens. It’s gratifying. To watch. To observe. But more often than not. I see lingering sadness. And I’d love to intervene. But don’t. Because it’s none of my business. To play god. --Jim Broede

If Trump gets elected.

Won’t surprise me. If Donald Trump becomes president. Because the nation seems to be in a mood. To be entertained. And Trump qualifies. As a superb  entertainer. Far more entertaining. Than the other mostly dour candidates.  To Trump, the political issues are incidental. Trump’s freewheeling style is entertaining. His willingness to say anything. Outlandish stuff. Merely for effect. To entertain the crowd. Trump has cultivated his act. To near-perfection. So good. He’s at his best. Especially when he plays the buffoon. And still convinces the audience. That he’s deadly serious. When it’s really meant to be a joke. I wonder. If we all will be laughing. When Trump gets elected. --Jim Broede

My encounter with Gabriel Marquez.

Imagine. The agony I went through. When reading The Autumn  of the Patriarch. By Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Laborious single sentences. Running for a page or two or three. Maybe four. I lost count. Of course, he’s recognized as brilliant and inventive. A great writer. I try to be simple and ordinary. Recognizing that I’m not so great. But still, I’m imaginative. And daring. To rewrite Marquez. Into short sentences. More my style. Easier for me. To appreciate. To grasp. In meaningful ways that the writer may never have intended.  When that happens, I’ve encountered a truly gifted writer. Because he/she stimulated my mind and emotions. And drew me in. As a participant. --Jim Broede

Am I the best? At my illegal craft.

I imagine. Being the world’s greatest counterfeiter. Running perfect twenty dollar bills. Off my flawless printing press.  No way. Can my counterfeits be distinguished from the real ones. No matter how thorough the examination. I’m truthful. I tell everyone. Even the government inspectors. These are counterfeits. These aren’t real. They’re fake. And every time. The assumption is the same. That I’m kidding. Joking. When really. I’m serious. I’m the world’s best counterfeiter. I declare. Believe me. Believe me. But nobody believes that I’m the best. At my illegal craft. --Jim Broede

Goes to show. The public is gullible.

I’m told. By the media. That the American public is uneasy. Has fears. About lots of things. Security. The economy. Politics. But I don’t believe it. For a minute. Because I’m not fearful. Maybe that makes me unusual.  I suspect. That if people are fearful. It’s only because. They’ve been told. By the media. There’s reason to be fearful.  When really. There isn’t reason.  Goes to show. That the public is gullible. --Jim Broede

Creating poetry. In an unusual style.

Some of you have noticed.  I write. In a style. That feels natural. And comfortable. Not always following  grammatical rules. I thrive. On short sentences. Sometimes. All it takes. Is a single word. To convey meaning. Sort of a blend. Of prose. And poetry.  Too many writers. Are regimented. Oh, there are so many ways to write. A poem, for instance. Maybe that’s what I’m doing. Now. Creating poetry. Or is it prose? In an unusual style. Anyway. Thanks for noticing. --Jim Broede

About my brilliant devious plot.

Certain gods don’t like me. Especially the gods that reign over sporting events.  They hardly ever answer my prayers. In fact, they give me the opposite of what I desire. If I plead with the gods to allow my favorite team to win a big game. It’s inevitable. My team loses. Often in agonizing and heartbreaking fashion. It’s as if the gods are punishing me. For daring to pray. Selfishly. For only what I want. Without considering the side effects. The collateral damage. Done to the other team.  In losing the critical game. Making their fans morose. Maybe even suicidal. So there I am. Being portrayed. As a heartless and heinous villain. Therefore, the gods claim to be justified. In giving me my just deserts. Makes me think about trickery. By pretending. That I’ve switched my allegiance. To the opponents of the Chicago Cubs and the Chicago Bears. If the gods fall for it. Alas, the Cubs and Bears would go undefeated. Please, don’t tell the gods about my brilliant devious plot. Let’s keep it a secret. --Jim Broede

Steering clear. Of an angry world.

Angry people. So many angry people.  Based on news accounts. The world is full of angry people. But I’m not angry. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to waste my time. Being consumed by anger. I’d rather be passionately in love. With life. Even if I have to use my fertile imagination. In novel ways. Yes, I’m creating. Living life. In dazzling storybook fashion. As a true blue lover. Angry-free. A writer, too. In control. Of what I write. My way. To steer clear. Of an angry world. With the use of kind and loving words. --Jim Broede

Little wonder. That I'm never lonely.

Can’t say that I’m ever lonely. Even when I’m alone. Though I can feel slightly lonely. When I’m in a crowd of people. With whom I don’t connect. Anyway, being alone. Is a wonderful opportunity. To occupy  my mind. With positive thoughts. Without interruption. I get lost. In a wonderful state of solitude. And I muse. About my Italian amore. I write love letters. And other missives. Yes. These are reminders. That I’m in love. And blessed. With an imagination.  That allows me to connect to magnificent spirits. Not least being Wolfgang Mozart and Leo Tolstoy. Fascinating stuff, indeed. Little wonder. That I’m never lonely. --Jim Broede

He who hesitates. Is lost.

Following my instincts. Doing what my gut tells me. That’s the way I like to live. Of course, maybe it’s good to hesitate. To mull things over. Before taking action. But the best decisions I ever made came instinctively. Without hesitation. Meanwhile, I wonder. About how many opportunities I missed. By hesitating. By not having faith in my instincts. --Jim Broede

Is love a selfless act?

The thing about love. I don’t necessarily have to be loved. I can love someone or something. Without being loved back. Without being appreciated. Making of love a one-way street. Give and no take. Though come to think of it. If I’m a true lover. I can get great satisfaction. From the mere act of loving another. That’s reward enough. Isn’t it? Love doesn’t have to be reciprocated. Love is selfless. --Jim Broede

I quit lamenting. A long time ago.

Believe me. I’m thankful. That I’m a fan of the hapless Chicago Bears. And not the more successful playoff  bound Minnesota Vikings. At least, the Bears give me no reason to be heartbroken. They aren’t even in the playoffs. Having finished in last place in their division. As for the Vikings, on Sunday, they appeared headed for the second round of the playoffs. Holding a dominating 9-0 lead over the Seattle Seahawks. As the game was winding down in the fourth quarter. Lo and behold, the Seahawks rallied. With the help of two fluke plays and Vikings miscues. The Seahawks forged ahead, 10-9. But with less than a minute to play. The inspired, never-say-die Vikings moved into a position to win the game. All it would take was a 27-yard field goal. An almost 'can’t-miss' kick. After all. Consider that during the regular season, NFL teams tried 266 field goals from distances of 30 yards or less. And missed only five times. So Vikings fans were jumping and shouting joyously. Anticipating that their beloved Vikings were about to pull one out. In thrilling, dramatic fashion. But alas. It was heartbreak time in Minnesota. The kicker missed. Blew the easy kick. And the Vikings blew a game they should have won. And there I was. Appreciating that I was blessed.  By being a Bears fan. Not having to endure. The heartbreaking loss of a playoff game. After all, the Bears haven’t been in the playoffs. For a long, long time. Meanwhile, dear Vikings fans, I feel your pain. You have my condolences. My recommendation, too. Put the loss in perspective. It’s only a mere football game. Rather meaningless in the grand scheme of life. Furthermore, you have a consolation. On the way to the playoffs, your beloved Vikings beat my beloved Chicago Bears twice.  Something for you to savor. And for me to lament. Except that I quit lamenting. A long time ago. My heart can't be broken any more. --Jim Broede

Or is it for pure pleasure?

I like to think. Small thoughts. Short thoughts. No need for a treatise. I try to avoid a long, long rambling. Because. Suddenly. Another thought pops to mind. And diverts me. Allows for sidetracks. As I navigate life’s journey. I’m often told. It’s best to steer a steady course. And lock myself in. To a single thought. But that’s not me. I’d rather dabble.  In this and that. Often. Without rhyme or reason. Or is it for pure pleasure? --Jim Broede

Do we ever have enough love?

I love getting up. After 3 or 4 hours of solid sleep. Because. That’s all I need. To feel very, very rested. And it would be a shame. To get more sleep than I need. A little like having more money and security than I need. Don’t know. If that’s a good thing. Or a bad thing. Anyway, I wonder. If most of us have more love than we need. Or is it that we never have enough love? --Jim Broede

On being very, very, very blessed.

The nice thing. About having so very many positive pursuits. Is that I don’t have to be everything. All at once. For instance, today I can choose to focus. On being a political liberal. And tomorrow on being a lover. And the day after tomorrow on being a romantic idealist. Though there are days when I’ve been almost everything. Yes, those are very, very good days.  Giving me a sense of being very, very, very blessed. --Jim Broede

Leaving me rejuvenated.

I complain. About politics. And mean-spirited people.  And horrific events.  But still. I’m able to separate myself from the world’s mayhem. Long enough to find peace and tranquility most days.  And fully able to practice my pursuits. As a true blue lover, a dreamer, a writer, a romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker and a political liberal. Yes, I find time to daily savor life.  By focusing on the finer aspects. Sure beats complaining all the time. About the stuff I don’t like. Better to go to bed at night. Knowing that I am programmed for sweet dreams. Leaving me rejuvenated. Ready to embrace  the coming day. --Jim Broede

A purpose. That gets me by.

I love to go on flights of fancy. About why I am here. In this almost unbelievable creation. Of course, I’m not the only one. Billions and billions more. On planet Earth alone.  And there could be countless more forms of so-called intelligent life. Throughout the cosmos.  As many as I’m capable of imagining. Extraordinary, isn’t it? That we’ve been blessed. With fertile, limitless imaginations. That can take us far beyond scientific explanations. For everything. Best of all, we can create our own myths. Because we’ll never be able to fully grasp the complexities of our realities. So here I am. Creating my own version. Of life. And what’s yet to come. Only thing I know for sure. I’m in pursuit of love. And happiness. That gives me a purpose. And gets me by. --Jim Broede

After I've awakened.

Amazing. Just knowing that I’m me. That I have my own mind. An identity. A life. Maybe only a very limited presence. In a world. Known as the cosmos. On a planet called Earth. In a galaxy, I’m told, that has perhaps billions of planets. Furthermore, beyond our Milky Way galaxy there are speculated to be billions of other galaxies. How all this has come to be known, I’m not sure. But I accept it. More or less.  Because it sounds good and fascinating. And as credible as me showing up. In this place. At this time.  I don’t know why or how all this evolved. Maybe it’s mere happenstance. A fluke of nature.  Without any real meaning or purpose. Maybe it’s all an extraordinary dream. And I’ll better understand reality. After I’ve awakened. --Jim Broede

The reward of the good life

I like to take a thought. Any thought. Down a wayward path. Merely to see where it leads. Of course, that can be scary. Dangerous. But I look at it. More as an adventure. Into the unknown. No reason to fear. Getting lost. In a labyrinth.  After all, isn’t that the reward of the good life?  The thrill of discovery. Of a way in and a way out. --Jim Broede

To force Julie. To shape up. Pronto.

Who am I to say that a drunk isn’t happy? Take friend Julie, for instance. Being inebriated. And in depression. May be just what she needs. And desires. Could be that’s why Julie continues along the same path. Otherwise. She would change her ways. Her course. Her destiny. Maybe Julie doesn’t want to change. Or maybe she’s incapable of being anything but Julie. She’s merely being her self-destructive self. With the inalienable right to ignore chiding and advice. From the likes of husband Rick and friends. To become a ‘better’ version of Julie. If only she tried harder. We all want to remake Julie. Rather than totally accepting the existing Julie. But in the end. We accept. We pretend. That it’s wrong to intervene. Wrong to interfere. That if we truly love Julie. We’ll accept her. Unconditionally.  I don’t buy into that nonsensical premise. Yes, true love may be something else. Intervention. Stepping in. To force Julie. To shape up. Pronto. --Jim Broede

Simply by savoring. What I've got.

I have so very many life options. Things I can do. To be happy. At the moment.  For instance, I’m happy. Spending the winter in cold Minnesota with my beloved cat Loverboy.  And I could be happy, too, living winter with my Italian amore in the more temperate climes of idyllic Sardinia. Thing is. No matter where I’m living. It really doesn’t matter. As long as I’m happy and content and at peace. Living my life. As a romantic idealist, a spiritual free thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer and a writer. Fact is, I don’t need more. At this very moment. I’m feeling fulfilled and blessed. Simply by savoring. What I’ve got. --Jim Broede

I'm committed. To sticking around.

Here’s the way I look at the undeniable fact. That I’m an alive and thinking being. Makes me feel that everything is possible. Even an afterlife. As a spirit. Or some other life form.  That’s no more preposterous. Than me being here. And able to fantasize. About the possibility of a real afterlife. And wishing for it. Because I’m in love. With life. And I don’t want to let go. I want to survive. One way or another. So that I can remain in love. Forever. Of course, I could change my mind. About wanting life and love forever. But for now. I’m committed. To sticking around. Even after physical demise. Notice. I don’t call it death. The word ‘demise’ seems more appropriate. --Jim Broede

Forgive me. If I turn chicken.

Wish me luck. I’m trying to stick out a full and complete Minnesota winter. For the first time in six years. To prove that I am a macho man. Normally, I spend part of winter. With my Italian amore. In Sardinia. Where I have yet to encounter a freezing temperature. Or snow.  Of course, there’s a consolation. Being in Minnesota. I’m still able to connect with dear Cristina. Daily. On Skype. For encouragement. Moral support. And for the opportunity to brag. About my ability to survive a Minnesota winter. So far, it’s been a relatively mild winter. Little snow. No sub-zero temperatures. But sad realities set in this weekend. Predicted wind chills of 20-below zero. But I will perform my daily regimen.  A 10-mile walk. Anyway, forgive me. If I turn chicken one of these days soon. And end up in Sardinia. Sitting beneath a palm tree. Sipping a cool drink. --Jim Broede

I won't be heartbroken.

I’m going to watch a football game. This Sunday. In a relaxed and unemotional manner. Because I don’t care who wins. It’s the playoffs. The Minnesota Vikings versus the Seattle Seahawks. Thank heavens. My favorite team, the Chicago Bears. Didn’t qualify for the playoffs. So I don’t give a hoot. Over who finally makes it to the Super Bowl. If the Bears were playing, I’d be a nervous wreck. Full of jitters and heart palpitations. I’d be emotionally involved. Desperately pulling for the Bears. And if things didn’t go well for the Bears, I’d be shaken to the core.  Especially if the Bears lost in heartbreaking fashion.  Such as blowing a lead on the game’s final play. I’d be emotionally distraught. Of course, I’d be on an emotional high. If the Bears won. Especially in dramatic fashion. But still, I most likely wouldn’t have watched the game. A calculated wise decision. To avoid the stress. That comes with caring too much. About the outcome of a mere football game. I’d  tell myself this game was insignificant. In the grand scheme of life. But still, I’d lament. Until I put life back in proper perspective again. Anyway, I won’t be fretting on Sunday. When the Vikings play the Seahawks.  Neither team has the power to break my heart. --Jim Broede

Giving meaning. To everything.

Life is meant to be savored. Doesn’t matter. Whether it’s good times. Or bad times. Because inevitably. Even the bad times lead to the promised land. To a better tomorrow. That’s the basis. For being a romantic idealist. All ends well. With new beginnings. Life flows. Like a river. Fast and slow. Through a teeming city. And a peaceful countryside. No two days are the same. Nor are they predictable. And here I am. Giving meaning. To everything. --Jim Broede

Reason to keep the faith.

Just a reminder. There is life after Alzheimer’s care-giving. Good life. That’s why I stick around.  On the Alzheimer's message boards. To give encouragement. To care-givers. To exude good vibes. I pulled through. By reminding myself. That  I was the lucky one. To be the care-giver. Much better than being the Alzheimer-riddled one.  I also learned. Before it was too late. To get respite. That 24/7 is impossible. Prohibitive. Absurd. Self-destructive. Ten hours a day. With Jeanne. Was more than sufficient. Made me a far better care-giver than when I was on 24/7. Put the emphasis on quality. Not quantity. Jeanne’s demeanor changed for the better. When I was rested enough. To take proper care of Jeanne.  Every day. Without miss. For the last 38 months. My 24/7 stint wasn’t always proper. There were lapses into bad vibes. Seems to me that not even a saint can hold up over a steady 24/7 grind. Anyway,  Alzheimer’s was a blessing. Met my Italian amore Cristina. On the message boards. Her mother had Alzheimer’s. Six months after Jeanne died. Cristina and I met. In Venice. Then spent weeks together. In the Italian Alps.  We go back and forth. I go to Sardinia. Cristina comes to Minnesota. Often we meet. In exotic places. Travel together.  In Germany. Italy. Scotland. Iceland. The Grand Canyon. Yellowstone. We are together. Daily. If not in the flesh.  It’s by video. On Skype.  Once upon a time, I would have judged Alzheimer’s to be a bad experience. Now I know better. The ‘bad’ often evolves into good. Yes, the very good life. Full of love. Imagine that. I’ve been twice blessed. Two loves. In a lifetime.  Reason to keep the faith. --Jim Broede

Turning ignorance. Into pure bliss.

I’m imagining. What it’d be like. To leave the world. For a year or two. By going into hiding. On a remote desert island. Away from civilization. With no access to the rest of the world. No newspaper. No  TV. No telephone. No computer.  Just enough provision to get by.  Food. Books. Pen. And paper. I’d manage. Savoring my solitude. Achieving peace of mind.  Turning ignorance of the outside world. Into pure bliss. --Jim Broede

My biggest dread.

I move from one thought. To another. And another. An endless array of thoughts. Difficult to keep track. I’ve already forgotten some of today’s earlier thoughts. Fortunately, I put thoughts in writing. In my blog. Or in musings. On the Alzheimer’s message boards. Having recorded over 8200 thoughts in my blog. Many of which. I’ve long forgotten. Only to be reminded. When I scroll back. Sometimes, I’m surprised. By a thought I once expressed. Evidence. That I’ve moved on. Evolved. Even yesterday’s thoughts. Need to be revised. Clarified. Updated.  My biggest dread. That I  become a stagnant thinker. --Jim Broede

Proof that I lived.

Reviewing one’s life. To determine significance. It’s a real challenge. Maybe everyone. Should be required. To write a memoir. Or better yet. A novel. About one’s life. Indeed, that would be significant. To put it all in a meaningful context. Embellished. To make for wishful thinking. Room for dreams. That become fulfilled. Imaginatively. Really. That’s what it takes. To put one’s life in proper perspective. Otherwise. One lives. And dies. Without significance. I am obligated. To take the meaningless stuff of life. And to practice my craft. By giving it all. True meaning. Proof. That I lived. As a romantic idealist. A spiritual free-thinker. A political liberal. A lover. A dreamer. A writer, too. --Jim Broede

This really ain't wasted time.

I wonder. If there’s a way to measure.  Wasted time. Probably, most of my time is wasted. Spent dilly-dallying. Doing little more than marking time. Going through the unconscious motions of living. But then again, maybe so-called ‘wasted time’ isn’t wasted. If I were diligent. About not wasting a moment. I’d go crazy.  Or die from exhaustion. It’s good. For me.  To get involved. In trivial and nonsensical stuff. Which others may deem wasted time. Time that could be spent in better, more productive pursuits. Anyway. At the moment. I’m wasting time. Writing about wasting time. But hey, I’m thinking. A clever thought. And writing about it. In such a manner. That I can declare. This really ain’t wasted time. --Jim Broede

Spirits were born to be free.

The more I think about it. The more I’m convinced. That my spirit. Is trying to free itself. From my physical being. When I am asleep. The spirit. Takes control. In what I commonly interpret as dreams. But really. It’s my spirit. Expressing a desire. To be free and clear of the physical shackles. In order to soar to the great beyond. It’s the closest I come to an out-of-body experience. Not quite yet a complete escape from my physical being. But I sense that the spirit is looking for an escape route.  And no doubt. One will be found. It’s merely a matter of time. Spirits were born to be free. --Jim Broede

Motivation. To become true spirit.

My cat. Loverboy. Maybe I love him. More than my best friends. That’s a strange declaration. Isn’t it?  Loverboy is a vital part of my daily life. If he died, I’d truly grieve. Of course, I’ve had other dear cats in my life. Really. Many, many cats. Up to five at a time.  They all passed on. But I assume. They are still alive. On a new plateau. In the spirit realm. Indeed. Motivation. For me to become true spirit. Some day. --Jim Broede

Life on a moment to moment basis.

I’m the guy that decides. What’s important. What’s unimportant. I draw the lines. Of course, it ain’t always easy.  Drawing lines.  I tend to alter lines. From day to day. Depending on my mood. What’s important today. Wasn’t important yesterday. And who knows? About tomorrow. Really, I’m not highly organized. Because I want to remain flexible.  After all, circumstances and priorities change. Sometimes from minute to minute.  Therefore, I hesitate. Getting ahead of myself. Used to be. That I took life one day at a time. Maybe it’s better to go moment to moment. --Jim Broede

Makes me feel emotionally drained.

Can’t quite decide.  Whether it’s good or bad. To control my emotions. Sometimes I do. Other times I don’t. Of course, I’m emotionally involved. With my Italian amore Cristina. And that makes me happy. Because it’s true love. And all is going well. Meanwhile, my dear friend Julie makes me sad. Can’t help it. Because I’m emotionally involved. Watching. As Julie’s physical and mental health deteriorates. She’s an alcoholic and in deep depression. And I’m at a loss. Over what to do about it. When my sister had a drinking problem, I wrote her off. Kept my emotional distance. Until she quit. But I find it almost impossible to ignore Julie. I care too much.  I’m too emotionally attached. And it’s having a negative effect. On my peace of mind. Makes me feel emotionally drained. That’s bad. Not good. --Jim Broede

Was life meant to be a race?

The nasty thing about aging. One begins to have self-doubts. About one’s physical capability. And mental acuity. Maybe it’s more imagined. Than real. But then I’ve been told. Numerous times. In numerous ways. That’s supposed to happen. One doesn’t speed up with age. But slows down. So maybe it’s more a matter of expecting the expected. A prophecy coming true. And that scares me. Just a little bit. But maybe all I have to do. Is adjust. Recognizing that I’m no longer the fast-moving hare. I’ve become the plodding turtle. Still capable of winning a race. Against faster competition. By moving with persistence. Steadily ahead. I begin to ponder, too. Whether life was meant to be a race. --Jim Broede

Faster than the speed of light.

I wake with thoughts. Of a not-so-distant future. That I may never see. Other than in my imagination. That happens. When a guy turns 80. Used to be. That I had confidence. In living. To see a lunar landing. Maybe the most extraordinary feat of my lifetime. But I’m wondering. If I’ll be around for man/woman setting foot on Mars. Though maybe it has already been done. By millions. Maybe even billions. Of spirits. Those that have passed on to the spiritual realm. Where there’s the ability to explore the entire cosmos. In person. As a thinking, living spirit. Capable of traveling vast distances. In an instant. Thousands of times faster than the speed of light. --Jim Broede

A reputable way to make a living.

The thing I hate most about politics. It is what it is. And as an individual, I have no control over the political realm.  All I can do. Is to watch. To observe. And to accept the political outcomes. My vote. My voice. Won’t be counted or heard. I am not a political animal. And have no desire to be one. In order to have an effective-say, I’d have to devote my life to politics. And pay a far too high price for political power. I prefer keeping my soul. Better to find a more reputable and satisfying way to make a living. --Jim Broede

Nothing to lose. Everything to gain.

My dear friend Julie has difficulty living with herself. Little wonder. After all, she’s become a depressed recluse. And an alcoholic. If that were me, I’d have  difficulty, too. But I have an innate and overwhelming desire to be happy. I’d want to change. Or so I speculate. I can’t stand living in an unhappy state of being. I keep asking Julie, doesn’t she want to be happy? She tells me, yes. But still, she declines offers of help. And continues to languish in what she concedes to be a state of despair and anguish. I shake my head. In disbelief. The solution is so simple. Yet so far away. For dear Julie. Yes, she’s cursed. By an addiction. That won’t let go. We’re told that Julie has to rely on herself. There’s no other way. Of course, that’s malarkey. Let me take control. Forcefully. Julie would have nothing to lose. And everything to gain. --Jim Broede

Maybe I'm the maladjusted one.

Always. Always. I’ve found it relatively easy. Living with myself. Maybe that’s the source of my happiness. Because I rarely feel alone. I have me. To converse with. On a daily basis. I appreciate other people. And I need others. For a fulfilling life. But I can get by. With me. For extended time. If necessary. But I have friends. Who aren’t self-contained. They’d go crazy. If compelled to live with themselves for more than a day or two. They need company. Otherwise, they feel abandoned. I suggest. That’s a sad state of affairs. They have never learned to rely on themselves. Meanwhile, I don’t have to rely on others. Even in critical times. Who knows? Maybe I’m the maladjusted one. --Jim Broede

Into the great beyond.

Why? Why is it? That I can see in my sleep. With my eyes closed. I swear. I saw a white deer. With antlers. This morning. Before I awakened. It’s commonly called a dream. But maybe it was my spirit. Seeing. Without physical eyes. My spirit. Moving to and fro. Walking. Without legs. In a primeval forest. That really exists. In the spirit realm.  Yes, my spirit was venturing. On the first day. Of the new year. And I was instantly aware. This was no dream. It was my spirit. Taking free rein. Demonstrating. That my spirit. Is just as alive. As my physical being. Capable. Of going for a walk. Anywhere in creation. Into the great beyond. --Jim Broede