On life and reality.

I think. That everyone is mentally ill. To a degree. That’s the nature of life. One can’t get through it. Without going crazy. Without doing nutty things. Everyone that I’ve known. Closely. Or intimately. Has had mental disorders. Indeed, that makes life interesting. Gives me the opportunity. To be a psychologist. A psychotherapist. A Freud, of sorts.  My mother. My father. My brother. My sister. My close friends.  My longtime associates. Even people I haven’t directly met. All show signs of mental instability. I have an overactive imagination. An indication of my own mental illness.  My imagination knows no limits. That can be dangerous, of course. But that’s always the peril of mental illness. Fortunately, most of us manage. To survive. And to cause no serious harm. To ourselves. And to others. But we also have lasting impacts. Often the result of our emotions. Everything from love to hate. Yes. Yes. I have life analyzed. Thereby, giving me a grasp. Albeit, an elusive one. On life and reality. --Jim Broede

Where happy times prevail.

I’m exposed. To unhappy people. Virtually every day. Sometimes, I allow their unhappiness drag me down. Into their doldrums. That’s a mistake. On my part. Yes. No matter the state of the world, I have to find reason to stay upbeat. The optimist. For the most part, I do.  But the preponderance of unhappy people make it almost impossible to avoid them. Of course, I find safety. In my cocoon.  Shut out from the rest of the world. Where happy times prevail. --Jim Broede

Paying proper homage.

I’m impressed. By this guy. Frederic Baraga. Though I never knew him. Instead, I heard of him. While exploring the north shore of Lake Superior. He was a priest and missionary. Lived from 1797 to 1868.  Was out. Canoeing on Lake Superior. When a terrible storm hit.  Looked like he was a goner.  For sure. When. By an act of Providence. He was washed ashore. On sand bar.  At the mouth of the Cross River. Baraga took that as a call.  To stick around. And to minister. For most of his life.  To the Ottawa and Ojibwe native tribes. Stuck it out. Even in the severe winters. Plodding around. On snowshoes. Obviously he fell in love.  With the waterfalls. With the river. With Lake Superior. Baraga built a wooden cross. In 1846. On the site. Where he was saved.  Now. It’s been replaced. By a sturdy granite cross. That was visited last week. Not only by me and my true love Cristina. But by a flock of Canadian geese.  Indeed, a delight. We all paid homage. To the stellar memory of Father Baraga. --Jim Broede