On becoming a healthy mermaid.

I encourage my friend Julie to think more like me. As a romantic idealist. In order to climb out of the doldrums. And onto the plateau of happiness. It's real easy, I tell her. By looking at life from a romantic perspective. By refusing to be unhappy. By insisting on being happy.  Every time that I feel unhappy. I refuse to go to bed. Until I find a reason to be happy. 'Nobody thinks like that,' Julie replies. My immediate response:  'I certainly do. And you know it. Because I have a compulsion to be happy. I'm addicted to happiness. Unfortunately, you are addicted to unhappiness. And to red wine.' I remind Julie that she was once addicted to exercise. Mainly swimming.  She once upon a time was able to swim across Forest Lake. Virtually every day. And that's a mile and a half swim. She could assume the role of mermaid again. If she set her mind to it. And more than that. She could become a happy human being. Yes, by setting her mind to being a true blue romantic idealist. --Jim Broede

The happenstance of luck.

I think. About one's fate. And if there are ways. To avoid. Or control one's fate. For the most part. I have been in the right place. At the right time. Maybe if I had altered my movement. By a second or two. I could have avoided a bad fate. Such as an auto accident. That could have claimed not only my own life. But the lives of my beloved Italian amore Cristina. And Italian friend Giovanna. When an oncoming RV veered out of control. Into our lane of traffic. And smashed into us. More or less head-on. Luckily, without any serious or life-threatening injury. For that, I am grateful. But for a while, I couldn't stop thinking. About how the accident could have been avoided. If we hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If we hadn't stopped earlier. For breakfast. Or for gas. Or to take a picture. Of course, it could have been worse, too. If the RV had hit us at a slightly different angle.  We might have all been killed. In that sense, we were lucky. This causes me to ponder. To muse. What's the difference between good luck and bad luck? --Jim Broede

A spiritual message for Julie.

I connected with a spirit today. Belonging to Alzheimer-riddled friend Ron. Seems that Ron's spirit is hovering. Half in the spiritual realm. And half in the physical world. Or so his spirit told me. While I was out for a walk. Waiting for Ron to die. He's barely hanging on. To his physical life, that is. But his spirit is very much alive. Now that it's ascending. Separating bit by bit. From his physical being. The transition will be complete. Very soon. In a few hours. Or a few days at the most. There will be no more physical Ron. Only spiritual Ron. With a new-found clarity of mind. Already, Ron's spirit has found a way to communicate with me. While I was walking. On a trail. In a woods. Where I used to walk and wheel Ron. Seems that Ron's spirit was drifting. Overhead. Near the tree tops. He asked. That I tell his daughter Julie. To stop lamenting. Instead, she's to rejoice. And celebrate his physical death. And to get on with her own life. In exuberant and kindly fashion. By being happy. No matter what. To find ways to savior life. And especially the precious moments. Better that. Than to stay in depression. And drunk. Ron's spirit said it's time for Julie to get on with living. A joyous life. That she shouldn't even come to his bedside any more. To watch him die. Because there are better things to do. Such as living the rest of her life to the utmost. Perhaps as a romantic idealist. --Jim
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How to truly care. About life.

Maybe there is a right way and a wrong way. To care. My friend Julie often practices the wrong way. She allows herself to be consumed. By caring. Without respite. She makes a task of caring. She beats herself up. Emotionally. Goes on guilt trips. Drinks heavily. In a sense, commits a slow and  methodical suicide. That really isn't true caring. One must learn to savor the life force. In order to truly care. About life. --Jim Broede

My easy spiritual access.

So important for me. To be focused on living. Even when watching someone/Ron die. Celebrating his wonderful and blessed life. And the fact. That I'm alive. Capable of celebrating. Rather than mourning. I'm still here. And will be. For a while longer. Able to keep Ron and so many others. Alive. In my memory. Amazing. That I am able to give them spiritual life. With thoughts. With pondering. With musings. Maybe that's the closest I come. To having the divine powers of a/thee creator. For instance, Jeanne is still with me. Seven years after her death. So many others, too. Friends. Acquaintances. Anyone I choose. Is kept alive. By me. Mozart. Haydn. Beethoven. Shakespeare. I have direct access. To all of them. They have found ways. To leave their spirits. Here. With easy access. To the living. --Jim Broede

The danger of too much caring.

It's dangerous. Having friends and acquaintances with all sorts of problems. Marital. Financial. Health. My close associates also include Alzheimer care-givers. Seems like every day I hear complaints. From friends in depression. I try to be understanding. And try to help them cope. But sometimes it feels like I've been dragged down. Momentarily. Into their horrid pits. I'd hate to be a psychiatrist. Or a psychologist. With deeply troubled patients.  It would be essential. To compartmentalize.  To separate one's self. From the rigors of caring too much. Fortunately, I had the sense to cutback. From 24/7. To 8 to 10 hours a day.  When I was caring for Alzheimer-riddled wife Jeanne. Even now, while on the sidelines, observing other care-givers. I have to step back. For respite. I find ways. To focus. On other stuff.  Of a refreshing and rejuvenating nature. Otherwise, I'd risk falling into despair. From too much caring.--Jim Broede

Ron's last wish.

Now it's time to die. With Alzheimer's. Ron is in hospice care at his five-bed residential nursing home. And is expected to die in a week or two. And he seems ready for death. Taking it all in stride. He seems to be at peace. And knows/senses what's coming. Seems to feel that he's at home. I'll visit him on Wednesday. Meanwhile, daughter Julie seems to be pulling herself together. In a mood of acceptance. She's in her fifth day without a drink. Indeed, a good sign. Husband Rick seems exhausted by it all. In some ways, Julie is being the strong one. Maybe she knows this is the end of the long and arduous journey. Maybe it is bringing her a sense of relief. Maybe now she will be able to get on with the rest of her life. Both of her parents gone. A new era. No more responsibilities or obligations to one's parents. Maybe now she can focus more on her self. Ron would have wanted it that way. --Jim Broede