To take chances. To become free.

I recommend. Putting one’s thoughts down. On paper. Or in a computer.  In order to see one’s thoughts. To read a thought. Over and over. Maybe to elaborate. To clarify. To carry one thought to another thought. And another and another and another. An endless string of thoughts. That’s a way. A route. To become a writer.  A thinker, too.  Writing allows me to experiment. To become daring. To take chances. To become free.  --Jim Broede

The master of my owm destiny.

It’d be nice to live like a king. In a castle.  But I can get along. Without many, many nice things. Several would be sufficient. I’m sure. Because that’s what I have now. Enough to keep me happy. And satisfied. Best of all, is to have certain skills. Such as the ability to write, to think and to dream.  I blend the three. And that makes me feel like a rich and blessed man. I may not live in a castle. But still. I feel like a king.  A ruler by divine right.  And the master of my own destiny. --Jim Broede

Time to perfect my shtick.

When I’m in a bad mood. I know it. And become alarmed. Enough to do something about it. By finding a way to get into a good mood. Yes, I dislike being in a bad mood. I detest it.  My bad moods seldom last for more than an hour. I try to right myself. By thinking of funny stuff.  With a hasty reminder. That I shouldn’t be taken too seriously.  That it’s high time to perfect my shtick  As a stand-up comic. –Jim Broede

Saints who aren't.

One can care too much. About other people. I suspect that’s  true. For some care-givers. They forget to take care of themselves. Because they are being overwhelmed. By taking care of others. One might deem them saints. But I’m not sure about that. Especially if they work themselves to exhaustion. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I’ve seen it happen. The wiser choice. Would have been. To slow down. To take respites.  Because if one isn’t reasonably rested, there’s a danger of exuding bad vibes. And that’s not good. Not only for the care-giver. But his patients, too. One starts to do more harm than good. This is one of my favorite themes. The importance of taking care of one’s self. If one can’t do that. One might not be ready to take care of others. Yes. Some perceived saints really aren’t saints. --Jim Broede

A perfect match.

I’m curious. About people. And their idiosyncrasies. Their mannerisms. Their peculiarities.   The things that make them different. Unique. Often, that’s the attraction. The reason certain people have become my friends.  They are one of a kind. That certainly goes for my Italian amore.  It’s as if we were made and meant for each other. Despite being different. In many, many ways. But that creates a balance. That, when blended, makes each of us whole and complete. Yes, a perfect match.   --Jim Broede

Getting Julie off my mind.

Visited with my friend Julie today. She’s in a bout of deep depression. I listened and listened and listened.  Figuring that was the appropriate thing. Tried to say nice things to Julie. Tried to buoy her spirit and confidence. To no avail. She was home alone. Husband Rick was at work. And he took their dog Sasha with him. Anyway, being alone isn’t good for Julie. Especially when she’s in depression. Tried to get Julie to occupy her mind. With upbeat thoughts. Again, to no avail. Julie said she missed ‘the dog.’ Yes, she called Sasha ‘the dog.’ She’s done that before. I call it to Julie’s attention. It would be the same as me calling Julie ‘the woman.’ Anyway, it was something for Julie to think about. To divert her mind. I try all sorts of things. Often to no avail. But I keep trying. This and that. There’s an occasional breakthrough. Julie saw that I was becoming beleaguered. Frustrated. So she kindly encouraged me to go for a walk. I did. Went two miles. Cleared my mind. Then I returned. Rang the doorbell. Several times. No answer. I tried the door. It was locked.  By now, I know Julie’s predictable routine.  She’s up in her bedroom. Sipping wine. Maybe even guzzling it. All the more reason. For Julie to get help. To go into treatment. Until she learns to take care of herself. Meanwhile. I’m taking care of myself. Walking. Walking. Walking. Immersing myself. In good vibes. Getting Julie off my mind. --Jim Broede

More meaningful.

I can choose. To not let my loved ones die. They still live. Inside me. I wonder. Why I don’t grieve or mourn. Maybe it’s that I recognize. That I have not lost. But gained. A spiritual connection. More meaningful than the physical. --Jim Broede