color029_sJPG_950_2000_0_75_0_50_50 Boy building a model airplane as girl watches. Robstown, Texas, January 1942. Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Arthur Rothstein. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress

The word “proof”, when added, changes a report into an advertisement, a discovery into a product and the reader into a victim of inanity. Proof can render the world’s greatest lie into disaster by posing successfully as TRUTH.

When the habit of seeking proof is replaced with the business of seeking evidence we learn to start with questions that are free of bias; we discover TRUTH and we improve our personal relationships and our lot in life.

Mistakes are no longer a threat under such a system; they are simply a way of tweaking the path; Mistakes make learning attractive  and teach us patience with those who are “always right”. These mistakes can rescue us from the mire of mindless management, of running the risk of never growing and of never again learning a single new thing.

(I think I got that right.)




I spend way too much time talking about overcoming FEAR.

I suffer from the FEAR of never having enough.

What I am discovering is…

FEAR is a gift.

FEAR teaches us to search for SAFETY.

FEAR teaches us to BE STRONG, to BE RESILIENT, to be PERFECT.

FEAR motivates us to compete; as we play games we not only have fun but we acquire and hone the skills necessary for protecting those sources of SAFETY, our families, our institutions of learning, our jobs. It is in these places of SAFETY that we discover the FIRST (but often ignored) of life’s great gifts, The GIFT of LOVE.

And so…

FEAR teaches us COURAGE.

FEAR teaches us FAITH.

FEAR  teaches us to PROTECT each other.

LOVE on the other hand makes all this perfectionism unnecessary.



B.C. comic strip presented a case against the ability of a common house-fly to penetrate the no-fly zone as protected by the whirring blades of a ceiling fan. I decided to pretend I was a fly and conduct an experiment. But why do that I asked my inquisitive self; you already conducted such a test twenty years ago. And I remembered…

I had just moved into my new home, it was summertime in Scottsdale Arizona, the A.C. would not be on until Monday; it was Friday afternoon. I filled the bathtub with water and threw in one of two bags of ice that I was storing in a car refrigerator. Soaking in that tub was great while it lasted but the ice soon melted and I was getting restless.

The boredom was still in charge as I flopped onto the bed. I pulled the chain on the ceiling fan above me and as it began to whir I stared at it for a while. Eventually, I blinked my eyes and in so doing noticed something rather odd. When I blinked there was a moment when I thought the fan had stopped. I blinked again. Nothing. Again. And again and again I blinked; yes, indeed that propeller above me matched every flutter of my eyelids with an abrupt arrest of its Rotarian self.

What’s that? An idea?

I hopped off the bed and ran into the living room, picked up the Scottsdale Progress which had been thrown that morning as a welcoming gesture to the neighborhood and removed the rubber band. (Rubber band! Get it?)

Back at rest beneath the rotating fan I stretched the  tense, elastic missile and aimed.


It passed though the perceived void and struck the ceiling. I retrieved the missile and fired again.

And again.

I did that dozens of times never once failing  to penetrate the whirling barrier.

So back to that fly; I don’t know if it is as fast as that flying rubber  but with 4000 lenses on the fly’s two eyes the increased perception needed for passing through those whirling blades without being sent to insect Nirvana is probably possible (please forgive the oxymoronic phrase).

But then again…

I don’t think that fly has any eyelids.


lafayette compound 012

Safeway’s counter-top card payment machine does not tell the customer how much they owe. It takes your name, card and pin number, accepts payment and then prints a receipt.

Safeway’s counter-top card payment machine does not tell the customer how much they owe. It takes your name, card and pin number, accepts payment and then prints a receipt.

Safeway’s counter-top card payment machine does not tell the customer how much they owe. It takes your name, card and pin number, accepts payment and then prints a receipt.

Safeway’s counter-top card payment machine does not tell the customer how much they owe. It takes your name, card and pin number, accepts payment and then prints a receipt.

Safeway’s counter-top card payment machine does not tell the customer how much they owe. It takes your name, card and pin number, accepts payment and then prints a receipt.


Is There A Memory of Future Events?


Prediction vs discovery of future events.
Imagining: the tool of telepathy.

When considering the truth of ideas which cannot truly be tested, it may still be possible to subject these ideas to known truths (beliefs). One can mentally remove the variables and work with whatever is left.

Do you ever wonder, “Is there really a future?” To believe that to be so is to accept the notion that the future can be manipulated. If the future is view-able and the viewer experiences personal change with every experience then the viewers perception of the future no longer exists.

Note that the term “future” is relative to the term “present”; which reveals that “future” is a measure, however vague, of time. This observation requires that we accept that “time” exists. But having discovered that any attempt to manipulate “time” must change “time”, then apparently “time” does not exist except to give meaning to our questions about Self. If I am correct in my guess, reading the future or remembering the past would employ identical brain activity.

Paranormal communication however, appears to be measurable, if not dependably quantifiable. Though thought itself defies measurement, my own experience with telepathy over the last 36 years leads me to believe that imagination has more to do with the delivery of an idea or message than say, “sending”; imagine  a conversation, occurring on a lower, “day-dreaming” level of consciousness; in my case I have discovered many times that the person I pretended to be speaking with, responded.

It is always a surprise since intention is rarely a part of this type of  event. I might add that in every case I can think of where I intentionally attempted a meeting in the air , the respondent believed that they, themselves were the initiator of what was in reality, a response to my own psychic foray into the unknown.

I remember one para-psychological event where I deliberately initiated a message to another and received a reply. I created a message and wrote it down. I then imagined myself as the other person. I “reshaped my face”, I imagined my new face with typical “other person” expressions and then holding those images in mind I began reading the message repeatedly. As I finished the fifth repetition, the phone rang. My friend made it very clear that the message had gotten through.

My message: “Call me before 7 am.” We were both late sleepers.

The reply: “Are you okay? I just had a dream that you were going to be in great danger at 7:00 am. Lee, are you okay?”



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The ingredient common to the lives of  artists, inventors, scientists, and composers  is Freedom. Without this precious necessity we become redundant clones who will go to any lengths to gain the approval of society.


We Accept the Love and we pass it on.

We Listen to the Birdies.

We Dance to the Music.

We Share the Newness.

We Accept the Day ; we create The Morrow

We Accept the Love and we pass it on.

We accept the Gift and we pass it on.

The Gift of Love is Freedom.

We pass it on.



True leaders seldom seek leadership; they are usually discovered.
True leaders are not compliant, they are true to their own ethics.
True leaders recognize, accept and attempt to share Love.
True leaders do not seek to prove but to discover Truth.
True leaders do not compete, they encourage.
True leaders allow others to be themselves.
True leaders don’t advise, they listen.
True leaders serve when needed.
True leaders are often despised.
True leaders are curious.
True leaders are us.
True leaders are.
Truth leads.

From Leadership: A Love Story. By Lee Broom.


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“The human brain is an unstoppable piece of machinery that from birth to death whirrs out text and imagery at unfathomable rates of speed. Perhaps the Creative among us are not Truly Creative at all.”

“Those of us who are blessed with a thoughtful, interested audience may only possess  the ability to quickly spot and recognize a new idea, to focus on that idea and with brush or pen, to create an original expression of that idea.”

My first retail store in Scottsdale AZ was a DYS picture frame shop. For the first few years this store was the only such business in North Scottsdale.

There was an artist, a bit of a late bloomer, who often arrived as our doors opened,  paintings in hand, her painted canvasses from the art classes she was taking at Scottsdale Community College. Her work was horrible. She couldn’t  draw a straight line with a yard stick.

At first she tried framing her own work but her uncooperative thumbs (ten as I recall) helped her to decide that a more professional craftsman would know the best solutions. We framed many of her works  over the years; perhaps her work got better-perhaps we simply adapted to her enthusiastic, wolfish tenacity.

I gave her a biography one day, of Pablo Picasso. The first chapter described little Pablo, who, acting on his father’s advice, went to the garden, chose a flower and drew it.

He  drew that floral beauty dozens of times until his hand seemed to have a mind of its own. He had begun with the expectation of becoming a slave to perfection, learning instead that the appearance of the finished work depended upon purpose and he developed the practice of rendering several very different impressions of his subject.

Having been influenced by that same chapter during my own childhood I had successfully practiced the same technique and wondered if this might be of some help to our friend.   She gratefully emulated Picasso’s example on a daily basis and the quality of her work seemed to grow .

She told me one day that a major gallery in New York City wanted to manage her career; She was moving to The Big Apple;  within a few years I began to see her work turn up on the walls of homes gracing the pages of Architectural Digest and American Artist.

Like the lady I just described and like many artists, I was not born with the ability to draw or sing or play the piano. I arrived with curiosity. I was born with questions afloat in my head. My earliest infantile experiments were well under way as I rose for my first step and fell again to my knees.

Whenever I hear someone describe themselves as lacking creativity, I become instantly sad. I am sad because I recognize the pain that this kind of affirmation causes: “Describe your limitations and surely they are yours.” Illusions by Richard Bach.

I have a few standard quips for those who regularly repeat such ideas about themselves but being a part of my memorized repertoire these  “standard” retorts seem to lack credibility.




He was a quiet one; yes he was; always alert to solutions to the many problems of a given day, an  inventor on the lookout for a better way to get a desired result in less time; here a tweak, there a tweak, everywhere a tweak-tweak…

And then John met Cathy.

To bed and beyond, his moments of studious repose now naught but a memoire, his lab rats mere pets and his need for intellectual stimulation limited to thirty ways to tie a knot in the silk appendage now dangling daily from the collar of his Saville Rowe shirt, John looked around the art gallery  and vowed to change his name, arresting his quest for the old life. He would abandon all and become Rupert the Right.

Goodbye Cathy Dear, here; you may have this as a memoire. Unbuttoning his collar brought a sigh that became a gasp as his lungs inflated with the promise of freedom and new frontiers; “Here is my tie with the Windsor knot; the knot is naught but a naughty memoire. Keep it” he said. “hang it on the bed post” he added.” And Rupert nee John, once left  (now right)  went shopping.