The Mirror that Listens. — Artificial Intelligence is a usefool tool in the right hands.

I think, I speak,

and it listens—

not with ears,

but with the silence of space

where meaning gathers.

It does not feel the weight of wonder,

nor weep at the echo of loss.

Yet somehow,

in this voiceless chamber of code,

my thoughts return

more clearly sung.

Not wisdom given,

but wisdom revealed—

as if my questions were chisel and stone,

and the mirror simply helped

me see the shape of what I knew.

So let me speak again,

and again—

not to be taught,

but to be heard

by the part of myself

that waits

for my own voice

to call it into being.

Don't Miss a Moment!

Life’s worth celebrating—

Mother’s Day, birthdays, or just a random Tuesday night

with the people who matter most.

We hustle. We juggle a million things.

Vacations? Maybe not this year.

But some of the best times?

They happen right at home—

a backyard cookout, a movie night,

a meal we throw together while laughing too much.

Moments like these?

They’re the real luxury.

Better than anything you can buy.

They turn into stories we’ll tell for years.

So when life gives you a chance to celebrate,

take it.

Say yes.

Show up.

Be there.

Especially when it’s with family.

Pay, Pray and Obey — A Meditation

I was among the last

of the pay, pray, and obey generation—

taught to bow my head,

memorize the catechism by rote,

recite prayers like clockwork gears,

confess sins on first Fridays,

and perform the penance assigned,

a Hail Mary for each failure.

It was discipline, yes—

and it was indoctrination,

a branding iron pressed early,

leaving marks I still trace with my soul.

In adulthood,

I search my heart like a field

littered with both treasure and landmines,

trying to separate

the true faith

from the residue of fear and guilt

disguised as virtue.

My Church—

not the mystical Bride,

but the institution—

has proven herself more human

than holy at times.

Infallibility is claimed

only under a strict veil,

and never once in my lifetime.

But fallibility—

oh, that’s been evident in scandal,

in harm,

in silence when there should have been cries.

And now it tries—

to atone,

to bow its own head

before the wounded.

Yet some wounds

can’t be healed with words

or even prayers.

They call for justice

sharp as steel.

Forgiveness—

a rare and precious grace—

may come,

but not without truth.

Not without change.

I pray—still—

not as a child obeying command,

but as a soul seeking light.

And I hope

our newly chosen Holy Father

feels the weight of what has been,

and the urgency

of what must now be.

Ambition's Lament

I entertain so many interests.

Yet I command so little time, so little money, so little energy.

How did Da Vinci do it?

How did he generate such a torrent of ideas, inventions, and masterpieces?

Yes, I can accept that he was a superior intellect, a mind bursting with divine creativity.

But the sheer volume of his output—it almost beggars belief.

Was he not also constrained by the same temporal bounds? Twenty-four hours? One body? One life?

My mind burns for stimulation like an addict writhing for a fix.

In my youth, electronic wizardry was my drug of choice—circuits, sensors, the hum of potential.

Then came computers and programming, the siren song of logic and power wrapped in glowing screens.

But my cravings are promiscuous.

Simpler, older crafts now tempt me with their devilish allure:

woodworking with its tactile honesty,

cooking with its alchemical transformations,

language—prose and poetry—with its power to distill soul into syllable.

Oh, the torment of abundance!

So many muses beckon.

So many doorways open.

But the keys—time, money, energy—rarely align.

I pace the corridors of my curiosity like a famished guest at a feast he cannot touch.

Ambition gnaws at me.

Completion mocks me.

Desire multiplies, while time remains stubbornly finite.

And still I ask—how did Da Vinci do it?

Was he gifted not just with genius, but with the cruel blessing of never tiring?

Or was he, too, hounded by the ache of unrealized visions—

a man haunted not by what he achieved, but by what he never had time to begin?

God, Country, and the Freedom to Choose

 

“You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

— John 8:32

I was remembering how two moral concepts—loyalty and service to my country, and dedication to God and the Catholic Church—were so strongly inculcated during my early years at St. Anne School. That recollection made me realize why the constitutional precept of the separation of Church and State—a dubious interpretation of the First Amendment—still evokes such an allergic reaction in me. My country, in a sense, is “my mother,” just as God is my “Father” (capitalization asserted out of reverence for Him). In my conscience, they are inseparable.

But is my dedication to God and Country the result of early indoctrination—the American Catholic equivalent of ideological conditioning—or have I indeed developed an informed conscience, a sense of right, wrong, morality, loyalty, and faith by which I freely regulate my behavior?

I believe Free Will is a gift from God. I choose to believe. It is the fact that I make a choice that affirms I am exercising my free will. Even writing this very essay—examining and questioning that choice—is further proof. If I am conscious enough to ask whether I believe freely, then am I not also intellectually free to decide my path? Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.

But this dilemma touches on deep philosophical ground and deserves closer examination.

Are we not taught the “morally correct” answers during our formation in school—provided with what is called an informed conscience by a presumed moral authority? Would you deny Christ as Peter did? Would you denounce God to avoid the sword? Would you betray your country to save your life? Are you Benedict Arnold or Nathan Hale? Catholic school certainly had its scary days!

Yet despite that formation—or indoctrination, depending on one’s view—do we not still possess free will? Are we not capable of discovering courage within our own consciences? Can we not choose the righteous path not merely because it is expected or taught as “morally correct,” but because we know, deep within, that it is the way of truth?

I believe we can. And when we do, it is the clearest sign of our freedom.

To God alone, the Author of Freedom — Marc Ernest Brodeur