31 Questions to Ask before your Mother Dies

Of the questions that can be asked before a loved one dies, several can be asked of the person who is expected to die first; several of oneself; and other questions of people in the close circle that surrounds the two people having the core conversation. Here we will first look at the questions to be asked of the person who is expected to die first. These are formulated as "31 Questions to Ask before your Mother Dies." However, the principles apply to any close relationship. A key thing to remember is that only 10 or so questions are asked of the person who is facing death; the others are asked of yourself and other family members or close friends. The entire set of questions if completed provides a wealth of information that can aid intergenerational healing, provide crucial information for the next generation, and strengthen family traditions, values, and ties.

The first question to be asked of your mother is

A question about your natality

What does she remember about your conception, her pregnancy with you, your birth, and the three months after your birth? Does she remember thinking about you, dreaming about you, even before you were conceived? Who else was a strong presence in the life of the family during your natal period? Your father, grandparents, other relatives, friends, medical support people?

The idea here is that you as the questioner are curious, non-judgmental, interested, prepared to enjoy her response, whatever it may be. There is no wrong answer she can give. Many mothers will have happy or fond memories of this period in their lives. Even if there are painful associations, the time may be enough distant that it will not be painful to talk about them. It may bring relief or peace to your mother to disclose some of this information and her memories to you. This question is intimate to the two of you, and yet does not necessarily ask your mother to talk about matters that may be too tender for comfort. It is a good beginning to the extended conversation based on the 31 questions that you may have over several weeks or months during the time when her death can reasonably be thought to be approaching, but she is not in physical or mental distress.

You can just listen, or, with her permission, record her response, take notes, or even make a video of her speaking. If you don't make any formal record of what she says, you may wish to write a summary later, in a journal that you maintain for this purpose.

The next blog in this series will address the second question to be asked of your mother before she dies.

Shifting Gears

This blog has been a hybrid of personal and professional material since it began in late 2007. Henceforth it will be primarily personal, since Creative Spirit Center's Web site now hosts a blog that I will maintain. The theme of creativity will link the two sites.

Visit www.creativespiritcenter.org for more social networking opportunities with Creative Spirit Center's friends.

In this blog, I have deliberately eschewed controversial content. Temperamentally, it appeals to me to initiate a dialogue that engages collegial conversation, rather than dispute. Feel free to post a response any time, and if what you prefer is disputation, that is okay too!

Now that I have segued into more personal content here, I can tell you that I have another primary interest. It seems distant from creativity, and yet has a great deal in common with creating: it is family relationships during the time that precedes the death of a loved one. Of course, our whole lives together precede the death of those we love. And, of course, death can come unexpectedly at any age. But the time I am considering is the span of time before death is imminent and yet after death is a reasonable expectation for the foreseeable future. For adults, conversation with an aged parent is the most likely format for burnishing and enriching a crucial relationship during this poignant time. What is said and shared and disclosed can shape the family's heritage for generations to come.

For example, there are 31 questions that I believe every person should ask before their mother dies. In future installments of this blog, I will write about each of the questions. I look forward to hearing from others about their experience of similar crucial conversations.

How We Surrender

I have heard human relationships described as being akin to mineral fragments tumbling around together in a drum. As we bump up against each other, we remove the sharp edges from ourselves and others. The polishing process can be unsettling and even painful, but since we can't avoid it unless we establish an eremitic way of life, then we had best make our peace with it. How we surrender depends upon our temperament.

Once there were three monks who lived together in a monastery, having taken a vow of silence. After ten years of communal living, one monk arose during their breakfast and overturned his bowl, shouting, "I hate oatmeal!" No one answered. The monk cleaned up his oatmeal and they resumed their usual routines. Ten years after this, a second monk arose during breakfast and announced, "Well, I like oatmeal." Again, there was no response, and the three monks went about their ways in silence for a further ten years. Then, the third monk arose during breakfast and declared, "I'm leaving! I can't stand this constant bickering!"

Once there was a woman who lived in a very small house with a large number of children. Her children were demanding and mischievous, and she was continually exhausted from the work of caring for them. So she went to her rabbi to ask for advice. He listened to her complaints and then he asked, "Do you have any chickens?" "Yes," the woman replied. "Then, my advice is that you take the chickens from the henhouse and bring them into the house with you and the children." The woman thought this an odd recommendation, but she had confidence in the rabbi, so she did as he said. The next week she returned to see him again. "The children are no better, and now I have the hens to watch over. I never know when I might be about to step on an egg, and they are noisy and messy." "Hmm," said the rabbi. "Do you have a goat?" "Yes," answered the woman. "Then, my advice is that you move the goat from his pen into the house with you and the children and the hens." From one strange idea to another, thought the woman, but she had no other plan, so she did as he said. A week later she returned. "The children are teasing the goat, and the hens are eating all our grain, and the goat has chewed up my curtains," she told the rabbi. "Hmm," he said. "Do you have a cow?" "Yes," answered the woman. "Then, my advice is that you bring the cow into the house with you and the children and the hens and the goat." Stranger and stranger, thought the woman, but by now she was ready to try anything, so she did as he said. One week later, she pounded on the rabbi's door very early in the morning. "I am sorry to bother you, but things have become impossible," she sobbed. "The cow's milk has gone sour and the hens' eggs are all cracked, and the goat ate an entire bushel of cabbages. The children are taking advantage of the confusion. I can't hear myself think and the smells are intolerable!" "Then," said the rabbi, "I think you are ready for the next step." "And what may that be?" asked the woman irritably, for by now she was becoming dubious of the rabbi's good judgment. "Return the cow to the barn, the goat to his pen, and the hens to the henhouse," he directed. "Then come back and see me in one week." She did as he advised, so tired that she moved as one in a dream. A week later she knocked on the rabbi's door. "Come in, my dear," he invited kindly. "Tell me the news." "The children are just as unruly as ever, but it is so much easier taking care of them without the hens and the goat and the cow in the house, that I feel my life has become much easier," the woman replied. "Wonderful!" twinkled the rabbi. "And remember, when you wish to complain . . . things can always get worse!"

Once there was a parrot who lived in a golden cage inside the garden of a palace. He was the king's favorite. For a parrot, he lived a luxurious life, with a silken pillow, delicate morsels to eat, nectar to drink, and the most beautiful soft tinkling windchime hung near his cage for his special entertainment. The king would often take the parrot out of his cage to admire his beautiful plumage and his lordly posture, to stroke him and tell him secrets that no one else knew, not even the queen. But the king was very jealous of the parrot, and did not like anyone else to take him out of his cage. He had entrusted the parrot's care to a special guard who had no other duties than oversight of the parrot. The parrot never left his cage unless the king held him by a golden tether. But despite all the honors and comfort of his existence, the parrot seemed despondent. He hung his head and gazed at his feet all day, and he seemed to take no joy in the delicious food and drink provided for him. One day, the king whispered to the parrot, "I wish I knew something to make you happy." "I miss my family in the jungle," replied the parrot. "I would like to hear from them." "I will send a messenger to take them your greetings," promised the king. "The messenger will bring back news of them to you." As good as his word, the king sent a trusted courier into the jungle the very next morning. The courier took the parrot's greetings to the large flock of parrots which he found there, fluffing their feathers and stretching their wings in the midday sun. But as soon as he delivered the greetings from the palace parrot, every member of the flock fell to the ground like a rock, and they all lay there dead. Shocked, the courier returned to the palace. He tried to tell the king in confidence what he had seen, but the king gave him a hearty greeting and said, "Tell the parrot at once! He has been waiting for your return since dawn!" So the courier, in a low voice, said "When I gave your parrot's greeting to the flock, they at once all dropped down to the ground like rocks and lay there dead." The king was shocked. He looked at the parrot to see his reaction. At once, the parrot dropped down dead inside of his cage. More and more distressed, the king called for a golden pillow and a silver casket. "We will bury the parrot with all the honors of royalty," he instructed. "He has been a true and loyal friend." When the servants removed the parrot from his cage and placed him on the golden pillow inside the silver casket, the parrot spread his wings and flew to the top of the garden gate. All of a sudden, the entire flock of parrots appeared just beyond the palace walls. The king, torn between rage and sorrow at the departure of his favorite, cried out, "Why have you deceived me?" "It is my nature to be free," replied the parrot. "My family showed me the way when they dropped down as though they were dead. Now I will join them and return to my rightful home."

Surrender, in three stories. Hope you enjoyed them.

Liberty and Limits

Architect Frank Lloyd Wright repeatedly advised his students, "Limits are an artist's best friend." So writes Roger van Oech in his book on creativity, Expect the Unexpected or You Won't Find It.


The William Wordsworth sonnet "Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent's Narrow Room" conveys the same idea:

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.



Is it a surprise that artists and thinkers about creativity should salute the value of limits? Often, we observe creative people throwing off limits, reserving the right to behave however they wish, accepting no refusal from the heavens. Walt Whitman's manifesto Song of Myself announces the liberties he was prepared to take: "I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

Limits would seem to be anathema to creativity. But if we choose a limit, what kind of limit is it? "The prison unto which we doom ourselves," observed Wordsworth, "no prison is." This reflection adumbrates the conclusion of French author and philosopher Albert Camus, who described the everlasting punishment of Sisyphus, to push a boulder up a mountain, only to have it roll down to the bottom, requiring him to push it up again. The freedom of Sisyphus, suggested Camus, confronted with what the author considered the absurdity of life, lies in his decision whether to struggle against his fate or to embrace it. The contemporary advice "Never let 'em see you sweat" is another way of expressing this point of view. Some individuals undergoing tremendous strain or challenge respond to the routine greeting "How's it going" by responding, "Can't complain." Or, in the words of Whitman, again from Song of Myself, "I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy . . ."

There is a strength that we can find in the depth of our being when we refuse to complain; accept apparent limitation through our ability to see the beauty in it; and encourage other people by testifying to the splendor of life. Limits are the artist's best friend because they challenge him/her to mine hitherto unknown reaches of inspiration, ingenuity, and creativity.

It takes courage to be happy, a friend once told me. How did she figure that out so early in life? Maybe she was finding the freedom within her limitations.

Time Stands Still

In Michigan, the first spring days of warm weather let loose a sea of visitors to garden centers, clouds of smoke from all the grilling that's going on outdoors, and casual viewing of hundreds of freshly-pedicured toes that have not been seen publicly since October. In the rush to embrace the season of warmth, outdoor living unencumbered by coats, boots, and hats, we try to fill every moment with activities clearly identified as summertime things, lest the season get by us unmarked.

But by early August, summer is established. Heat reigns; summertime stands still. The garden flowers are in their multihued glory; we are surfeited on hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled vegetables and wild salmon; some women, secure in their golden-tanned beauty, are going more days between leg shavings. Corn, fresh tomatoes, and sunflowers spill out of bushel baskets at the farmers' market. Pool parties, county fairs, picnics, and ice cream socials proliferate. We relax into the eternal aspect of summer.

That is, some of us relax into the eternal aspect of summer. Others express their particular fears in anxious phrases: "The summer is almost over," "It's gonna get cold again all too soon," "It'll be time for school to start before you know it," this last often accompanied by a dire look. In this northern clime, we know the cycle of seasons. We can all predict the snow, the ice, the northerly winds, the bitter cold. But what's the point of invoking them now?

I remember a spiritual that I learned years ago, singing in a gospel choir: "The Storm is Passing Over." Its first line is imperative: "Encourage my soul." "Encourage my soul," it directs, "and help me journey on; though the night is dark, and I am far from home." I respond with delight when someone says an encouraging word. And when they predict trouble or pain or loss, I don't know what to say. If I say, "Yes, winter is right around the corner," I inauthentically join in the chorus of doom; but if I say, "Oh, come on, enjoy the summer while it's here!" then I sound unfriendly. My default response of late is a drawn-out "Yesss," meant to convey something like "Thank you for communicating with me. I have heard you and, with respect, I prefer to voice no opinion."

Another word for time standing still is eternity. When we experience the present, we momentarily stand outside the cycle of cause and effect, change and loss, living and dying. When we are present to what is right in front of us, not regretting the past nor fearing the future, we have found the answer that confounds any question. It is from this vantage point that our anxieties are quieted, creativity is released, and hitherto unknown qualities of our personality emerge. Early August in the north is a precious time because it invites this presence. It is friendly, still, peaceful, abundant, replete with deliciousness for all five senses. I have the sense of enough. There is enough sun, warmth, beauty, life, light. In those moments when being present fills me as a kind of satisfaction, it even seems that I have enough time, a sense that I enjoy rarely. There is enough, and more than enough.

The old spiritual concludes, "Thanks be to God, the morning light appears. The storm is passing over; the storm is passing over; the storm is passing over, hallelu." When time stands still because we are present to what is, because everything is perfect in that moment, the storm of anxiety, fear, and rage that often consumes us has passed over. Hallelu, indeed.

Philosophy of Creativity

The subject of creativity is a small but frisky player in the current academic landscape; and many creative people over the years have been inspired to describe the process of creativity itself, in their own work and in the abstract.

After a couple of navel-gazing recent blogs, let's raise our eyes heavenward (or at least to eye level) by acknowledging some of the provocative statements about creativity that artists, scholars, and philosophers have made.

Here in Midland, Michigan, we are proud of the architect Alden B. Dow, who in his later years wrote extensively about the creative process and the benefits of creativity to humanity, and even made valiant efforts to capture in words the nature of creativity in the abstract. His writings include an elaborate and colorful 8-part visual representation of a process that constantly renews itself, which he named "A Way of Life Cycle." In this cycle, he links creativity to innovation, observing that creativity is "our unique abilities" which, "when put together, naturally create comething new." The actor Alan Alda was on the same wavelength when he said, "The creative is the place where no one else has ever been. You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is yourself." To view the complete Way of Life cycle envisioned by Alden B. Dow, visit http://www.northwood.edu/abd/aldenbdow/awayoflifecycle/.

The July 28 issue of The New Yorker carries an article by Jonah Lehrer, "The Eureka Hunt," reporting on studies in brain science that seek to identify the process of arriving at an insight. Lehrer quotes researcher Earl Miller, an MIT neuroscientist: "An insight is a restructuring of information--it's seeing the same old thing in a completely new way." Miller's studies of the operations of the prefrontal cortex (the part of the brain that bulges behind the forehead) suggest that many times our brain has arrived at the answer to a problem before our conscious mind knows about it. This is why we have the "Eureka!" experience, an instant recognition that we have found a long-sought answer. Miller says, "Your consciousness is very limited in capacity and that's why your prefrontal cortex makes all these plans without telling you about it."

Sometimes we can only "invite the Muse," or experience creativity, by sneaking up on it.
Intense focus and concentration can lead to diminished creativity. "If you want to encourage insights, then you've got to encourage people to relax," advises scientist John Kounios of Drexel University, quoted in Lehrer's article. A.A. Milne, children's author and creator of the beloved character Winnie the Pooh, would agree. He said, "One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries."

Speaking of Winnie the Pooh, I love the words of Pablo Picasso, "All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." Many adults seek to recapture the feeling of play in order to create. Pressure, deadlines, evaluations, judgments can deaden the atmosphere for innovation, whether in business, in artistic work, or in research. The only option to finding something new is to continue to make do with the old. And, as Alden B. Dow advised, it is creativity that "provides the human expressions that can aid the progress and welfare of mankind. The products of creativity help satisfy man's ever-increasing needs."

If it does not seem as though human desires are going to disappear, then we need creativity.

It's All Good

Today two teen-agers dropped in on me at the office. With the length of my to-do list, I would not have brooked an interruption from an adult, but somehow, perhaps as a result of occupying the role of grandmother for part of each week, I am not able to tell innocently trusting souls that I have no time for them. The interruption changed the planned flow of my afternoon, but it also brought me the welcome gift of a tranquil state of mind.

After the unexpected visit was over, I had returned to my work when another unexpected interruption arose, from an employee who is not a teen-ager. Normally I would be ungracious or even surly about this, but because I had been softened up by the kids I was patient with the interruption. I thought about what I wanted to say and do; and then I thought about what would be pleasant to say and do; and I chose the latter.

These two small incidents made me reflect on the inward standards that I apply when I choose to hold people accountable for their behavior. I certainly expect far more from adults than from teens; more from teens than from young children; more from young children than from babies. More from experienced adults than from rookies; more from community elders than from the middle-aged. I have a structured set of expectations that I apply based on my assessment of what the other person should know or understand. I believe that mature people should exercise good judgment, should foresee problems and act to forestall them, should plan ahead, should practice good time management, should be unselfish, should be practical, should be wise.

It will not surprise the thoughtful reader when I write that I am frequently frustrated, stressed, and disappointed.

I can remember being angry when a well-paid person did not perform at a high level. I can remember scorning someone with an advanced degree who did not exhibit excellent judgment. I can remember many moments when I compared what the universe was delivering to me with the concept that I was seeking to impose on the universe. No matter how I would rage, of course, the universe never changed what was on offer. Instead, I would hurt someone's feelings or isolate myself in order to preserve my opinion. Either way, I never won. The universe won every time. And the universe has gone on delivering whatever it darn well pleases without much regard for my opinions.

But don't we have to have standards? How can you supervise workers without expecting things from people? How can you prepare children for life if you let them do whatever they want all the time? What about aesthetics? What about productivity? What about justice?

I have recently felt a mild irritation each time I hear the catch phrase currently much in use as a slang way of saying "No worries," (I think): "It's all good." The mild irritation seems to arise from my suspicion that I don't really get the meaning of the phrase. It is a phrase used by people much younger than I. I suspect that they don't really understand what's going on, or they would never say or believe that it's all good. These might be people who don't think things through, or take precautions, or save for a rainy day. "It's all good," you say? You don't know the half of it.

But, this afternoon, I can say with the youngest of them, "It's all good." I am not going to get to the end of my to-do list. I am not going to accomplish most of the goals I set this morning. I certainly didn't set the goal of ending my day in a state of peaceful reflection, facing some of my shortcomings and telling you about them in a friendly and frank recital. Who knew that letting the universe win would feel so good?

Thank you, interrupters. You interrupted a sterile concept in mid-flight and replaced it with the nourishment of reality. On the side of the angels? You bet, if the angels are the messengers of the universe. It's all good.

Feed the Birds

Early one recent evening I sat in my living room for about 20 minutes looking out at the birds visiting my backyard birdfeeders. I don't usually give myself this luxury. I don't know why not--there are not many activities that can compete with the benefits of this combination of bird-watching, meditation, contemplation, rest, and refreshment. My beautiful, tri-part, soaring east window gives onto a layered suburban woodland landscape for which I can take no credit. All the patient work in the service of a vision of backyard tranquillity must be credited to the house's previous owners.

The landscape's senior birdfeeder, which I inherited with the house, is a sturdy box with two plexiglass walls, two faux log cabin walls and a hinged peaked faded green wooden roof that opens to receive fresh dispensations of birdseed. It has always had plenty of traffic. The two birdfeeders which I purchased and installed in June (a copper-trimmed two-story model and a modern-looking rectangle with a flat roof, flanked by wire holders for suet cakes) sat for weeks without doing any business. Every time I would glance outside, the level of seed in the new birdfeeders stood as high as it had been the day before. My limited knowledge of birds and birdfeeding did not extend to an explanation of the birds' lack of interest in the new birdfeeders, other than to hypothesize that the sunflower seeds in the mix were too big to get through the holes that supplied the feeding ledges. I added some thistle seed, but it could not filter down past the larger seed. A few days back, I had determined to redistribute the seed and place nothing but thistle seed in the new feeders.

Then on this evening, the heavens opened and delivered an unending stream of birds to all three birdfeeders. The ones I can identify don't go far beyond the male and female cardinal. I suppose there were various finches, because they were small. Wrens? Nuthatches? There were yellow-and-black ones and one with a russet thatch; one with a rusty breast (too small to be a robin) and a few small brownish ones with black trim neatly piped along the edges of each wing. I realized as I sat watching that my next purchase must be a bird identification manual.

The daytime birds, including the cacophonous crows, the bluejay who is always alone, and the surprisingly aggressive doves (those in my yard, at least, not at all peaceful in their birdly relations), were elsewhere. Even the mother and child bunnies that often hop by were not to be seen. A brown squirrel and a black squirrel, thwarted by squirrel baffles from reaching the feeders, nibbled on the seed that fell to the ground.

The little birds' wings whirred so rapidly as they spun through the landscape that to my vision the wings blurred. I didn't know that the wings of birds other than hummingbirds did that. Growing up in South Texas, land of road runners that skitter among the chapparral, sparrow hawks, pelicans at the beach, and bob-whites with their distinctive call, as a child I did not know many songbirds. I knew not at all in life, but only in death, the delicate doves and quail that my father shot during bird season, and that we would eat freshly dressed, cleaned, and roasted, with nothing but toast, after getting home from whatever ranch he had hunted on, at 9 or 10 pm on a hot Texas night. Those birds lived in the cover of gray-green mesquite trees on the dry ranches that stretched southward toward Mexico. As a girl, I did not sit and look out at my backyard anyway; and if I had, I would not have seen many birds among the rosebushes my mother so laboriously coaxed from the baked ground.

Today, I cannot wait to buy more birdseed to keep the songbirds coming. Their grace and beauty alone would be enough to compensate me for the cost of birdseed (not the least of which cost is the labor involved in lugging the big economy size home). But it is their naturalness that endlessly fascinates. Is it anthropomorphizing to describe them as spontaneous? I think perhaps it is, so I will stick with natural. Nature is natural -- big whoop. But I love it. The rhythm of the birds' movements, the quicksilver turns, the assessment of danger on the wing, the un-self-consciousness of it all -- is like standing under a waterfall of purity. The birds are made light by their apparent freedom from every calculation except the calculation that finding food means staying alive.

I'm not a birdwatcher; but I love to watch the birds.

Zoe's Independence Day

My granddaughter was born on July 3, 2003. Today is her 5th birthday. Late in my daughter's term, the baby was presenting breech (feet down instead of head down). This makes for a difficult labor for mother and baby, so we were all hoping that the baby would "turn," or rotate so her head would be down. Two weeks before the due date, the baby turned! Sighs of relief all around.

Then, during the last week of the pregnancy, the baby turned again, resuming the breech position. The baby, despite all our wishes, prayers, and crossed fingers, refused to lower her head. My daughter and her husband and her obstetrician agreed that she would submit to a Caesarean birth, since the breech position could lead to complications. The birth took place as planned. The baby was fine. My daughter had a normal recovery (rather slow and painful). Five years later, none of us talks much about the Caesarean birth.

During those last two weeks of pregnancy, my thoughts were with my daughter and the new baby constantly. I devoutly wished for the baby to turn, because I hoped for the easiest and smoothest experience for both of them. When it became clear that the baby, although willing to try out the head-down position, really preferred to enter this world feet first, I began to reflect on her point of view.

What does it mean for a person to refuse to lower her head? Is it any different for a baby to take this position than for an adult to do so? The transition from life in the womb to life on earth is so profound that New Orleans residents who hold jazz funerals, joyfully marching with brass bands to accompany coffins to the cemetery, tell us that they cry when a baby is born and rejoice when that person passes on. Now that I am coming to know my granddaughter, I can confirm the intuition I had before her birth, that, for her, choosing to make this transition on her feet signaled a readiness to engage, a zest for life, a challenging stance, a sly form of humor. But mostly it represented other qualities -- her dignity, majesty, and, dare I say it, power.

Zoe is independent. While she is certainly capable of being a team player, willing to take her turn, usually cheerful when asked to compromise, she is very clear about her preferences, desires, and visions. She is able to express them verbally and will back them up with action if necessary. When she was very small, family members would take her to the local fireworks display every year. Sometimes, depending on the calendar, the fireworks were actually set off on July 3rd. We would tell her, playfully and indulgently, that the show was just for her birthday. This was not true, of course. But in a way, it was true. Every banquet that life sets on the table is for the ones who receive it as their own.

The innocence of this 5-year-old child sometimes pierces my heart with its purity. I know that through the experience of life on earth she will lose this innocence over time. I wish for her that, throughout her lifetime, her independence will restore to her some measure of innocence, perhaps the innocence that very old, gentle, and wise people sometimes have. Being independent means that you can choose not to be disappointed or thwarted in life. You can choose to be stubborn sometimes, when conditions threaten to compel your surrender. There is a time for surrender, too; and that time may call on the quality of independence (if other people are advising you to resist) just as much as the other. This inner-directed independence has something to do with authenticity, the ability to be oneself. Zoe has this abillity in spades.

It is wonderful to see a living manifestation of independence, not just an abstraction or a concept. It is wonderful to reflect on the possibilities that a community full of independent people (meaning people who are expressing their uniqueness) might achieve. Somehow, Zoe's life reminds me of the windmills I wrote about recently. By their movement, they enable us to see the wind. By her manner, Zoe enables me to see what independence looks like.

Happy Independence Day!

Harvest Wind Farm

Last Friday, I traveled with a group of 18 people to the town of Pigeon in the Thumb of Michigan. Our object was to visit the Harvest Wind Farm. We saw the windmills that have been turning since March of this year, and learned from Brion Dawkins, local alternative energy expert, his wife Kathy, principal of Laker Middle School, Peter Sinclair, Midland global warming educator, and Janea Little, naturalist with Midland's Chippewa Nature Center, a great deal about the benefits of harnessing wind energy, and a great deal about the human ingenuity that has brought this choice within our reach. Amidst the wealth of scientific and practical information shared, I felt inspired by seeing the windmills. I wrote the poem below so that I can remember that moment of inspiration -- literally, the intake of breath in response to what I saw.


Harvest Wind Farm: Sufficient

The triune turbine
spins leisurely in the soybean field.
Some meters away, its twin rests still.
Throughout the fertile acreage,
a few others turn
while a mute score stand silently.
By this I see the life that pulses
in the invisible air.
Here, it moves, there it moves not.
What appears monolithic though transparent
in fact contains zones of diversity.
Movement east, movement west, stillness all betweeen.

Where I perceive one, or nothing,
the windmills show me multitudes.
There is more life than I can see directly.
The reflected movement of the air
illuminated by the elegant, pure white blades
quiets me.
This vision is sufficient for today.



Sarah Gorman
Pigeon MI
June 20, 2008

A Perfect Afternoon

Yesterday, Midland, Michigan enjoyed a perfect afternoon. After several days of thunderstorms, fallen tree branches, electrical outages, and other summer weather furies, we were treated to blue skies, mild breezes, sunshine, feathery clouds, and that sweetness in the air that seems to arrive only after storm clouds have passed by.

The people of all ages that I spent time with noticed and commented upon the perfection that surrounded us. Like most things delightful that depend upon transient conditions, the afternoon left me with impressions bittersweet from the awareness that its quality would be fleeting.

Two weeks ago I visited the exuberant spring manifestation of a local backyard garden that has been lovingly cultivated over more than forty years by the same gardener/homeowner. Strolling among rhododendrons and azaleas in fiery, pastel, or dark velvet bloom, I was almost physically pierced, right in the middle of my chest, which I suppose is where my heart center lies, by a two-edged awareness -- the certain brevity of their brave display against the absolute glory of such a peak demonstration of floral splendor.

Is it a question of seeing the glass half-empty or half-full? I don't think so. I'm not cynical, pessimistic or depressed at the thought that the blooms or the perfect afternoon will soon depart. I'm penetrated by the experience of both realities at once -- surrendering as much as I can to the claims of this ideal beauty while at the same time envisioning how dark the world will become again after it is gone.

Do I wish I still had the innocence to see such beauty without any knowledge of its impermanence? Again, I don't think so. It was in many (not all) ways wonderful to be innocent when I was innocent; and the innocence of my young granddaughters is one of the delights of my life (and it is departing far too early). But I love knowledge, too. The knowledge of the turning of the seasons; familiarity with the change that is a constant in the life I am given; knowing how sweet departed pleasures can be; the experience that leads not to cynicism but to a kind of tolerance or patience with life's turnings -- these are riches as much as is the innocence that makes babies so beloved.

I'd like to become an old lady who has regained the innocence of childhood after an intervening period of knowledge. The knowledge of the impermanence of my own life is one that would be softened and sweetened by a return to the state of innocence in which one doesn't think much about time. I'm not there yet. I am still intoxicated by the power of my own intellect and I am enthralled by the brilliant intellects of others. I'm not ready to forego knowledge, or what I believe to be knowledge -- especially the knowledge that I have acquired through suffering, making mistakes, and struggle. It just seems a shame that all that suffering, error, and struggle should have occurred without delivering a product that I can use -- my experience.

One day, after I have acquired a surfeit of experience, I can imagine that I will enjoy innocence again. And this late-in-life innocence I expect to value not because it is just like babyhood; but because I will have disciplined my mind to think about just what I want it to think about. If I choose not to feel the bittersweet thrust of the transient spring blossoms, but instead to live in their beauty as though it were eternal, I can direct my mind that way.

By some measures, my old age is not that far off. I guess I'd better start practicing.

Transformations

On HGTV, when a kitchen, front yard, or basement is remodeled by one of the telegenic designers hosting a makeover show, the climax of each show is the "reveal." We viewers are teased before every commercial break by micro-glimpses of the changes and statements like, "You won't want to miss the spectacular transformation!"

If I am listening to but not in the room with the TV set, cooking, cleaning or straightening up the house while the program unfolds, I stop what I am doing and make for the TV screen when the audio warns me that the reveal is about to take place. As the host rightly predicts, I don't want to miss the spectacular transformation.

What is it about seeing these makeover changes that is so compelling? Partly it is the satisfaction of seeing clutter and neglect removed from someone's living space. Partly it is the stimulation of seeing that color and design choices which I can afford are able to make a big impact. Partly it is the pleasant emotional appeal of the dramatic response that many homeowners have to seeing their dreams rightly understood and physically realized by the designer.

But I think that what draws me to these moments more than anything else is my love of transformation itself. Whether it is a style that I like or not, whether it is comparable in any way to my own needs or circumstances, whether it is for a family of eight or a single woman with a dog, the makeover exercises a fascination for me out of all proportion to its application to my own life.

I love vicarious experiences of transformation, like those I see on "Divine Design." I love to witness transformation. I love to contemplate transformation. I love to see transformation in others. But transforming myself is another story.

Although I sometimes think that I want to change (for the better, of course), in fact the process of transformation is usually difficult, uncomfortable, dusty, dirty, and traumatic. This is true whether the change is in a master bathroom or in the unfoldment of personality. Walls have to be demolished; out-of-date finishes have to be replaced; non-functional arrangements of elements have to be redesigned; what is underfoot has to be torn out; unexpected problems that manifest underneath the surface have to be addressed; old ways of doing things have to change; and traffic patterns get redirected. It's exhausting, discouraging, expensive, and disturbing. Halfway through, I think, "Why did I ever think this would be a good idea?"

I think that the HGTV design shows have the right idea. In these shows, expert help comes to the rescue. Whether the homeowner has a half-finished project, needs more hands on deck to get the job done, or simply needs fresh inspiration and a new pair of eyes to find a solution, the theme of the shows is that help is available. Sub-themes are that the helpers enjoy the process; transformation is clearly possible; and it is possible to communicate your dreams to other people in terms that allow them to help you realize them.

Most of these shows require the homeowner to do some of the work, both outer and inner. People who have never held a power tool go to town with a nail gun. Those who have procrastinated are handed a paintbrush and a can of paint. Doubtful beneficiaries are chaffed by a good-humored host into finding something positive to say about the process. Those who fear change are jollied into taking a chance on something new.

I like the idea of transformation teams. Instead of making changes in isolation, struggling alone with challenging ideals and looking in vain for encouragement, I am going to approach my next personal transformation as though I were a homeowner on "Design on a Dime." I am going to look for a couple of people to help me accomplish a transformation "for less than $500 in less than one day." From there I have hope of progressing to more sweeping changes where I am required to be more hands-on. Intentional transformation -- it's a beautiful thing.

Rules, Rebellion, Fear, and Freedom

Recently I have experienced several conversations touching on rules and rebellion. I wonder whether the fear that gives rise to rules is also the motivation for some of the rebellion against rules that teachers, employers, and parents observe daily. And if fear does determine these behaviors, what would be an alternate motive?

As an employer, I experience fear when a worker fails to show up for work. I doubt that we will be able to meet our deadlines and make efficient use of other staff resources without a full crew on deck. I have observed parents reacting fearfully when their young child is in real or perceived danger. Public school teachers sometimes fear that a student will, because of some difference or disability, be ostracized by other students. In these circumstances, the fearful person, especially one with some legitimate authority to do so, will often impose rules to try to limit the perceived danger or threat. The fear behind these rules is the fear of losing control. These rules can be benign, such as forbidding a child to run into the street during play; or they can be likely to fail, such as requiring children in a classroom to include everyone in their play group; or they can be damaging, such as writing up employees and paving the way for their discharge for failing to follow the rules in the workplace.

The person confronted with these rules sometimes engages in rebellion. The child who is given too many rules to follow may stop listening to any of the parents' guidance, thus losing the benefit of being protected and directed away from harm. The employee challenged to conform to workplace policies that s/he considers draconian may respond with passive-aggressive behaviors, such as slovenly personal habits, avoiding eye contact, or mumbling their way through conversation. Students given rules to guide their social behavior in the classroom find ways to play dumb, often calling upon the hoary excuse that they didn't know. Are these behaviors also the result of fear?

Perhaps they are. The fear common to all these rebellions against rules is the fear of limitation. The child who tunes out the parent's steady barrage of rules is seeking to preserve a sense of freedom. The passive-aggressive employee is looking for ways to demonstrate that although s/he must obey the employer's rules, s/he is not defined by them. The student who plays dumb to escape accountability wants to be master of his/her social environment.



When do rules arise from wisdom and not from fear? When parents are able to see their child as unique and precious, separate from the parents, not the possession of the parents, with gifts, abilities, and temperament that deserve the chance to develop; when an employer even-handedly enforces procedural and behavioral standards proven effective in a specific work context; when a teacher proposes compassion and kindness as values without harshly judging children unable to embrace these values, then rules uplift and strengthen. Rules that arise from wisdom usually engender much less rebellion than rules that arise from fear.



What is the best way to respond to rules? Check in with yourself and ask "Am I rebelling?" If you are, speak to the authority imposing the rules and indicate that you would like to follow the rules while preserving your freedom. Sometimes you can negotiate conditions that embrace both options. If the rule in question seems reasonable and protective, rather than arbitrary and self-serving, then there is no shame in complying. We are not diminished by following rules. It just depends on whose rules they are.

Small Courtesies

Today I forwarded some documents to our staff here with a note that I could not print out one of the documents using the printer at my desk. I asked that they print out their own copies for use later in the day. Just now, one of the staff brought me a printed copy, asking, "Did you need one of these yourself?" Of course I did, but I had not asked for it. This small courtesy was offered naturally and easily, almost nonchalantly, but it made a big impression on me. It made me realize that it is these small courtesies that provide a lift during the day. Conversely, it is the absence of small courtesies which can make getting through the day a burden.

I have written here of big commitments to help -- offering to dig someone out of a snowbank, helping to right a wrong, even making a pledge to save the environment. All of these represent wonderful offers to embody an ideal of service, justice, or harmony. But in my daily life, I realize that I am most steadily strengthened by small courtesies -- the woman in the Post Office parking lot whom I don't know who calls out that she likes the way my scarf is sparkling in the sun; or the driver who lets me make a late lane change without scowling; or the person who just smiles at the fact that I am late for a meeting. These acts inspired by the Golden Rule (which is really what small courtesies are) keep me going for minutes or hours and provide a sweet memory when I reflect on the week that has just passed.

Small courtesies are absolutely free. They require little time to produce and no investment of monetary resources. They arise quite naturally from what I am coming to believe is true thinking "out of the box." Thinking out of the box I now consider to be thinking first of other people rather than thinking first of oneself. Being able to put oneself in the shoes of someone else, to see the world from the other's perspective, to imagine how I appear to the other, will certainly increase the number of small courtesies that I will extend during the day.

Like your best teachers and mentors have probably already told you, extending small courtesies magically inspires others to extend small courtesies to you. There is a kind of zone of kindness, mildness, and humility that is created within which the potential for being good to one another can be infinitely reflected.

There is really nothing that interferes with extending small courtesies other than the ego. So when I say that small courtesies are absolutely free, I am assuming that a great price has already been paid. That is the price that we pay when we consciously make the choice to put the ego aside in order to experience life more directly, more naturally, and more fully. The filter of the ego is a limitation in many ways. One of the things that egotism limits is the number of small courtesies that we perform. The measurement recorded on a virtual "ego-meter" could be assessed every night by reflecting on the number of small courtesies that we extended during the day, how naturally they arose, and how good we felt in the performance of them. On a good day, the afterglow of having given and received small courtesies will be an indicator that the ego has assumed its proper role as the servant of our being, and not our master.

Small courtesies are, like many small entities, very big when you really get to know them.

Community Is

I have been challenged to create a safe and productive environment in which a group of about 10 people who may or may not know each other can disclose their thoughts and feelings about the meaning of community. In my favor (or perhaps the reverse), the people are in fact members of the same community.

This assignment has two potential pitfalls, both of which I am eager to avoid. First, the conversation could wade into the maudlin, sentimental, or trite. Second, the conversation could remain superficial, mechanical, or formulaic. Deep sharing, of course, steers clear of both these dangers. My goal is to encourage creative reflections profound enough to surprise even the speaker in the moment of disclosure. My dream setting would have everyone willing to be vulnerable, assured of confidentiality, believing that there is ample time for everyone to speak, temperamentally compassionate and tolerant, and excited to be having the conversation. If we can bring humility, enthusiasm and honesty (in the words of Alden B. Dow) to the circle, then we should be all set.

Speaking of Alden B. Dow, this conversation is taking place among a self-selected group of residents of Midland, Michigan, and its environs, where Mr. Dow established his career as an architect and left his mark as a philosopher as well. His lifelong interest in creativity as a process and a human capacity is the indirect source of the conversation about which I am reflecting. The people who are going to be present for the conversation, I believe, themselves have made a commitment to express their creativity in one or more dimensions of their lives.

MaybeI will add to the basic question "What am I doing to create community in the place where I live?" and "What would I like to do that I am not doing yet?" Finally, I would ask "What can I do to help you create the community of your dreams?"

There is a palpable spiritual energy present in the midst of people who converse deeply. It is this energy that I would like our conversation to enable. I would like us to be able to create it in the moments of our coming together. If we can do so, then the art exhibit that will be the outcome of this conversation and its aftermath will create protection, capacity, and purpose for our community and for ourselves.

As Heard on NPR

This morning, innovation in Michigan's Thumb made the national news. Laker Middle School was featured for its bioenergy projects, including wind turbines, biodiesel, and even powering the district school superintendent's residence with renewable, low-cost energy. To hear the 4-minute story, visit www.npr.org/templates/story.php?storyId=89369909 and click on "Listen Now."

Want to go see it for yourself? Join Creative Spirit Center and Chippewa Nature Center in a tour of the school and the Harvest Wind Farm in Pigeon MI, on Friday June 20. We depart Midland at 8.30 am and return between 4 and 5 pm. Our local guide will take us through these inspiring projects and we will share in a lunch and discussion after our tour. Midland ecologist Peter Sinclair and naturalist Janea Little of Chippewa Nature Center will accompany us and provide orientation as we travel. We have the option of regathering in Midland some time after the tour for tips from Dr. Laura Vosejpka of Northwood University on reducing our individual carbon footprints.

Creative Spirit Center is going green one step at a time. We are inspired by the words of Midland architect and philosopher Alden B. Dow, who said that it is human creativity that will solve the ever-evolving needs of human beings. Our need today for renewable sources of energy is one that presses on our awareness whether or not we are actively thinking about global warming, the price of imported oil, and the cost of heating our homes in the winter.

What has been done in the Thumb might spread throughout the whole Mitten (and beyond)! Creative thinking and creative action can move us through an uncertain future into a better life for individuals and for society. Each of us has creative gifts to bring to the party.

Our hope is that those joining this tour will be moved by the grandeur that emerges when human ingenuity links harmoniously with the power of nature. And that our lives will change for the better because we will dare to use our own creativity in similar ways. The scale of the 500-foot-tall windmills in Pigeon or the scale of our action as we repurpose, recycle, and re-use materials in our own home may differ, but both are contributing to a future that is able to support the dreams and desires of our children.

Earth Day

It's just over three weeks until Earth Day 2008. To celebrate, we are planning to beat on garbage can drums, eat local foods from compostable disposable dishes, make suncatchers from recycled objects, and install a sculpture made from scrap metal at our local recycling center. We are going to offer programs for school children, their parents, and anyone with a bicycle or a computer that they have been intending all winter to recycle. When I say "we," I mean our collaborating partner Midland Volunteers for Recycling, we of Creative Spirit Center, our funding partner Midland Area Community Foundation, and everyone who decides to come to the party -- our Earth Day Celebration.

I have a hidden motive in writing about Earth Day in this blog, which has heretofore focused on personal reflections and recollections. I want to encourage others to post a message to the blog and make the blog's name "Creative Connections" a little truer than it has been. Alden B. Dow, Midland architect and philosopher, wrote that it is through creativity that human beings will find what their hearts desire. His actual words are, "Creativity provides the human expressions that can aid the progress and welfare of mankind. The products of creativity help satisfy man's ever-increasing needs."

If there was ever a domain of ever-increasing needs, it is our need to find better ways to live in harmony with the planet. "Earth Day" brings faded memories of granola, Birkenstocks, and tie-dye for some of us. To others, the phrase conjures awareness of very real threats to our environment, our economy, our health, and the preservation of life on earth in all its splendid glory.

In June, Creative Spirit Center and Chippewa Nature Center are jointly hosting a tour to the Harvest Wind Farm in Pigeon MI, where we will visit the installation of thirty-two 500-foot windmills that are generating energy for more than 15,000 people in the Michigan Thumb. We are excited about the application of creativity to solving the real problems that make life a struggle for many of our neighbors and many of the plant and animal species that bring such a high quality of life to Michigan.

I'd like to take this blog from solipsism to engagement. At another time, if you wish, we might discuss solipsism as a philosophy, but here let's make Creative Connections.

Will you post your thoughts about how creativity can help to alleviate the stress on our planet and ourselves caused by the perfect storm in which we live, made of enormous disposable income, global warming, separation from natural processes, and technological change moving at warp speed? Send something in. Let other people know your ideas. I'm asking you to expose yourself a little; but really blogging is a great venue for shy people. Try it! I'll be looking for your ideas. It is the need of the day that calls forth the messenger. You might be the person with the next right answer.

Happy Earth Day, Sarah

Final Resting Place

I attended a service last weekend for a 96-year-old woman who had died peacefully in her sleep a few days earlier.

"She had a long, full life," people said. None of the mourners was in despair. We all recognized that 96 years, 2 months, and 13 days is a gift as rare as it is precious. "Her last few years were difficult," we acknowledged. And yet she was not demented; she had family nearby; she was able to travel by airplane to visit her hometown just a few months back. Her body did not give the service it had rendered during her first nine decades; but she ate, she slept, she listened to music, she had social contact, she exercised, she was safe, she was attended, she had uninterrupted time to reflect upon her memories.

So why are we sad?

The Lutheran minister who led the service in the splendid dome of the mosaic chapel at Minneapolis' Lakewood Cemetery kept talking about our lives. What would each of us do with the reality of death in our own life? He really talked about that a lot. "Bernice," he said, "is free. She will not have any of the struggles of life to experience, ever again. She has figured out what to do when death comes. None of us here has figured that out. We have not faced it. We have not touched it. We need to let her go. She is free. She is safe. She is home." Consolation is among the most beautiful of the gifts we human beings are able to give to one another. His words were consoling. But they were also in your face, challenging, a little bit confrontational. He was not going to permit mere sentimentality to get anyone through that service. We had to wake up and be present and be real.

"I want to speak to you children who are here," he said, about two-thirds of the way to the final amen. "I want to tell you a story. You deserve something for being here." And he told a story for the children, and for all of us, about how his daughter's parakeet was lost on a camping trip. The parakeet saw its chance at freedom, and it flew into that freedom. "And that is what Bernice has done," he said. "She has taken her chance to be free." But what I liked best about that part of the service was not the story, although it was a good story, even a model story of its kind. What I liked the best was his statement that the children deserved something for being there.

He was right. They did deserve something, those precious little midwestern children, attending with their parents and their grandmother the funeral service of their great-aunt, a woman whom they had known little or maybe not at all. They were there in evident goodwill, suitably dressed, completely silent, snuggled into their little family group and perhaps taking comfort in the familiarity of that membership in the midst of the splendor of the setting and the strangeness of the occasion. These beautiful little children did deserve something, for being there without complaint, for trusting their parents to have a good reason for what they required, for going along just because it meant something to Grandma and they love Grandma.

Somehow, in the composure and the barely stifled life-affirming energy of the children, lay one right answer to the challenge posed by the minister to all of us: What are you doing about the reality of your own death? Well, if I were to follow the example of those children, recognizing that my own death will face me in due time, I would trust. I would love. I would share. I would show up. I would appreciate it when someone recognizes that I deserve something for showing up. Here are some of the things that I would not do: I would not judge other people. I would not say anything disrespectful about another. I would not stay alone. I would not let you see my inner struggle (at least not much of it) but I would let you see my joy. I would not hold a grudge. I would not take refuge in ignorance. I would not be afraid, because -- remember? -- I would trust.

Whether to take children to funerals is a subject that can engender debate: "It is a part of life. They should experience the cycle of life and death." "They are too young to have to think about death. Let them be innocent a little while longer." I don't know if it helps the children or not. I do know that seeing the children at this funeral service helped the adults who were there. The children themselves were, like faith as described by St. Paul, the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. And, at a funeral, the things not seen are the most present things there are.

Tender is the Plight

In order to navigate the realm of responsibility that often widens as we grow older, most adults make use of a set of coping skills that include concealment of our tender feelings. In 80% of the circumstances that arise during a typical day, this skill serves me well. It is not appropriate to unload onto co-workers or casual acquaintances the concerns I may have about family, health, or finances. Ordinarily, my feelings about the way that someone communicates (or doesn't communicate) with me, one of the passing and minor frustrations of the workplace, usually are best unspoken. Perhaps in taking this approach I am seeking to adapt to the stoic mode of the midwestern society that I have recently rejoined after 25 years on the more expressive East Coast. Garrison Keillor has repeatedly made me laugh with tickled recognition by lampooning the patient impassivity of the Minnesota Lutherans, and the Michigan Methodists are not far behind them.

But this week tender feelings breaking the surface have characterized a series of encounters that remind me that it is always the better course to be patient and tolerant with other people, including ourselves, out of respect for the valiant struggle that lies just below the surface of many lives.

Yesterday I told a woman of my acquaintance that I thought she would benefit from completing her formal education. She had put it on hold in order to take care of her family. As I spoke, my tears welled up and my voice trembled. There was no particular emotional charge that I was aware of before expressing this opinion. I am not a friend of long-standing or particular closeness with this woman. But the poignance of a dream set aside out of love, paired with the sense that great talent was going untended, touched a profound chord in me. I almost felt that it was her emotion that I was experiencing. I did not effuse, but simply stated that I was moved by her condition. Somehow, though, this genuine emotion, spontaneously expressed, was of service to my friend. Seeing the reflection of her own dream in another made the dream's pursuit more compelling to her in that moment.

Yesterday, a new friend spoke in very general terms about the upcoming hospitalization of a family member. I did not know of nor ask to know the details. But in the very sparingness of the dialogue, I sensed an underlying sorrow. I allowed the compassion I felt to shape my tone of voice. "I'll be thinking of her." I intended to express an openness to hearing more but without curiosity. I wonder whether I did.

Yesterday, another friend asked to talk. I said yes, then reneged. The hour was late and my blood sugar low. Later, I felt I had been abrupt, ragged in what I expressed, unfriendly although my true feelings are friendly. She did not voice hurt feelings, but I believe I did hurt her.

So today I am thinking about tender feelings. Passion, sadness, the courage to take a risk. These are the qualities that make human beings beautiful. When I am present to other people, they show me their beauties. The tender places that signal the growing edge of an organism are the places from which new life, new potential, new possibilities emerge. Experiencing the beauties of other people, when they are willing to let a tender place show, is the stepping stone to true friendship. I treasure these deepening moments when our defenses are released because they are not needed. In these moments, in the showing of our beauties, we know love.

Not about Snow

I remember staying so hot in the South Texas summers (in the days when even new houses didn't have central air conditioning and my mother used to come into my bedroom in the middle of the night and adjust my room air conditioner so that I woke up from the heat) that I wished with all my strength to live in the freezing cold, just to escape from the sweat and the burned, peeling skin and the asphalt too hot to stand on.

I remember that in most years the summer weather lasted for at least seven months. The end of school in the spring, the summer season, and then the start of the next school year were all hot -- in the 90's, mostly. The summer didn't end even by my birthday in late October. We never had to worry about covering up our Halloween costumes with coats or scarves. My home town was in the national news more than once on Christmas Day as the place with the highest temperature in the country.

I remember being hottest as a teenager. I remember how desperate we would be to find a place to swim during the long afternoons; how gaggles of girls would travel by Chevrolet Impala to the local drive-ins for iced mugs of root beer; how the heat made us respectable girls giddy, willing to run down the street after a trio of boys in a Jeep just to say hi; how the heat made the cool interior of any air-conditioned store or restaurant into a sanctuary from its implacable presence. The town's one movie theater offered everything we could wish for -- cool darkness, entertainment removed from our small-town universe, Milk Duds, Jordan almonds, and boys who would put one arm around you in the dark.

I remember getting into arguments with my parents just because I was so hot. Most of the arguments were about boys, though, so maybe I have mixed up the heat of the summer with the heat of adolescence. I remember reading novels in my bedroom the whole of a summer afternoon, with the door closed, the blinds drawn, and the air conditioner turned to High, living for a few hours in another, better, pastel world, not quite as real as the movie world, but real enough.

I remember that on Friday nights I would drive with my mother to the other side of town, to the restaurant where they served real hand-made tamales, enchiladas, frijoles, tacos, and pecan pralines, with big glasses of iced tea (no beer for us). It would be cold inside and the hot sun would go down beyond the big plate glass windows and we would talk as friends.

Can't Keep up with the Thanks

Yesterday, five strangers helped free me from walls of snow that had built up at the intersection nearest my house, and later, at the entrance to my driveway. I still have to learn how people in Michigan cope with the barriers deposited by snow plows as they go by. Do you park near the barrier, get out of the car, take a shovel from your trunk, and clear a path? Do you drive nothing but AWD vehicles? What am I missing?

Be that as it may, the help arrived in waves, in a moving crescendo of humane gestures, to the point that I was holding back the tears as I thanked the last helper of the day.

In the morning, I could not turn out of my side street onto a cleared road due to the piles and ridges of snow and my unskilled approach to the barrier. "Momentum is your friend," said one of the young men who pulled over to help me in an enormous pickup with a snowplow attached to the front. "After you get going, don't give it much gas or you'll spin." After they tried to push me out, one of them got in the car and drove it out of the drifts. I was so nervous about having my car sitting in the busy road as I resumed the driver's seat, I failed to give them my name, offer payment for the help (how do you know when that is appropriate?), ask if they would plow my driveway as a business arrangement, or do anything but stammer "Thank you." As I drove away, I reviewed all the missed opportunities to connect.

Coming home in the evening, I found my street plowed clean. At the entrance to my driveway loomed the biggest wall of snow so far this winter. As I approached, I had to decide whether to turn in. More rapidly than I am used to thinking, I reviewed my options: (1) park somewhere else (where?), go in my garage, retrieve my snow shovel, and remove the wall; (2) barrel through; (3) start to barrel through and if I get stuck, deal with it. I chose (3), and dealt with it for the next 45 minutes. I went forward and backward in quarter inches. I feared to leave the car untenanted while I went to the garage. Eventually, a young woman pulled over and asked if she could help. "Would you sit here while I go get a shovel?" She would. I returned with the shovel. "Do you want me to push you?" she queried. I estimated her weight at 105 pounds. "No, thanks. I will have to shovel some of this snow out of the way first." She looked wistful and drove on. The warmth of her sincere desire to help fuelled my shovelling for a few minutes. Then I tried again to move the car. I got a few inches of purchase but every time I saw headlights I braked because I didn't want to shoot out uncontrollably and hit an oncoming neighbor. A large vehicle stopped nearby. I hoped it was a city vehicle with some kind of car extraction mechanism on board. The neighborhood UPS driver walked over. "I can't stop long," he said, "but I'll try to push you out. Do you have front wheel drive?" "I don't know. I just know it's not all-wheel drive." "Do you want to go in or out?" (It was not easy to tell from the car's position.) He did push, but the car was not going anywhere. With apparent regret, he too left to go about his duties. First, he advised me to go inside and bring out some coffee grounds or sand or something else gritty to put under the tires.

I shoveled again. I remembered some sno-melt in the trunk. I shook the little pellets under the front tires. I was revving the engine again when an SUV stopped. A man who seemed uncertain how to proceed asked if I needed help. "Yes," I said. He parked in the street and took over with the shovel. After a few moments, he said, "I'll try to push you. Straighten your wheels." The car was absolutely stuck on patches of ice. He pushed on the hood. "Now go back. Now go forward." I did what I had been doing for the last 45 minutes, and the car climbed out of the clutches of the snow and ice and moved up the driveway. "I can't believe it!" I thought. What had he done? It was like magic. I parked and walked back down to the foot of the driveway where he was shovelling the remaining snow to the periphery. I feared that if I spoke, I would break into sobs of relief, gratitude and amazement at what seemed like a magical escape. "Thank you," I whispered.

As he was driving away, I remembered my regrets from the morning. "My name is Sarah Gorman," I said. "I'm a new resident here." "I've lived in the neighborhood since the '60s," he said. "Just around that corner, the second house down. I thought you might need help because the first time I drove by, you were stuck; and then when I came back, you were still here." He still seemed tentative about things. His manner was gentle and pleasantly uncertain. He drove away.

As I walked into the house, I noticed that the driveway itself had been cleared during the day. My next-door neighbor with the snow blower, I imagine. The sidewalks on either side of my driveway had been cleared, perhaps by another neighbor who came all the way to my driveway instead of stopping where his property line ended.

Not 5, but 7 people helped me yesterday to deal with the snow and my inexperience and my limitations of physical strength, judgment, and know-how. Every one of them was modest, compassionate, and effective. I am not usually all three on any given day. I don't refer to the winter storm when I say, What a blast!

Snow Day

Why do we love a snow day?

It's a gift of time, one of the few forms of natural wealth possessed in equal measure by everyone.

It's a surprise, removing for a few hours the predictability of life.

It's permission to forget about deadlines, sleep in, skip showering, put half and half in your coffee because you're out of skim milk and it's not safe to drive to the store.

It's a no-fault waiver of responsibility, removing for a few hours the burden of life.

It could be the postponement of a quiz or a test. If it falls on a Friday, it's a grand 3-day reprieve.

It's rare enough to be precious.

It's usually quieter than other days, inwardly and outwardly. After the snow plow goes by, the sounds of the world are cushioned.

Here's my favorite thing about a snow day: if you go on with your usual business (driving to work, showing up at the office, visiting the post office, making phone calls) on a snow day, you feel a certain mastery. You share that feeling of mastery with the other people who also showed up. You are quietly victorious. You have overcome. You have been prepared for the weather. You have put duty first. What a great set of moral green stamps to collect, and how sweet it is to cash them in at some future opportunity.

Here's to snow days! Long may they descend on us from the compassionate hand of Mother Earth.

The Cult of Personality

In our day, the cult of personality reigns, supporting the Romantic view that creativity means high emotion, outrageous behavior, non-conforming values and art as theater. In the turning cycle of fashion and belief, we might anticipate that following our era, a new day of Classical values will return. When the Classicists hold sway, order, symmetry, grandeur, nobility, and wit are reflected in art. When the Romanticists prevail, chaos, randomness, grittiness, social leveling, and facetiousness reappear. The Classicists replace the cult of personality with the elevation of impersonal standards, ideals, and historical models. Both Romantic and Classic artists seek to produce enduring works of art (unless part of their aesthetic is allegiance to the fleeting). Both Romantic and Classic artists strive to manifest their unique vision in a form that other people can experience.

In our day, artists with a Classical temperament are the odd men (and women) out. They may not be heard in the cacophony of the cult of personality. Creative Spirit Center offers opportunities to artists who are Romantic in temperament, but also to the Classicists among us. If you are an artist, be you quiet or be you loud, you can find a hearing (and a seeing and a tasting and a smelling and a feeling, if need be) here.

We open our doors to diversity, a diversity that goes beneath the surface of appearance, lip service, or convenience. We are open to experiencing the diverse temperaments of the artists among us. Come and share your sensibility -- Romanticists, Classicists, post-modernists, post-post-modernists -- we are waiting for you.

Frustrated Expectations

There are those who espouse "the philosophy of wee expectations." I remember that the first time I heard the phrase I was tickled by its juxtaposition of sublime and ridiculous terms. On reflection, I wonder whether there are not both sublime and ridiculous aspects of this lens through which one may view life. The carefully reasoned position of the disciples of this philosophy is that the less one expects, the less likely one is to be disappointed.

There is something to be said for limiting the possibility of disappointment. We all know the chagrin, the gnashing of teeth, the short fuse, the temptation to say things we will regret, that can accompany the experience of being let down. When the agent of disappointment is a friend, family member, or colleague, the underlying sense that we are unable to escape from the likely repetition of disappointment makes the experience bite sharply. It may be sublime to protect ourselves from being repetitively inconvenienced, taken for granted, hurt, or betrayed by other people. What is hard to believe sometimes is how much of our disappointment arises from wholly unconscious action on the part of others. For most people, malice is rarely involved -- just the normal, everyday lack of awareness that human beings bring to the party.

So it is more than a bit ridiculous to try to limit the possibility that we will be disappointed by other people, unless we are going to limit our engagement with the human race. Some of the wise meet this challenge with humor (the jesters); others with resignation (the saints); others with self-discipline (the masterful); and a fortunate few with the ability to overlook the faults of others (the enlightened souls).

It's still early enough in the year to think about resolutions for self-improvement. I wonder whether I can limit the amount of disappointment that I create for other people by becoming more aware of the present moment, and promising no more than I can deliver. The philosophy of wee expectations seems to me to be the refuge of the timid and the disappointed. The belief that all things are possible all the time flaunts the claims of reason. Right now, I value the middle range, free of both black disappointment and ungrounded, giddy flight. Wee expectations? I'm braver than that. No limitation? I'm too old for that. I believe in creating relationships, products, and processes that are better today than yesterday and planning to make them better tomorrow.

The Place of Most Potential

Dewitt Jones, National Geographic photographer, has created a short film called "Everyday Creativity." If you have the opportunity to view this film, invest the 20 minutes required for a guaranteed renewal of inspiration -- about life as well as about creativity.

Among the many wise suggestions Jones makes in his narration is the recommendation that to get the best results from our creative endeavors we should place ourselves in "the place of most potential." Those words have resounded in my awareness for the past 24 hours, since my last viewing of "Everyday Creativity." I am luxuriating in reflections about what the phrase means to me -- where it directs me, who it sends me to meet, when it guides me into action.

The place of most potential can be within or without. It can be a physical location, a relationship, a dream, an organ of the body, a creative work, an unknown adventure, a child we befriend, a new friendship, or even a meal.

There is a link between this advice and the recommendation of Joseph Campbell, the American writer, teacher, and orator, to "follow your bliss." The place of most potential for most of us is a place that makes us happy -- a place where we are free from the constraints, self-consciousness, self-doubt, and lack of authenticity that mar our efforts to realize our ideals of conduct, creativity, justice, or harmony.

For millennia, the wise have suggested to seekers that they "be present" -- that they focus on the present time, place and surroundings, rather than the past or the future. The place of most potential is always the present. It is only the present that we can change, that we can redirect into the form or the energetic quality that we desire. The past is gone. Recriminating with myself that in a meeting yesterday I interrupted people from a surfeit of enthusiasm will not change that experience, for me or for others. Wondering at 2 a.m. how I will complete my "to-do" list for the next 48 hours will not get the tasks completed. Only by opening my awareness to this instant can I reach into the vast potential of the universe to realize in this moment the treasure of beauty, love, or surprise that awaits me.

Thanks, Dewitt Jones! Your words are unforgettable. May you arrive at the place of most potential with every breath.

"This Is My Story"

Next week, Creative Spirit Center unveils its first ever members' and instructors' open exhibit. We are throwing the doors open wide for this show, inviting submission of all 2-D and 3-D art, video installations, and multimedia projects that tell a story. In addition to the members' and instructors' works, the exhibit will include an encore presentation of entries in the Chippewa Nature Center's 2nd Annual Celebrate Nature through Art contest.

This Is My Story, the exhibit's theme, is the counterpoint to Creative Spirit Center's Winter/Spring 08 theme of "Share Your Story," which itself is a facet of our year-long theme, Reconnect!

Recently, I have heard many references to the benefits of telling stories about one's life and experience. Sharing these stories builds community, enriches family life, and enables individuals to re-examine themselves in light of the stories that they tell.

Ruth Reichl, editor of Gourmet magazine and former restaurant critic of The New York Times, explicitly alerts readers of her memoirs Tender at the Bone and Comfort Me with Apples that she embellishes the story of her life. She admits that in order to make a better story she alters events, combines several individuals into one character, and even changes outcomes. She also mentions the benefits of telling the truth, though she initially felt uncomfortable revealing certain details of her decisions and inner process. Reichl thus takes the liberty of changing the facts but she also proclaims the value of opening intimate details of one's life story to the observation of others. Although at first I puzzled over her approach, on reflection I like her inconsistency. I'll grant this author her appropriation of all options for telling about her life. Instead of consistency, I'll take an engaging story.

So, "Share Your Story" in the way that works for you. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; or make up a passel of lies; or take small liberties with the facts; or shape an allegory with beautiful images. The funny thing is, if it's your story, it will all end up being absolutely true.