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.