Thanks Adele for the title and the comeback example. Me too.
I began this blog in 2007 because I genuinely like writing and I inevitably, perhaps endlessly, have 'stuff' to say. Being both opinionated and ruminative, the blog filled a space in my world that was at once outlet, reflection and battle cry. My sole New Year's resolution for 2016 is resuscitate this blog. Plus, my mind really does meander and it seemed time for a bit of discipline.
So Hello, It's Me. When last we spoke my life was consumed by the decline and eventual death of my Mother. It was a drawn out and painful chapter about which I will eventually write - later. Today, on a long and chilly walk, I paused to consider my place in the family. In particular the oddness of being the oldest living member of my birth family.
My sisters and I recognized at my Mother's death the common insight that there is no longer an "older generation" between us and our death. I don't think any of us were particularly troubled by this inescapable fact of life. And, yes, I have always realized I was the oldest sibling; advantage of which I have sometimes taken to my sisters' distress. Yet somehow today, having recently celebrated my 68th birthday, I have suddenly been struck by the fact that not only is there no generation in front of me, but that I am the oldest living member of my birth family.
This recognition was followed by both wonderment (wow, I really got here) and discomfort (wow, I really am here) and not a little of confusion (wow, how am I suppose to feel/act about this).
And that is probably about right; pleased and amazed to be here, awed by everything around me, waiting for the other shoe to drop and often uncertain how to behave but showing a good face. The story of my life in a nutshell.
I hope you all will stick with me on what is sure to be a peripatetic journey. Feel free to read older entries (I did before I wrote today) and comments are always welcome.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Does The Tragedy of Death Depend on Witnesses?
Is a tragedy more tragic because more people witness the event? The tragedy of death passes by us everyday and frequently strikes friend or family. However, deaths, especially in large numbers, are usually considered both personal and community tragedies simply because they are witnessed by large numbers of people.
Is the death of my friend Ty any less tragic because it was witnessed only by his wife and children? Is the death of any one of the 2,977 who died on 9-11-2011 more tragic because it was witnessed by millions? What about the thousands of others who died the very same day, but not on TV?
Or perhaps it is the cause of death that creates tragedy. Was Ty's cancer at the age of thirty less tragic than a terrorist attack? What about car accidents, disease, murder or just old age? Are they less tragic? Why? To whom?
The act of terrorism on 9-11 was a blindingly grievous and cataclysmic event. As such, it deserves energetic response and heartfelt remembrance. But the tragedy of death was very individual and the equal of, no less than but also no more than, any death witnessed by many, few or no one at all.
If we truly believe in the value of life - every life - then every death is an equal tragedy; whether we see or know of its happening or not.
Is the death of my friend Ty any less tragic because it was witnessed only by his wife and children? Is the death of any one of the 2,977 who died on 9-11-2011 more tragic because it was witnessed by millions? What about the thousands of others who died the very same day, but not on TV?
Or perhaps it is the cause of death that creates tragedy. Was Ty's cancer at the age of thirty less tragic than a terrorist attack? What about car accidents, disease, murder or just old age? Are they less tragic? Why? To whom?
The act of terrorism on 9-11 was a blindingly grievous and cataclysmic event. As such, it deserves energetic response and heartfelt remembrance. But the tragedy of death was very individual and the equal of, no less than but also no more than, any death witnessed by many, few or no one at all.
If we truly believe in the value of life - every life - then every death is an equal tragedy; whether we see or know of its happening or not.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Oh Joy! Ode to Swedish Pancakes
I was born and raised in the Midwestern town of Rockford, Illinois. It was heavily, overwhelmingly Swedish. And while I've not a drop of Swedish blood, my taste buds were inevitably influenced; primarily by Swedish pancakes. Granted, frequent family trips to places like the Swedish Pancake House and Stockholm Inn have a lot to do with my love of Swedish pancakes. Like many comfort foods, they transport me back to happy times in the arms of a loving family.
So why, you might ask, has it taken me decades to learn to cook this delightful treat? The short answer is that they aren't terribly easy or intuitive. Plus, despite being a pretty good and often adventurous cook, the risk of failure where it really mattered to me was intimidating. Years and thousands of miles away from my Swedish hometown, living in a small, rural western town and relegated to seeking out iHop on business trips, I often bought Swedish pancake mix only to toss it later when it became clear that the expiration date preceded the birth of several neighborhood children.
When I turned fifty, my resolution was to learn and participate in at least one, major new skill or activity each year for the rest of my life. Still, more than a decade later, Swedish pancakes had not even made the list. Well, it hovered at the bottom for a while, but then there was that one huge failed attempt.
About a year ago I decided this was it and bought a Swedish plätt pan. Surely the right equipment would make this a success. Swedish pancake batter is extremely thin, doesn't bubble like traditional batter, requires high pan heat as well as exquisite timing and a great spatula to turn. I have never seen such a mess of mistimed, both underdone and burned slop in my life. Yuck! The pan went into the cupboard for over a year.
Last week it made a brief appearance, but the batter was old, the heat high enough to start the butter in the pan on fire and set off our smoke alarm and the final results were underdone - but a bit closer to actual pancakes than the ball of batter I tossed the year before. While neither my husband (nor the cats - who clearly do not like loud smoke alarm noises) were terribly impressed, I was encouraged.
So today, my resolve firmly in place, new batter in the cupboard and a few clues as to what not to do, I made Swedish pancakes. Real, edible if not yet perfect Swedish pancakes. While I have a long way to go, this morning's Swedish pancakes can be considered a success. Evenly done (mostly), unripped from turning, pansized and round (again, mostly), properly thin they lacked only the traditional lingonberies. Repetition may even be possible! Maybe even from a scratch recipe rather than a box mix!
Best of all, while I was eating Dad, Mom, Melanie and Michele were right there in the room with me.
So why, you might ask, has it taken me decades to learn to cook this delightful treat? The short answer is that they aren't terribly easy or intuitive. Plus, despite being a pretty good and often adventurous cook, the risk of failure where it really mattered to me was intimidating. Years and thousands of miles away from my Swedish hometown, living in a small, rural western town and relegated to seeking out iHop on business trips, I often bought Swedish pancake mix only to toss it later when it became clear that the expiration date preceded the birth of several neighborhood children.
When I turned fifty, my resolution was to learn and participate in at least one, major new skill or activity each year for the rest of my life. Still, more than a decade later, Swedish pancakes had not even made the list. Well, it hovered at the bottom for a while, but then there was that one huge failed attempt.
About a year ago I decided this was it and bought a Swedish plätt pan. Surely the right equipment would make this a success. Swedish pancake batter is extremely thin, doesn't bubble like traditional batter, requires high pan heat as well as exquisite timing and a great spatula to turn. I have never seen such a mess of mistimed, both underdone and burned slop in my life. Yuck! The pan went into the cupboard for over a year.
Last week it made a brief appearance, but the batter was old, the heat high enough to start the butter in the pan on fire and set off our smoke alarm and the final results were underdone - but a bit closer to actual pancakes than the ball of batter I tossed the year before. While neither my husband (nor the cats - who clearly do not like loud smoke alarm noises) were terribly impressed, I was encouraged.
So today, my resolve firmly in place, new batter in the cupboard and a few clues as to what not to do, I made Swedish pancakes. Real, edible if not yet perfect Swedish pancakes. While I have a long way to go, this morning's Swedish pancakes can be considered a success. Evenly done (mostly), unripped from turning, pansized and round (again, mostly), properly thin they lacked only the traditional lingonberies. Repetition may even be possible! Maybe even from a scratch recipe rather than a box mix!
Best of all, while I was eating Dad, Mom, Melanie and Michele were right there in the room with me.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Facts, Truth and Opinion
"I have one major rule: everybody is right. More specifically, everybody including me has some important pieces of the truth, and all of those pieces have to be honored, cherished and included in a more gracious, spacious and compassionate embrace" ~Ken Wilber
Truths, based upon facts, leading to opinions, make our conversations a lively and learning experience. Passion, based on respect, leading to understanding, make our families and communities a brightly colored kaleidoscope of efforts for the common good.
When did we forget that facts matter?
A whole industry has grown up to check our public speech, making sure our truths are based on facts. An industry we should be ashamed is necessary. Where is our built-in monitor for speaking clearly either facts or opinion; not confusing one for the other? When did we lose concern for the reverberations of our speech; for the impact of our words on others, in favor of our adamant grasping at the right to say what we want, when we want, as loudly as we want? How have we forgotten to listen?
Rotary, one of our time-honored service groups, has a simple and straightforward Four-Way Test:
"Of the things we think, say or do
Is it the TRUTH?
Is it FAIR to all concerned?
Will it build GOODWILL and BETTER FRIENDSHIPS?
Will it be BENEFICIAL to all concerned?"
Perhaps it is time, not just for every Rotarian, but every American to take up these principles and judge ourselves, our thoughts, our actions and surely our words by their light.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
OPEN LETTER TO CONGRESS - SAVE THIS DATE: JANUARY 17TH
Dear Congress,
The horrifying event in Arizona presents a challenge and a choice to you; not just all of you, but each and every one of you. Will you choose to continue the great American history of democracy or will you follow TSA, fleeing shoes and underwear toward fear? Will you cower from your own constituents or will you say "Not in Our America"?
Will you be any less brave in fighting for and carrying out our American means of governing than our men and women fighting exactly the same rule of fear and lawlessness in the Middle East? Or the citizens of those countries whom we ask to risk much for a philosophy of government?
Thank you for the pause to respect and reflect. But then it is time to rise up, without party or prejudice, without thought for personal or political gain, without endless planning and plotting and dare to do what Congresswoman Giffords demonstrated. Congress and constituents must converse, debate and interact face to face for our democracy to survive.
If we preach democracy abroad, we must be willing to demonstrate it fully at home. The list of Americans, who at considerably more risk than that faced by a Congress in a comfortable world and capable of mustering reasonable security resources, is long and illustrious - starting with the likes of George Washington or Patrick Henry.
How will our generation of leaders measure up?
I propose that on January 17th (a date with it's own illustrious history of bravery) every Congressperson hold a 'Congress on Your Corner' in their own District.
Let us say to those who would have America ruled by firepower rather than persuasion, by passion unbridled rather than passion assembling, by force and fear rather than courage and conferring: Not In Our America.
And yes, I know it is easy to ask for others to be brave in the face of danger, however limited. Yes, I know prudent precautions may stretch already reduced law enforcement resources. Yes, I know moving 535 individuals in one direction is currently proving arduous.
However, I'm betting on you and on us. If you come, we will too.
Sincerely,
Marcia Illian Banta
One American Citizen
The horrifying event in Arizona presents a challenge and a choice to you; not just all of you, but each and every one of you. Will you choose to continue the great American history of democracy or will you follow TSA, fleeing shoes and underwear toward fear? Will you cower from your own constituents or will you say "Not in Our America"?
Will you be any less brave in fighting for and carrying out our American means of governing than our men and women fighting exactly the same rule of fear and lawlessness in the Middle East? Or the citizens of those countries whom we ask to risk much for a philosophy of government?
Thank you for the pause to respect and reflect. But then it is time to rise up, without party or prejudice, without thought for personal or political gain, without endless planning and plotting and dare to do what Congresswoman Giffords demonstrated. Congress and constituents must converse, debate and interact face to face for our democracy to survive.
If we preach democracy abroad, we must be willing to demonstrate it fully at home. The list of Americans, who at considerably more risk than that faced by a Congress in a comfortable world and capable of mustering reasonable security resources, is long and illustrious - starting with the likes of George Washington or Patrick Henry.
How will our generation of leaders measure up?
I propose that on January 17th (a date with it's own illustrious history of bravery) every Congressperson hold a 'Congress on Your Corner' in their own District.
Let us say to those who would have America ruled by firepower rather than persuasion, by passion unbridled rather than passion assembling, by force and fear rather than courage and conferring: Not In Our America.
And yes, I know it is easy to ask for others to be brave in the face of danger, however limited. Yes, I know prudent precautions may stretch already reduced law enforcement resources. Yes, I know moving 535 individuals in one direction is currently proving arduous.
However, I'm betting on you and on us. If you come, we will too.
Sincerely,
Marcia Illian Banta
One American Citizen
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
HOLIDAY HEART
For Dad, our Christmases held all the magic, the opportunity and the pleasure he missed as a child of the Depression. The tree was front and center, presents were many, stacked high; gifts of the heart and traditions like giant candy canes, Andes candies and Lifesaver Storybooks for each child, fudge for me, cherry cordials for Mom. He could make a million presents out of small nothings. And there was nothing he liked better than playing Santa on Christmas morning as we - one at a time - opened presents, ate cinnamon rolls and smelled the turkey cooking.
Although he has been gone now for fifteen years, Christmas is such a cherished time for me that in sixty-two years I have never missed being home for the holiday.
But I'm having trouble finding my holiday heart this Christmas.
A few short weeks ago an old acquaintance lost his miserably brief encounter with glioblastoma. And among our LiveStrong family, one has this month gone into hospice, one will be leaving us as I write, for one we have moved the Christmas gifts to this weekend and three are in that awful "suspect I am about to need hospice" place.
Elizabeth Edwards, Aretha Franklin, Ron Santo...this week alone.
My head knows I should grieve and then return to the fight with renewed determination. My head knows that allowing cancer to destroy even more of life than it already has gives it power it should not have. My head knows that honoring those who lived with cancer and are gone means living without quiting. My head knows that withdrawing from my life dishonors those who had no choice. My head knows that failure to use my rage and despair to change the course of this insidious disease is failing to dignify the long and painful journey of others.
My heart knows sorrow, grief, anger, bitterness and wrath - the violence of which pushes holiday spirits aside.
A still, small voice of reason reminds me that as the children glow with awe and anticipation, as quiet comfort is shared by family and friends, as the season's songs echo sweet refrains, as hope for a finer future arises; weariness will recede leaving room for the holiday spirit to once more inhabit my heart.
Maybe not yet, but surely.
Although he has been gone now for fifteen years, Christmas is such a cherished time for me that in sixty-two years I have never missed being home for the holiday.
But I'm having trouble finding my holiday heart this Christmas.
A few short weeks ago an old acquaintance lost his miserably brief encounter with glioblastoma. And among our LiveStrong family, one has this month gone into hospice, one will be leaving us as I write, for one we have moved the Christmas gifts to this weekend and three are in that awful "suspect I am about to need hospice" place.
Elizabeth Edwards, Aretha Franklin, Ron Santo...this week alone.
My head knows I should grieve and then return to the fight with renewed determination. My head knows that allowing cancer to destroy even more of life than it already has gives it power it should not have. My head knows that honoring those who lived with cancer and are gone means living without quiting. My head knows that withdrawing from my life dishonors those who had no choice. My head knows that failure to use my rage and despair to change the course of this insidious disease is failing to dignify the long and painful journey of others.
My heart knows sorrow, grief, anger, bitterness and wrath - the violence of which pushes holiday spirits aside.
A still, small voice of reason reminds me that as the children glow with awe and anticipation, as quiet comfort is shared by family and friends, as the season's songs echo sweet refrains, as hope for a finer future arises; weariness will recede leaving room for the holiday spirit to once more inhabit my heart.
Maybe not yet, but surely.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
2 TXT or not 2 TXT?
Despite being at ease with most new technology and social networking, I've never really "gotten" texting. And just when it appears I have good use for texting, it turns out that not only are my fingers crooked, but I have to locate my glasses in order to see the letters.
Part of the Bye-Bye Birdie phone generation where we lost facial cues, I love to write, so email - even with its loss of vocal cues - was a natural extension of my conversations. And I'll admit I find the challenge of being concise but meaningful on Twitter or Facebook an intriguing exercise in connectivity. Yet texting always seemed to remove even more cues without adequate replacement. Oh, occasionally when my plane had landed and I refused to be one of those people who share their most intimate thoughts or travel plans with 200 others, I might painstakingly text "my plane has landed meet you at baggage".
But there were always those old, arthritic fingers. And while I'd mastered the easy, occasional LOL, IMHO or :-), translating texting when you don't know either of the languages can be daunting. So it was longhand (longword?) for me.
Then there were those who sent hundreds of text messages a day, sometimes while sitting side-by-side with the recipient. (Don't even get me started on texting while driving, you don't have either the time or the ear protection.) Does anyone really have that many urgent comments in one day? Is the exchange of competing texts really "conversation" or simultaneous soapboxes? And what can be made of the seventeen year old, straight A student who, when asked why she was constantly texting instead of picking up the phone or talking face-to-face, replied that she was uncomfortable with the "silences" of conversation. Really?
The last two days have caused me to rethink my reluctance to text. With my Mother in the emergency room, subsequently admitted to the hospital and with family anywhere from 300 to 2000 miles away, phoning was a luxury for when I had substantial news. For all the rest (resting comfortably, still having tests, being admitted, doctor not here until noon) texting private information in the midst of a noisy, chaotic and distinctly impersonal setting worked remarkably well.
Now if I could just reliably find my glasses.
Part of the Bye-Bye Birdie phone generation where we lost facial cues, I love to write, so email - even with its loss of vocal cues - was a natural extension of my conversations. And I'll admit I find the challenge of being concise but meaningful on Twitter or Facebook an intriguing exercise in connectivity. Yet texting always seemed to remove even more cues without adequate replacement. Oh, occasionally when my plane had landed and I refused to be one of those people who share their most intimate thoughts or travel plans with 200 others, I might painstakingly text "my plane has landed meet you at baggage".
But there were always those old, arthritic fingers. And while I'd mastered the easy, occasional LOL, IMHO or :-), translating texting when you don't know either of the languages can be daunting. So it was longhand (longword?) for me.
Then there were those who sent hundreds of text messages a day, sometimes while sitting side-by-side with the recipient. (Don't even get me started on texting while driving, you don't have either the time or the ear protection.) Does anyone really have that many urgent comments in one day? Is the exchange of competing texts really "conversation" or simultaneous soapboxes? And what can be made of the seventeen year old, straight A student who, when asked why she was constantly texting instead of picking up the phone or talking face-to-face, replied that she was uncomfortable with the "silences" of conversation. Really?
The last two days have caused me to rethink my reluctance to text. With my Mother in the emergency room, subsequently admitted to the hospital and with family anywhere from 300 to 2000 miles away, phoning was a luxury for when I had substantial news. For all the rest (resting comfortably, still having tests, being admitted, doctor not here until noon) texting private information in the midst of a noisy, chaotic and distinctly impersonal setting worked remarkably well.
Now if I could just reliably find my glasses.
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