Embedded Files
Words at the Funeral of Henry Joseph Leda
Words at the Funeral of Henry Joseph Leda
20 April 2006
It is my privilege to speak on behalf of the family of Henry Leda- the words I offer this morning are the memories and thoughts of his immediate family, who in the process of their own grief have taken comfort in these remembrances. My hope is that they also serve this function for Hank’s extended family and friends who honor us by their presence here now to celebrate his life. Even as powerful as words can be, they are at best barely adequate to speak to this life, whose richness and abundance is in direct proportion to the depth of loss we feel now at its passing.
Henry was an extraordinary fellow in the guise of an ordinary man- proud, yet humble, self-assured, yet tolerant of others, generous, and inventive- a man truly centered in his Faith, his love of country, and especially his family. For Hank being a husband, a father, a grandfather- was what it was all about. He was 29 when he married Elsie at St. Catherine’s in Cleveland, a man from the tough ethnic neighborhoods of Cleveland’s East Side. It is not clear to me who chose whom in the first stages of their courtship; although I know they met at an Alliance of Poles dance. I imaging that Hank was charming, and friendly, a little worldly, and fun, perhaps a bit dangerous. Elsie joked she went shopping at the A & P to find her husband, and got a bargain in the process. Hank respected the old world traditions and spoke with Elsie’s mother, Klementine, about the prospect of marrying her daughter. Klementine carefully appraised Hank’s suitability for Elsie, taking note of his hands which to her provided a window on one's character. Her conclusion: he was a good man- his hands were big, the sign of a hard-worker.
She was right in her appraisal. Although a man of modest physical stature, he exhibited a tremendous energy for his work and profession. He was undaunted by the magnitude of any job, and approached his work, in fact every endeavor, with great perseverance and aplomb. Hank took Klementine into his home where she lived for 25 years, caring for her with his family until her death.
Hank was a loyal friend. He was the glue in his social network of friends and extended family. He was usually the person making the connections and maintaining the ties amongst family and friends. Hank was the first to initiate the phone call, he harbored no agenda or ill-will, a man for whom there was no such thing as a failed relationship. In the 24 years I knew him, I cannot recall a single occasion when he spoke disparagingly of anyone.
This was magnified in his relationships within his family. Hank was extraordinarily proud of the accomplishments of his children, the choices they made in life, the persons they became, and the families they raised. In his latter years he would speak privately with Elsie about this, as their greatest achievement. He never told his children how to live their lives, understanding it was for them to find their own way, but always supported them in their decisions. When his kids got themselves in trouble he was always there, perhaps even at times when he shouldn’t have been. (Isn’t that right Bernie?)
Hank was known for his culinary interests- his sausage making, the carefully engineered root beer float served lovingly and with acute attention to details of the presentation. His creative use the maraschino cherry which would rival Martha Stewart. Perhaps most of all he was known for his wine- dandelion wine, elderberry wine, wild cherry wine, and even some less than successful experiments with corn wine; which, given time, I am certain he eventually would have figured out how to use to heat his home or fuel his automobile. He was a true fermentation scientist, with elaborate tools for assessing the process of the reaction, the specific gravity, and alcohol content.
In addition to his scientific approach to wine he was also a scientist of his home and garden. Hank was always measuring things. He kept precise records extending back years on the gas mileage of his car (that corn wine would have helped here), gauges for rainfall and snow, temperature, the number of times Indians batters struck out in a game, and so forth. He maintained a wall in his home recording the height of his three youngest grandchildren, visible as a constant reminder of them. He was also a great measurer of time. It was not unusual for Hank to have multiple timers running and going off with beeps and rings and shrills to remind him to take the roast out of the oven, to take a pill, or perhaps to set the next timer.
He was always inventing things to help around the house, usually with the creative employment of clothes pins and rubber bands sometimes wire and tape. I think he could have been a spokesperson for the Clothespin Council. He was also a great handyman, applying his perseverance and stick-to-the-task approach to fix anything in his home. He kept service manuals and spare parts on every piece of equipment, car, furnace, and power tool.
He did have one nemesis: ladders. According to his son Bernie, Henry loved ladders and saw fit to use them at every opportunity, but ladders just didn’t love him- or put another way, good ladder skills, specifically not falling off, remained an area for future development. This problem got to the point that his doctor prescribed for him clearly and unambiguously- No Ladders. I don’t know this for a fact, but I think his need to use his ladders was so overwhelming that he would recruit Elsie to hold the ladder- in essence, creating an accomplice who then couldn’t snitch on him.
Henry was quietly proud of his heritage and his country. He always displayed the flag. He was the last survivor of band of brothers who served in Korea; George Lewis, Gene Oswald, and Ted Jacuk. This was the special bond of men who had gone to war, who saw things which few people see, and were indelibly marked by an experience which put unique perspective to their later civilian lives. Henry respected this bond so much that he desired his internment be at the Ohio Western Reserve National Cemetery, with his comrades.
Music was an important part of Hank’s life. He loved to sing and whistle. He sang to his children on their birthdays- all their lives- often over the phone. He sang old favorites to Elsie to help her sleep in the evenings. He would sing in public. Just a few weeks ago after completing some dental work, he asked his dentist whether he would be able to whistle. When she replied that this would be no problem, he was so happy that he broke out into song, with his good friend and neighbor Stanley as accompaniment, to the amazement and joy of the office staff. Sometimes, Hank’s tastes in music ran to the quirky. More recently he enjoyed listening to French café music, the recording including the sounds of clinking glasses and plates- the sounds of Paris’ Left Bank come to Geauga county. I think the ever-present song on his lips spoke to the song in his heart.
Henry’s sense of his place in the world was rooted on the patch of land and the house he built on Rockhaven Road. This spot was for him the center of the universe and his own piece of paradise on earth. His land and gardens, created a physical centering for him, complementary to the centering and sense of meaning in his life brought by his relationship with Elsie, with whom he shared his love of place. But even beyond this, his home and land took on a religious dimension as well; that in the beauty of the land, in planting and nurturing his garden, in the cycles of the seasons writ before his very eyes on the land around him, he felt the hand of God. R. W. Emerson wrote, “All that I have seen teaches me to trust the Creator for all that I have not seen.” I think Hank would resonate with that idea.
In the end, like any skillful comedian, professional athlete, or a capella singer, Hank understood the importance of timing. I wonder if he knew he was going home to God in these last months. I understand he took on the habit of kissing Elsie before going out to get the mail at the end of the driveway- without special reason. His passing occurred within a day of his daughter and her family arriving back from a trip to Spain. He was granted his wish to live out his days in his home, his own special place, without protracted suffering, even as he attended to the normal and every day; raking the stones in his drive, defrosting the Easter ham, looking up cake recipes. I am also mindful of the time of year of his passing- on Holy Thursday- the day Jesus prayed in the Garden speaking with the Father about his own earthly passing, accepting His will be done.
Henry also accepted the time he was granted on earth as a cherished gift, thankful for its joys and accepting of its sadness. I believe he understood we are iterant travelers, sharing only a brief sojourn together on this earth. Henry lived his life as if every day were new and a miracle. He took nothing for granted, saw the extraordinary in the ordinary, understood each moment as an undeserved gift, the receipt of which both privileged and yoked him with the responsibility to love, to be generous without complaint, and approach life with the enthusiasm and alacrity. These words of an old philosopher makes me think of Henry: “A man’s maturity consists in his having found again the intensity he had as a child--- at play”.
Henry Leda- an extraordinary fellow in the guise of an ordinary man- husband of 52 years, grandfather, brother, uncle, friend, tinkerer, music lover, inventor, gardener, food scientist, Christian, lover of ladders and lover of life, veteran, patriot, and Dad. On a personal level, he gave me my wife, and indirectly my daughter. On that account alone, had Hank not walked this earth the very essence my own life would be incomparably different, and radically poorer. And I am not the only one…
So, we thank you, and celebrate you - even as we mourn your passing from us. I only wonder how the angels are enjoying your root-beer floats and if the strains of French café music have joined the musical repertory of the heavenly hosts.
Thoughts at the Funeral of Marion Seibyl
Thoughts at the Funeral of Marion Seibyl
8 August 2008
Las Cruces, New Mexico
I am both blessed and privileged to offer, on behalf of my dad, Walter, and our immediate family our deep thanks for your presence here today. You honor Marion, and are a source of great comfort and succor to us in ways that you cannot imagine, as we mark, in both sadness and celebration, the life of my Mom. Thank you.
I went off for a run through the desert the other day- something that is my habit when I visit New Mexico. There is something pure and uncluttered about this land that is conducive to introspection. As I ran along the dusty road, past scurrying rabbits and vegetation that looks so dry and brittle that I imagine it could self-immolate- I thought about my mother and the infinite stories and vignettes from over the years, about the last days of her journey on this earth, and of New Orleans.
Two months ago, while walking along a street in New Orleans I heard the sound of music coming from the block in front of me. This in itself is not unusual- but what was strange was that rather than the jazzy, bright, ambitiously energized sounds normally heard near the French Quarter, this music was rather slow, a dirge, like the lowing of a cow seeking her lost calf. I realized that I was watching a funeral procession. I saw the line of mourners following in the funeral parade, their dark skin glistening with tiny and precise beads of sweat forming on their faces in the humid, brilliant summer morning. Suddenly and dramatically, the dirge transformed into a bright, upbeat, and energetic sound. The mourners, taking their cue from this, were immediately transformed, awakened in unison like a rousing dragon, from their slow and deliberate funereal march into a frenetic dancing celebration. Handkerchiefs, which moments ago were used to wipe tears of sadness and loss, became small white flags waved in jubilance.
I thought this a most extraordinary, odd, if not schizophrenic display, but on further consideration, I think this actually makes a point on a number of levels; emotional, psychological, and theological. And, as we are gathered here today at this Mass and share to different extents the weighty and penetrating mourning over this earthly life ended, of a friend lost, a grandmother, wife, and sister gone; I think that like those mourners in New Orleans there might also be a fitting place in our burdened hearts for glimmers of light and weightlessless and joy.
So I would commend you to celebrate with me not the death of Marion, but the mystery of her life lived; wondrous, full, and vigorous; bursting with struggles and accomplishments, satisfactions and disappointments, things done and things left undone, deep sadness and profound happiness. I would commend you memorialize not her death, but her passing; faithful in the belief that she has achieved a glorious milestone marking the passage of her soul’s journey to Eternal life.
A small breeze comes up from the mountains as I pad along, it is refreshing and cool when it rises up like this in early morning prior to the coming of the day’s heat. The wind carries an acrid and smoky aroma from the creosote plants which reminds me of the smells of the street vendors’ carts in Manhattan- roasting nuts. I hear only the rhythmic cadence of my own breathing against the enveloping silence of the desert. Nothing else.
It is not possible, of course, to capture a life in these few minutes of eulogy. We each knew Marion in different ways, like the proverbial blind wise men describing the parts of the elephant they touch with great fidelity, but without having a full and integrated vision. I humbly offer my own inadequate thoughts.
My mother was a social connector, she liked to engage people, to interact and learn. Her primary tool was her effusive personality and her ability to readily approach others, strangers, to engage in conversation. She was a talker. Her conversations had at times a free associational, stream of conscioussness quality. It was as if the thought popped into her mind- it needed to be transformed and expressed in words- like push email on your Blackberry. Sometimes the thoughts were profound, at times trivial, but you always knew what she was thinking - whether you wanted to or not. I recall as we rode through the long stretches of New Mexico highway she would expound about the various sites she would observe as she passed along the road. If there were a particularly intriguing feature of the scenery she wanted to indicate- she would augment her words with whole physical movement of her arms and upper body pointing in the direction. Normally this was not a problem- except more often than not Marion was the driver. As she gesticulated, the whole vehicle would leer off the road in the direction of the object of interest, as if to help underscore her point. She would quickly realize that the car was moving into oblivion and jerk the vehicle back to the road, as we passengers bounced off the walls of the cabin saved only by our seatbelts and faith in the Almighty.
She possessed a strong sense of self-assurance, at times real chutzpah, and a willingness to take on challenges. She moved her family of five small children, not once, but three times in the course of a few years as my father pursued job opportunities requiring geographical relocation. I learned this week, not too surprisingly that when my mother and father, in the blush of their youth, decided to marry, it was my mother, who asked my father quite straight-on, “So what are your intentions?” She was also an experimentalist plunging with great vigor into cooking and gardening. She loved to grow tomatoes and luxuriantly eat them, still warm, off the vine. For me the larger lesson in all this was that, she modeled for her children an approach to life which underscored a belief that it is indeed possible to achieve difficult and great things, and to never settle for anything less than where your dreams and abilities can take you.
Marion’s family, both immediate and extended, served as focal point and raison d’être for much of her life. She was the materfamilia, matriarch who crafted family traditions for her children. Christmas and its period of preparation was a particularly hectic time when we were young children and took on comforting and predictable cycles over the years. She prepared traditional foods like the vanilla bean sugar almond cookies, sweet cranberry tea stirred with cinnamon sticks, and marshmallow-laced gelatinous fruit salads. And the other preparations- allowing her children to hang tinsel on the Christmas tree, often in ghastly mottled clumps, which she praised us for our artistic and thoughtful placement only to quietly go back and rearrange things to make it look like a hurricane hadn’t in fact coursed through the living room, disheveling the tree.
The frantic pace of these Christmas preparations would inevitably catch up with her and out of frustration she would firmly and decidedly declare to us, “Christmas phooey, they’ll be no Christmas for you rotten kids”. Like a fever breaking after long illness, or a pustule lanced, we oddly took comfort in this pronouncement, realizing that this too was a yearly tradition in our household and was the way she let off steam, re-focused, and with a new-found equilibrium, was ready to manage with aplomb the rest of preparations for the Holiday.
She was a nurturer. Marion relished her special relationship with her first grandson Reilly, to whom she became truly the super Grandmother, helping out in his care-giving in his earliest years and watching with unmitigated pride as he grew into adulthood. A few weeks back as my Dad and I watched in vigil over her labored breathing in the medical ICU in Albuquerque, and the numbers on LED monitors began to speak to me the dire story of her failing heart and lungs, I was reminded, ironically, of another story, some half century earlier, of when Marion kept vigil over her infant son ravaged with bronchitis, making sure he continued to breathe through some long December nights. I was that infant.
Marion’s Faith was the structural steel infrastructure around which hung the walls, ceilings and floors of her life. Her Faith was uncomplicated, assured, and vitalizing, serving to help her navigate through some very difficult times in her life, the tragic death of a son, her own severe medical illness some 14 years ago, fiscal difficulties. The promise of her Faith was one source of her optimism over the years and of our optimism today.
I head back toward home on my run, my legs are feeling heavy with the altitude as I gasp harder for breath. Jackrabbits scurry before me, annoyed at my disturbing them. In the distance the Organ mountains stand quiet sentinel. They seem unreal, like theatrical scenery, as their craggy details begin to emerge in the growing light of the morning.
My mother moved to New Mexico a decade ago, attracted by a landscape and lifestyle, which spoke to her and my Dad with purity and clarity. She just simply and overwhelmingly loved this place- it’s profound natural beauty, history, and culture. She consciously decided to pick up and remake her retirement life in a sacred spot of her choosing, and to re-create for herself the connections that so enriched her most recent days; her dinner and astronomy clubs, this church. She loved to tell us the stories of her fellow migrants to New Mexico, the subtly of red versus green chilies, and her adventurous forays across the state. I think her choices in retirement were consistent with and resonant with who she was; full of a uniquely American confidence to reshape one’s life, eager for new experiences, mindful that great possibilities are around the corner.
I finish my run, exhausted, but satisfied with the effort, the fine beads of sweat now coalescing in small rivulets, which run down my face, like those mourners in New Orleans. There are rain showers in the distance; long grey lines extend vertically from the clouds to the desert floor, as if the heavens are embracing the earth, in welcome and with love.
I consider my Mother’s journey, her own exhaustion as she lie in her hospital bed, and fantasize that she too felt some sense of satisfaction and completion. Her travels have been rich and variegated, multi-layered, with wonderful stop-overs, warm friends, family, Faith. We will miss her; wife, mother, aunt, grandmother, friend, communicant, adventurer, sister, nurturer, talker, optimist, all energy and whirl, compassion and love. While feeling the penetrating heaviness of this loss, I know that there is really more to celebrate than to mourn, remaining firm in the conviction that Marion’s remarkable earthly time represents the completion of something very precious and good- and even as the angels came for her last Friday, to take her to a new beginning of something even better.
I just hope, that if there are highways in Heaven, they don’t let her drive.
On Elsie Leda's Passing
On Elsie Leda's Passing
14 April 2011
John P. Seibyl, MD
On behalf of the family of Elsie Leda, I thank you for your presence. It honors us and provides a source of comfort at a time of deeply felt and sometimes paradoxical emotions; great heaviness and loss, as well as nascent joy.
Sometimes one hears the old timers refer to someone's death as their “passing” as in “he passed last year”, rather than the more modern usage, “he died last year”. I think there's something very helpful in that older way of referring to death, because implicit in the term is the idea that death is a transition, progression from one condition to another. I likened the last few months of Ellie's life to someone waiting at the train station packed for the journey home, ready to go, yet not quite knowing what time the train departs. There’s little room in this notion for finality, for any dark or brooding abyss, or even much focus on the end of what we know as our earthly life. Instead, one’s gaze is directed to the possibilities manifest in beginning a new great venture. It’s a comforting notion and serves as the source of joy for us today, joy we feel as the hard, grey Winter landscape of our grief gives way gradually to an appreciation of the miracle of this new Life; delicate, optimistic springtime buds forcing their way out of the cold, dead ground to reclaim their sovereignty, a quiet victory over Death, the crux of our Faith.
I have known Elsie 30% of her long life, whilst she has known me 60% of mine. There are the facts about her 90 years, which compromise any good biography. Elsie was born October 18, 1920 at home (E. 108th St Cleveland Ohio) the youngest of 4 children; Ann 10 years older, Joe 12 years older and Loddie (Vladimir) 14 years older. She was unexpected as her mother was told she would never have any more children.
That may be all very fine, but what is most compelling about biography is not the facts so much, as what the facts teach us about the person, and by extension, about ourselves. Ellie was a rich encyclopedia of lessons for many; by virtue of her understated wisdom, the example of her life, and the generous and at times unappreciated way she influenced and affected us. It is not possible to do even a small modicum of justice to capturing for you these lessons, given the limitations of both time and my ability to relate something as precious as this life using the crude implements of my intellect and words. Rather, I provide for you some snippets and family remembrances given to me by many voices which, taken in the amalgam, serve to help us understand in broad strokes, the richness of her life and the reason we miss her so much now in our grief.
Nature - Nurture – Faith- Family
Nature
Ellie had a sacred love of her home and property on Rockhaven. It was her focus and center from which she came to understand the world and out of which she drew her strength. Cousin Charlie K writes, “The few times I visited within the last years I was pleased to see how Ellie and Hank lived in a wilderness with all the trees, birds, turkeys and other wildlife. There was much to see through the windows.”
She was a bird lady: feeding and tending to her cardinals, chickadees, junkos, tufted titmouses, finches and wrens, sometimes needing to find creative ways to prevent her small feathered friends from kamikazing into the large window in the front room from which she viewed them. Bernie reminds me that she fed the birds all winter and in the spring the ground below the feeder would be covered with several inches of empty shells. Occasionally the robber barons of the feeder, the red squirrels had the audacity to pillage the birdseed right in front of Elsie. It was a sorry thing for them for two reasons. First, Elsie was always for the little guy and the underdog. She had great compassion and empathy for those who were less fortunate or bullied. Second, she had a good arm. When she was a student at Fowler Mills School she was the pitcher on her baseball team. Those big red squirrel suffered direct hits of whatever was at hand to be thrown by Elsie’s precisely-delivered projectiles.
When she finally needed to leave this place she worried about her birds, who would feed them? At her rehab center, Bernie put a bird feeder outside her room so she could recreate a little bit of the avian drama that brought her such pleasure at home.
Elsie’s love of nature extended to her gardens, both practical sources of vegetables, but also beautiful flowers which would attract butterflies and hummingbirds. She had keen eye for the natural world. Carol recalls, “Mom had the uncanny ability to spot a four-leaf clover as she was hanging the clothes on the line dry. I tried, without any success, to find my own and to this day, I have not succeeded. If you look in Mom's books, you will often find pressed four-leaf clovers. God only knows how many she found in her lifetime.”
She was a dog lady: Buddy, Pidgey, Mickey, Spot, Wigsy, Curley, Mollie, Jet, Maggie and perhaps others I miss, read like a litany of long lost family members whom she dearly loved.
Nurture
Elsie’s life was her family; her two daughters and her son, their families, her husband passed away now five years and her wide circle of friends from church, neighbors, extended family. She nurtured friendships. Frances and Phyllis are childhood friends whom she had known for 80 years. Others she has known for 50 years or more - Angie, Helen and Mary Jane, as well more recently acquired dear friends, Stanley and many others.
Carol reminded me how, as a child, Elsie’s petite daughter Cathy chose the cello, a large and most unlikely instrument, to play in the Boulevard orchestra. Elsie would faithfully walk the mile or so, carrying Cathy's cello to school and back each week. Also how she accompanied Carol to her dental appointments when she was having cavities filled, sitting next to the spitting sink, holding her hand during the drilling. Carol would squeeze her hand as the pain got unbearable, no doubt causing some considerable pain for Elsie. She endured every one of Carol’s fillings, in empathy and love, as if to channel off some of that pain.
She was a worrier. She drove an automobile maybe once or twice in her life. That was enough. She worried about me when I took my trips abroad, although she never told me this, nonetheless I knew and appreciated it.
Her grand-daughter Maddie writes, “She told me I was beautiful and that my eyebrows were expressive and that no matter what anyone told me, I was special. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see my father and his mother. When I look into myself, I see her. I don’t think I will ever be so respectful or humble or levelheaded or strong, but I can still hold onto some of the things that she taught me.”
Faith
Faith comes I many forms and is expressed in many ways. More trivially, as an ardent Cleveland Indians fan, Elsie required great amounts of one kind of faith at the begiining of each new season. Some might argue that, in this case, faith needs to work in alliance with a certain degree of suspended of reality testing.
More seriously, she was a woman of Faith who saw the spark of the Divine in each person. She was slow to condemn and quick to forgive. She wasn’t interested in the kind of Faith that required one to check your brain at the back door of the church before entering, Her Faith was quietly inquisitive and interactive, she was no rancorous caster of aspersions or thrower of stones (except at those red squirrels). I think she was Christ-like.
Ellis was the most nonmaterialistic person I have ever known. This is also a kind of Faith, a confidence in the adequacy of our ability for obtaining those things we need for sustenance and succor. She never succumbed to the false gods of materialism. She grew up in the Depression. Material things were scarce, and as result she had her priorities in order, understanding that when push comes to shove, it's your family and friends and your basic needs that matter more than the size of your bank account.
Again Maddy’s voice, “And although she was not materialistic, I know how much the house meant to her and all the memories in it. I know how much my mom wanted to clean that house, but it was her clutter. I can relate to that… the need to save everything even if I didn’t grow up during the Depression. “
Finally, her last test of Faith came in more recent days. She had long road, 90 years, the last few months of which were particularly challenging. Nonetheless she soldiered through even as we became aware that the train to take her home was arriving. She boarded that train without anxiety, without fear and the gnawing, twisting concerns which so many of us feel as we consider our own passing. I would note that the examples she gave to her family all her life, of caring and nurture, were manifestly returned to her in the devotion with which her children cared for her, cumulating at the end in the last breathes she took, in the presence and embrace of all three of her children. The cycle continues.
Family
Cousin Paul K. writes, “My cherished memories of your mother began in the late 1940s. My father would drop me off on Broadway for my weekly music lesson. After it was over, I would take a streetcar to 108th and Union. Then, I would walk to Grandma Kacmarcik's house where Grandma, Aunt Elsie, and the sweet aroma of Saturday baking greeted me each time. The chairs in the house were covered with newspaper and drying strudel dough. The smells of fresh vegetables and bakery were wonderful. Your mom took great pains to welcome me and to cook for me. “
Charlie K recalls his mother Ann speaking about Ellie in regard to her duty to her mother Grandma Klementine. He states, “Grandma believed that Ellie was not to marry, but to take care of her in her old age. Ann abhorred the idea and now aren't we all happy Ellie and Hank had a wonderful marriage.” Paul continues, “A joyful event happened years later when Aunt Elsie met Uncle Hank. When
they married, I knew that Aunt Elsie would find all the happiness in life that she truly deserved.”
Elsie herself would joke years later that she got her husband at the A&P, and it was a great bargain. She met Henry at a dance sponsored by the Alliance of Poles. Years later Carol found love letters and poetry that Ellie had written to Hank, who carefully had folded each of these treasures and placed them in his wallet. Some are difficult to read because they are so old and worn. The content is private but it showed the great love they had for one another and how devoted and committed they were to one another.
Elsie had many secret talents, one being that she could wiggle her ears as well as her bicep muscle, oddly entertaining onlookers at her precise control over her muscular fasciculations. Her grand-daughter Jenny recalls putting this skill to some practical use. When challenged with the difficult physical demands of rehab at least she could always wiggle her ears with great precision and aplomb.
Cathy recalling Elsie, “I will miss her voice, her unique smell, her touch, the maternal caresses given to me even as an adult, her great listening skills, her sage advice - I will miss the only human being who has known me since I arrived on this earth. My mother was a loving woman who gave of herself unconditionally (taking care of Grandma until her death at age 93). She was smart, witty and very private. She rarely cried. She loved her children with all their blemishes and she was adamant about treating each of us fairly - there were no favorites.
Words from the writer Khalil Gibran:
You would know the secret of death
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
Elsie, like your birds, may you soar and spin, twirl in giddy circles of delightful ecstasy, freed from the burden of the physical, dancing through the heavens in great swirling spirals to gaze upon the face of God.
May you be in peace and serve as our enduring example of calm and patient dignity, of acceptance, discernment, wisdom, and Faith.
Máme vás rádi, a chybět již - We love you and miss you already, Eliska
Letter to the Mother of My Friend Liz , Yale '81
Letter to the Mother of My Friend Liz , Yale '81
23 February 2013
Branford, Connecticut
Dear Mrs. O,
I’ve been thinking about writing this note for some time, but honestly, the words have been elusive. I imagine it’s because I struggle to distil events, both long past and more recent, which I experience as small, effervescent bubbling memories, disconnected and incomplete, that only inchoately frame my experience of Liz and the sadness I feel now at her passing.
I first encountered Liz in the Autumn of 1977. It was on Yale’s Old Campus, where I had just moved in for my freshman year. It was one of those impossibly beautiful New England mid-‐autumnal days; the sky a brilliant azure and cloudless, a pleasant warmth from a waning afternoon sun, and wafting smells of wet earth and leaves floating on a soft breeze. Across the courtyard I watched as a girl with long pigtails released, one after another, perfectly thrown football spirals to a lanky male compatriot some 40 yards away. The throws were effortless, confident, and precise, and in retrospect, an expression of the qualities of the girl launching them, Liz. This all seemed to be in such striking contrast to myself, a bit scared and tentative as I negotiated my way in this strange new world of college. As I passed Liz on the way to my room, she introduced herself and asked if I wanted to join in.
It was somewhat later that I found out that she had transferred to my residential college, Ezra Stiles. It turned out we shared a lot. We were premed students but interested in pursuing a full liberal arts education, rather than focus singularly on the sciences. For Liz, that meant being a triple major in fairly disparate disciplines, for myself, less enterprising or accomplished, studying philosophy. I must immodestly take some credit for piquing her curiosity in philosophy. Along with Liz and another friend, Craig Chow, we finagled and finally convinced Yale College to allow the three of us to design a seminar with an accomplished scholar of Chinese philosophy in the graduate school. This represented the pinnacle of my undergraduate experience; having stimulating discussions with good friends around age old questions about the fundamental issues of our lives, the meaning of our choices, and the sources of our humanity and ethics. In these discussions my impressions of Liz as a person of depth and substance were reinforced, even as I saw, in addition, her sense of equanimity, fairness, and compassion. I believe that at least half of what I learned at Yale was acquired from my fellow students. Liz had more to offer than most, and shared her insights in a comfortable and self-‐effacing manner.
That was our senior year. Ironically, we went our separate ways to become academic physicians working in the neurosciences. I joined the Yale Medical School faculty, and taking a page from Liz’s playbook, obtained board certifications in both Psychiatry and Nuclear Medicine. Over the years I would periodically drop her a line when I came across an article she was a co-‐author on, and she reciprocated when she would see something I published. It was last summer that we really reconnected. I was at a meeting in Baltimore on neuroreceptor brain mapping, when over lunch I heard Liz calling my name. She had stopped by the conference venue in order to pick up a videotape of the memorial service for Mark Molliver. As was her style, in the spur of the moment saw an interesting conference going on and took the opportunity to attend. We sat together the whole day, chatting away between the presentations. She spoke of her recent loss of Mark, her problems with mania, her current situation, and nascent thoughts about the future. She was completely natural, calm, and open as she relayed the events of her recent life, painful and joyous, delivered with her inimitable future-‐oriented optimism, even as the words were difficult. I was honored by her trust and openness, but not surprised. Perhaps she was comfortable with me as an old friend, someone with a professional understanding of mental illness. In retrospect, I wish I had also shared my personal grappling with these sorts of problems in my own family, and that I lost a brother two decades ago to suicide.
The next time I saw Liz was several months later in October in New Haven at the 50th anniversary celebration of Ezra Stiles College. I was delighted she chose to come and we spent a good deal of the day visiting, reminiscing, and eating. We had a grand dinner with 9-‐10 of our other classmates in the Freshman Commons that evening. Liz was animated, jovial, and focused on the future. We talked casually about a research collaboration with my brain imaging group.
It's exactly this way that I will always remember Liz; in her element, an engaging, remarkable individual, who despite prodigious gifts, remained humble and kind. She was a gentle and compassionate person who loved knowledge, but more importantly, loved her fellow human. She was always present to the moment, a joiner, a can-‐do type, who, despite her demons, lived more fully in her fifty some odd years than most ever will. There is much to celebrate, much to cherish, and much to hold close, knowing, that even as this loss creates a great, brooding heaviness, the rippling impact of Liz in the lives of so many; friends, patients, family, and colleagues forms a genuine legacy of her sojourn on this earth. Like so many others, I am indeed grateful to have shared a part of that journey with her.
With my deep condolences,
John Seibyl, MD Yale College 1981
On Fr. Paul Minchak's Passing
On Fr. Paul Minchak's Passing
Dear Claire, Janice, Celeste, and Eugene,
18 January 2017
London, UK
It is with deep regret and deeper happiness that I write this letter to offer condolences on your dear brother Paul' s passing. Regret arises from my inability to express these few words of condolence directly to you, whilst my happiness lies in the realization Paul has achieved the very goal of a devout life of service; to go home to a place of blissful peace.
Yet, transitions are difficult and I imagine the last few months must have been particularly so. I also imagine words of solace that Paul would have spoken to comfort you, as you sat by his bedside to comfort him. In his gentle, humble way I think he would remind us that we are all spiritual beings on a common, but singularly unique journey; the goal of which, having loved and suffered and perhaps done some good for others, is to move on, leaving in our wake, by virtue of these good acts, a glimmer of that place of peace, which " surpasses all understanding". He would have reminded us to keep our eye on the prize, that amidst the many distractions, complications, and entanglements of our secular world, as Christians we aim for higher purpose. Paul was always a role model in this regard, focused in his Faith, yet humble and soft-spoken. He chose a Life of service to God, the church, and fellow human.
In quiet, yet forceful ways he lived out his Faith, teaching others by both demeanor and deeds. I recall many family reunions which culminated in Paul saying Mass in the sticky, humid August heat, accompanied by choruses of cicadia rising, like an aural incense, from the adjacent woods. He articulated each word of his prayer with precision and integrity as he consecrated the elements. It struck me how elegant and lovingly he celebrated the Eucharist, the very symbolic embodiment of that Faith in Christ incarnate and the compass for his life. And hence, even as we grieve some, we decidedly celebrate with joy and lightness of heart Paul's life on earth, but more importantly, his new life and the example he provides us in our own Journey.
Be in peace, John
Walter Luke Seibyl, Jr. (1933-2020): A Son’s Personal Remembrance
Walter Luke Seibyl, Jr. (1933-2020): A Son’s Personal Remembrance
24 February 2020
I sit at my father's bedside. He is asleep, a deep enveloping sleep, the kind that holds jealously tight to consciousness, not letting it slip through the foggy somnolence into the daylight. His deep sleep is paced by the heavy grunts and snorts that come as he exhales air through his gaping edentulous mouth. His stomach rises and falls with each tidal breath. Every so often a more voluminous wave of breath pushes out causing an extra loud and long chortle. He startles, arms flailing about in an asynchronous spasm, fingers reach for something, touching only the air he just expelled. He is dying.
I feel sad, exhausted, and with some measure of guilt, relieved. The struggle is about over, the race nearly run, a near 87 year journey of joy and disappointment, happiness and deep sorrow, accomplishments and failures, knowledge and ignorance, wisdom and bias- in essence, a normal human life. Although at a deeper level there is no way for pithy or alliterative dyadic descriptors to capture the nuanced and subtle miracle that is each and every life, including my father’s.
While we know with great precision how our bodies cease to function, we don’t know when the real end is, i.e. when the impact and consequence of what we do or did stops having effect on someone’s life at some time, in some way, somehow. One could argue that it is never, that we are a link in a long ancestral chain, our very existence dependent on the choices of each linking generation before us such that we carry a bit of their flame in our hearts along with a good deal of their DNA in our cells. Likewise, as we wend our own way through life we forge the next link, passing the flame to subsequent generations, whose very existence depends upon us, even as we fade in memory over time.
There are many ways we bring our legacy forward to those who will call us “ancestor.” What we teach, how we guide and mentor, the way we model behavior, our ethicality and courage in times of adversity, our general demeanor and face to world, what we write, design, compose, and create- all mold and influence the lives around us in ways both good and bad. All of this is another way of asking ourselves, how well did we love? Did we love with enthusiasm and alacrity, or begrudgingly with aching doubt or tentative suspicion? Were we beloved because of our love, reminded of the last lyrics on the last track of the last album by the Beatles, “And in end the love you take is equal to the love you make”.
Viewing Walter through this lens, one sees how he loved by the influence and impact on the lives of those who now mourn his passing, the next links in the cosmic chain. He brought humility and humor together sometimes in ludicrous self-deprecation at other times with a feigned curmudgeonliness, but always with a boyish playfulness that spoke to a cleverly disguised love of humanity.
Walter had other unusual paradoxical quirks about him. While he normally embraced a cautious approach to new ideas, planning, and decisions, such as being at the airport 3-4 hours before his flight, there was another part of him took the bold, if not risky path. This was demonstrated by three major decisions he made, each of which provides insight about Walter. First, was the decision he and his beloved wife Marion took to pack up their things and move to New Mexico, of all places, far from family, friends, and the familiar. It seemed a rather arbitrary choice to me at the time. What is a couple from the lushly green and heavily vegetated eastern US doing in going to a land of rocky desert and sparse, strange plants, of native American and Hispanic culture, where vast energies are engaged in projects to shape channels to divert and control waters from the rare rain, which otherwise, ironically stream down from the mountains washing away roads, sculpting channels through neighborhoods, and creating general havoc, a land where the first question you are asked by your waitress is not would you care for a red or white wine, but rather do you prefer green or red? She is referring to the ubiquitous pepper, which both unites the local population in the common embrace of the plant in cookery and home decor, and divides into tribes vociferously devoted to one or the other. What were Walter and Marion doing, we thought, safely above the flood-zones from our lushly vegetated and well irrigated homes back East.
The answer was exploring together a new place with alacrity and aplomb, meeting new people, often fellow retirees, appreciating the beauty of the Organ mountains out their window, the vast vistas over the desert valley, and the vaster vistas of space and the universe viewed through the telescope housed in a small observatory in Walter’s backyard in Las Cruces. They welcomed skeptics like me to visit and delighted in showing us very special places they found; ancient cave dwellings carved into the side of a cliff, a restaurant just a short 80 miles away which highlighted the fine art of taxidermy where dozens of beady glass eyes belonging to the stuffed wildcats and birds of prey focused their frozen intensity upon us as we ate hamburgers and quaffed the dilute local beer. Personally, I learned much; my preference for green over red, how to deal with the scorpions which show up time to time in the shower, the effusive connectedness and embracing spirituality one feels walking in early morning in the haunting and stark desert.
As a couple, I don’t think Walter and Marion were ever as happy as they were there, in New Mexico. When, in 2008, my mother became ill and passed away, Walter surprised me once more by making the improbable, if not unexpected choice to remain in New Mexico rather than return East to be closer to family. He delayed that eventual move for a good decade while he continued along quite fine, building a warm, interesting, and caring network of friends. This was the second example of his bold probity.
The third instance of risky decision-making was in early 2018 when it became increasingly difficult for Walter to live independently. He flew out to Connecticut to see an assisted living facility near my home. After a tour of Evergreen Woods we sat down in the office of our guide, all of us expecting to discuss any additional questions, then adjourn to weigh this option against others. All of us were expecting this except Walter. In a clear and certain voice, he said, “Sign me up”. The room went silent. I sheepishly asked him if he were certain about this. He was.
And he was right. He loved to interact with the residents and staff with his ready engagement and quick-witted persiflage. As we walked together through the hallways at Evergreen Woods, he seemed to know everyone and their stories. He was about building up relationships and social connection, one quip at a time. Over his last six months, four hospitalizations, a numerous ER visits – our conversations changed to more existential matters; what is it going to be like dying, what is my legacy to be? He taught me much as I assumed the privilege of walking with him over this time, endeavoring to lighten his load, helping navigate through the confusing, acronym-laden world of medical diagnosis and treatment, offering different philosophical perspectives, and using humor to ease his palpable existential fears over this mysterious transition.
Even as we spoke about his legacy, which he initially viewed in financial terms, he was building a legacy for me; a legacy of surprising aplomb despite human frailty, of the vitalizing power of being connected in a community, and the importance of humor and self-effacement. On his last day, the 31,746th day of his life, as he lay obtunded in bed, breathing, chortling, and picking at the air with his hands, perhaps anticipating an angel’s embrace, I played for him comedic songs by Tom Lehrer, a favorite, and then read him a poem I had written two years ago….
Look About
Each generation individually rages against Death’s specter,
But in the end line up to take the bus,
Like well-behaved school children on their first day,
A little scared, but compliant and orderly.
When the bus leaves, the traces of their presence vanish.
But is this true?
Look around and see the imprint of new patent leather shoes
Stamped in the dirt by the roadside.
Or a forgotten handkerchief, plaid, lying limp on the ground, unmissed, its utility
Was beyond its puerile owner’s comprehension.
Or the road itself, with perfectly squared up curbs, which speaks to
Other presences, long gone, but while here, on this very spot,
Sweated, swore, and cajoled the wayward asphalt into shape,
Effecting a kind of immortality,
Even as they have long since taken the bus home.
Walter left this world having forged his own ancestral link, without pretense or posturing, without anger or regret, loving and beloved, a little anxious, and I imagine curious for this next adventure, even as he took the bus home.
Requiesce in pacem.
John
Condolences for a Friend
Condolences for a Friend
Please accept our deepest condolences on Michael’s passing.
We imagine it may all feel a little surreal now, these long days, filled with contrasting reminders of Michael; his vitality and creativity, the more recent suffering, the anxiety and heroic resolve, vicissitudes of hope laced with dark despair, memories all threaded together in a contextual fabric and rendered meaning by an abiding and mighty love.
As you move through these long days, enjoined in the hard work of grieving, we bid there be an uncanny sense, every now and again, of lightness and quiet joy, as you find celebration in Michael’s precious time amongst us, celebration of the intricately crafted tapestry of memories,and of families and friends who, by virtue of his life, are irrevocably changed for the better, and go on to change the world irrevocably for the good. Finally, may you discover in your heart the perpetuity of love unfettered of temporal bounds… and smile with gratitude at the miracle of this life well lived and well shared.
Enclosed is a small beautiful wooden heart that can be easily tucked away in a pant pocket or underneath a pillow. It’s something tangible to hold, to provide comfort and a reminder of the love that continues to surround you.
Letter to Claire K.
Letter to Claire K.
Branford, Connecticut
March 8, 2003
Dear Claire,
I imagine the dust may be settling some for you from the freneticism that must have characterized these past few weeks. I would also presume the dust storms still persist in form of an emotional unsettledness that can only naturally result from Joe’s sudden passing. I had scant opportunity to speak with you in the nascent hours of this event at the funeral home- except to tell you how struck I was by the testament to Joe in the seemingly unending lines of people waited calmly in the cold of the late winter afternoon for opportunity to pass by Joe’s body, to say a quiet prayer, and to make effort to celebrate and honor him in this small way.
On the long ride back to Connecticut as my own family slept in the car, I thought about that scene and anticipated what it would be like the next day at the funeral Mass, the parking jams, the flurry of people, each one touched at some point in their lives in some way by Joe. It is sometimes difficult to understand the ordinary and yet mystical connectedness of communities, until a singular defining event such as a funeral casts things into a sharper focus. It was not surprising to see the richness of the nexus built around Joe.
The passing of life in its true Christian context is a celebration, even amidst the strains of loss, the sadness and mourning, even the sense of being cheated and tricked by the unexpectedness of the event and the disruption of our normal lives and plans. Although you didn’t speak to this directly, I could imagine the white knuckle shock of this loss and its dizzying impact which will undoubtedly take some many months to work through. Personally, I understand a bit better the preciousness of the ordinary, and how our journeys on this earth are short and unpredictable. When He’s ready to have us come home, we go. I am happy Joe has gone home. He lived his three score and seven in a manner which would be enviable for most.
Someone once asked Freud to describe the essential features of psychological well-being. His reply was simply, to work productively and to love. Joe loved well, and I think he especially loved you well. In some way perhaps, what we remember and cherish about Joe is this love, which still reverberates like seemingly endless wavelets emanating from a stone tossed in a pond. Perhaps in this way he continues to touch us now, even as I imagine him smiling, in the knowledge and “peace which passes all understanding”.
Peace,
John (and Cathy and Jenny)…
Gini: A Memory
Gini: A Memory
Cowritten and Delivered by Cathy Seibyl
For me- the singular word that best captures Gini is “love”- a joyous love which streams up from some deep, hidden source to vitalize all the places she went and the all people whose lives she touched. Gini’s is an inclusive, enclosing love which created great connected circles of lives. Her love is like a stone cast into the center of a pond that sends ripples out to the distant shore, which, upon reaching land, reflect back into the center, as if to seek their own source.
Gini’s gift was in creating these circles of love around her. In loving her you became part of a circle, almost insidiously finding yourself connected, loved, and loving. Gini wrote her life in broad and bold strokes, she did things in a big way, unabashed. I continue to marvel at the richness of her life’s handiwork,… by the remarkable lives she brought together,…by her immediate family; Jack, Siena, Nina, Jackson, Spencer, Laura and Rolandas, her extended family, friends, her neighbors, her children’s friends and their parents and her children’s teachers. These lives are testimony to her gift and to her love… unconditional, generous, and forgiving.
I really don’t know her secret to creating such a circle of love. Perhaps it was the way she ran her home. It was and is a place where everyone stops by. Hers is a house that is never empty and where you don’t need to ring the doorbell but just open the door and yell hello. It is a place where you help yourself in the kitchen when you are hungry and you needn’t ask. Perhaps her secret to creating this circle of love is the way she stayed in touch with everyone. Gini loved to call folks to check in and give updates. She knew everyone’s phone number by heart – even their cell phone numbers. She had my cell phone number memorized before I did. Perhaps Gini’s secret was her thoughtfulness, in the way she included you or your family to join in. “Hey Cathy I’m signing up the kids for ice skating on Sunday night do you think Jenny would like to join the kids for lessons, Teddy and Julia Vlock are also coming and please join us afterwards for pizza…or we are going to the movies this afternoon with the kids. I bought extra tickets would you like to come…or we are going to be on the Vineyard the week of August 3rd – any possibility that you could join us that week or part of the week?”
Out of her love Gini celebrated life…. Birthdays are always big affairs. Food, games, costumes, magic shows, hot dog stands, snow cone machines, music. Frequently birthdays are celebrated more than once- if one counts age by the number of birthday parties one has- then Siena must be about 26, Nina 19, Jackson 15, and Spencer 12. I can’t even begin to fathom Bunny’s age.
Gini also celebrated the smaller things in life – like thunderstorms. I fondly remember being over her house during a violent storm with the children frightened and crying. In the midst of all the tears Gini announced that it was time for popcorn and cuddling on the couch. After the popcorn was popped Gini brought out books on the weather, how thunder and lightening are generated, picture books about storms, and of course, poetry.
Gini celebrated life with family outings especially bicycle outings. These events sometimes took on very large, if not absurd, proportions. I remember a bicycle outing we took with the Mariotti’s on Martha’s Vineyard. We had 5 kids riding bicycles, Gini had Spencer in a bicycle seat mounted on her handle bars and Jackson behind her in a tag along. Beside myself there as one other adult on a bicycle and my husband John on rollerblades all spaced between and behind the children. Jack was following this odd-appearing caravan in the car with popsicles. We were a motley, yet wonderful sight to behold.
So…. at her very essence, Gini loved and is loved. Out of her love she lived, connected and connecting, nurturing and vital. I will miss her wonderful smile, her sharp wit, her soft voice, her kisses on the lips followed by the words “I love you”, her phone calls, her sage advice, and her love for me and my family. Gini, your ripples still reach out, emanating in perfect circles- touching those distant shores, reflecting back again, playfully dancing. Yes, I will miss my good and dear friend.
On the Passing of Eugene M.
On the Passing of Eugene M.
Great Diamond Island, Maine
29 December 2021
My dear cousins and other family members,
It is with a deep sadness at Eugene's passing that I write this letter, mindful that I can only imagine how much deeper your sense of sadness must be in carrying the very ponderous burden of this so close to Ellen's passing. It's not surprising for spouses to follow each other in their journey onward. We who remain can take solace in the belief they are together once more in a place with a peace that “passeth all understanding”, as we hold on to memories which keeps a part of them alive forever in our hearts and minds.
I think back to my own memories of several iconic experiences I had with Eugene both as a child and an adult which characterized for me much about him. First, when I was about 8 years old and Eugene must have been about 20, our families attended a church summer picnic at Sacred Heart in Yonkers. The outing was in a large grassy field embellished with dandelions, searingly brilliant yellow points of color in the dark green field, all framed and bounded by an impossibly brilliant sun shining down from a cloudless azure sky. There were activities for the children, one of which was a sprint race of about 80-90 yards. A short man with a large belly filling out his sweat-stained white t-shirt lined up a dozen of us and with lowering of his arm, started us off.
Now at that time I felt great prowess in my ability to run fast, and went churning down the field, knocking flower heads off dandelions, feeling that I was going to win the race. There were two or three boys perhaps a little bit older who were with me at 50 yards, but they seemed to be flagging. With some 20 yards left I could see to my left I was ahead and sailed across the finish line, victorious. Or so I thought. When I walked over to where the other boys were with the adult who judged the race I was told that I finished second, but it was a fine race. I was crestfallen, deflated, even gobsmacked as I walked silently away feeling there was injustice here. As I was sitting by myself on the ground, commiserating, Eugene walked over to me. He had a big smile on his face as gave me four shiny, new quarters saying he spoke to the race ref who realized his error and wanted me to get this money as a prize. I immediately felt better even though I knew that the finish line official had nothing to do with this. I knew Eugene generated this kindness on his own, but didn't mention to him that I knew the truth, even as I felt great gratitude.
I always appreciated his sense of joy and penchant for mischief. He would inevitably find a way to turn the pool in his backyard into an aquatic playground for a surprise belly flop or cannon ball. I recall watching him take a flying leap over the side of the pool into the water and the astounded looks on the faces of the kids as seemingly half the water flew up in the air most of it landing back in the pool with inevitably some drenching unsuspecting by-standers having a little chat a bit too close to the pool.
That playfulness was a real part of what made him so approachable and fun because it was underscored by clear sense of common decency and respect for others. I don't know what kind of career he had a police officer but imagine he would be quite good at situations helping people through difficult periods, confusion, mental illness and all that's thrown at an officer in the line of duty. I imagine he gave out some quarters on occasion. However, I think that his real legacy is resident in his three children, the Christmas card photo of the whole family year after year bearing witness to growth and welcome to a new generation, whose very existence depended on his very existence. Yet beyond mere existence are the ways he brought enrichment to the lives around him as a father, a husband, a brother, a son, a grandfather, a cousin, a friend, a public servant, a belly-flopper, and dispenser of kindness, caring, quarters, and love. He ran his own race with quiet elegance and skill.
Now that he has reached his finish line, which ironically, is also his starting line, we will miss him and feel a profound gratitude for how he enriched us and continues to enrich others through us as we endeavor to model in our own lives his decency, his humanity, and his love.
A Letter to John Krystal, MD Chairman, Dept.of Psychiatry, Yale Univ School of Medicine on the Death of a Faculty Member
A Letter to John Krystal, MD Chairman, Dept.of Psychiatry, Yale Univ School of Medicine on the Death of a Faculty Member
Dear John,
Thank you for your note regarding Steve Southwick‘s passing this morning. I am
deeply saddened by this loss and deeply grateful for having known Steve as a Psychiatry trainee a generation ago, an experience whose impact I feel to this day. For me Steve modeled a kind of radical kindness and a generosity of spirit that was disarming, if not transformative. In an age when all about us is conflict, tribalism, self-interest, and lack of civility, Steve was a remarkable model of an alternative weltanschaung, characterized by humility, self-effacing humor, and a boyish alacrity. He sincerely cared about his patients, staff, and trainees with an ever-present humanity which was gentle and unforced. I don’t think I will ever encounter such a unique and special individual, but I’m grateful for having known Steve and his message and model of kindness, caring, and sense there is something better, something beyond what we except as the norm for ourselves, a transcendent humanity.
John Seibyl, MD
Apr 20, 2022
Jay Pottenger: A Remembrance
Jay Pottenger: A Remembrance
27 February 2023
John Seibyl, MD
On behalf of the Pottenger family, I wish to thank you for your presence and
support of Sue, Will, Emma, and Jack as they navigate through some difficult
days. Our wish for them, and indeed for ourselves, is the deep, enveloping
sadness of grief be disrupted by moments of joy and gratitude in celebration of
John L. Pottenger, Jr., Jay’s time among us. My name is John Seibyl, and along
with my wife Cathy and daughter Jenny are grateful for and gifted by our
friendship with Jay and his family for the better part of three decades. I am
honored, humbled, and challenged to speak a few words in eulogy on the
remarkable life which gathers us here today.
The challenge lies in trying to reduce Jay’s full, rich, and variegated life down to
10 minutes of spoken words given the scope and magnitude of the impact he
made and continues to make in us as his students, friends, clients, colleagues,
neighbors, coachees, sisters, brother, board members, sons, daughter, or wife.
We are all Jay’s legacy.
Even so, his multifaceted story transcends all of our collective experiences. It’s a
broader story rife with lessons about principles and practicality, family and faith,
and finally, courage and wisdom.
Principle and Practicality
Jay was one of the most principled persons I have met. His moral compass was
evident in how he conducted himself both personally and professionally, and in
how he and Sue raised their children. In his professional life Jay’s morality was
manifest in his intense passion and focus on issues of social justice, equity, and
fairness, whether fighting for rights to decent housing in decent neighborhoods
or achieving parity of opportunity across society. Jay’s principles would be of no
consequence to the world if they remained theoretical constructs. He applied
principle to practice, exemplified by the co-founding of the non-profit Open
Communities Alliance to advocate in places where bias stands in the way of fair
housing. He believed in the sanctity of the rule of law as a social contract that
undergirds our democracy and provides a mutable framework that allows for
the peaceful transformation of society to become more equitable and just. Jay
used the art of advocacy as the vehicle for this kind of change.
Jay demonstrated a rare generosity and a foundational love of humankind, as a
teacher and mentor. Jay simply loved to teach and generations of his students
now extend his impact in their own work in the private and public sectors as
politicians and lawmakers, counselors, judges, and teachers. One of his students
recalled him ending a seminar with the evocative words, “Go in peace to love
and serve the poor”. Even in the hospital he was not infrequently found to be
teaching students from his bed in a noisy, chaotic ICU. Rumor has it he took one
Zoom call while in the bathroom and his booming voice alerted the staff he was
multitasking in ways he probably shouldn't be, leaving one nurse to quip,“ I hope
he doesn't have the video on.”
Jay also loved to learn and had a rapacious appetite for information and the
capacity for synthesis of multidisciplinary knowledge into concerted and
forward-looking action. Jay was one of those rare individuals who was able to
achieve the complete blurring of distinction between work and play. Indeed, to
paraphrase one philosopher, he found his maturity in achieving again the
intensity he had as a child… at play.
Family and Faith
Most of all Jay loved his family. He had opportunity to take Sue as well as their
adult children Jack and Emma on a whirlwind sabbatical traveling to Australia,
South Africa, and Argentina. When Jay informed me about his plan I wondered
why these countries?... for about 2 seconds…. then realized these are wine
growing regions and how clever he was in meeting the needs of academic
lawyer, bon vivant, oenophile, and family. I must say I was a bit envious as in my
time at the School of Medicine people didn't take sabbaticals out of fear that
they would lose their lab space. However I could live vicariously because in their
generosity Jay and Sue invited us to pop down to South Africa. So we went on
sabbatical for a week with Jay and had a wonderful time seeing the country by
way of visiting its vineyards. I was impressed by Jay’s scientific rigor in carrying a
little book that he used so document each and every appellation, vintage, grape,
year, etc. In vino veritas.
While Jay was not a great athlete, he was a great sportsman, sharing his
enthusiasm for Premier League football with his family particularly, Jack. During
the World Cup championships Jay employed the same notebook methodology
used in the vineyards for recording the teams strengths and weaknesses, games
stats, and other salient facts. He also encouraged sports for all his children who
played on teams from elementary school to college. Jay attended a remarkable
number of these games and even coached. There is a kind of purity and clarity
to competitive sport that appealed to Jay: teams given equal opportunity to
perform on a level field with agreed upon rules sounds like a recipe for a civil
society.
Jay was also a man of faith, a faith in both God and humanity. He was an active
parishioner of this historic edifice you are sitting in now. With his brother Bill,
engaged in studies and discussion of Scripture, perhaps seeking the wisdom,
solace, and hope faith offers, not as some strap on belief system
for times of duress, but fully integrated with, if not driving his core beliefs.
Courage and Wisdom
The last few months really tested the mettle of the Pottenger family in ways I
can only imagine. What is clear was the extraordinary courage, stamina, and
love Jay’s wife Sue demonstrated in walking with him on this last bit of his
journey. This remarkable level of devotion by Sue and also her children Jack and
Emma and Will speaks to the power of love kindled within this family and is
proportional to the depths of grief each experiences now.
Here is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to Jay a couple of weeks ago
Dear Jay,
I have been thinking a good deal about you recently as you brave a
gauntlet of medical procedures, ICUs, and unchecked neoplasia. I’ve been
thinking a bit about courage, fate, faith, and legacy, stimulated in part by your
story, but also my own travails of the body, embarrassingly paltry compared with
your own.
Regarding courage and fate, people fairly often tell me how courageous I
must be to live with the impairments resultant of Parkinson’s disease. I politely
thank them, but in my heart I think it is a lot of bunk. I am ill-fated, star-crossed,
and unlucky to have a disease from which I will never recover, but I am not
courageous. I have no choice but to accept this and get on as best I can. So it is
'somewhat paradoxical to me that I feel that you are courageous, with more pain
to endure, more uncertainty to cope with, and with more acute vicissitudes in the
bodily processes that propel us through our respective dotages enroute to
eternity. In other words, we are on the same highway, going the same place,
only you are in the express lane.
Regarding faith and legacy, I suppose faith is forward looking to where that
highway takes us and legacy backward looking to what impact and residua we
leave behind. They are both inescapably unknowable in our current positions,
although both equally open to our speculation and wonder. Speculating on
legacy, one would aspire that it might be similar to what will be your own, in
that at the end of the day, in spite all one’s shortcomings, frailties, and flaws,
that we have come well and shall go well through this earthly sojourn and that
along the way we were beloved. ---------
Thirty-six hours before his passing, I was able visit Jay at hospice. Not knowing
what to expect given his need for pain control I was happy to see him alert, and
engaged, and actually funny. He joked about a new take on The Lion King where
there might be the circle of death as well as a circle of life, then realized it is
already one circle and gave a chortle. Perhaps more important he appeared to
have reached a point of equipoise and peace, that, full of love and gratitude, he
was ready. He seemed particularly wise to me, someone who had indeed come
well and would go well. On my way out he thanked me for my note calling it a
spiritual mitzvah as he squeezed my hand hard. I told him highway metaphors
seemed to work well given the fact that he was definitely the craziest driver I
have ever met. As I walked out of his room, knowing this was the last time I
would see Jay, I wondered who was making the mitzvah to whom and that I will
miss him very much, this beloved husband, father, brother, uncle, friend,
colleague, mentor, board member, coach, and teacher.
Requiescat In pace Jay.
Comments on the Burial of the Ashes of Marion and Walter Seibyl
Comments on the Burial of the Ashes of Marion and Walter Seibyl
26 August 2024
Life is quirky and filled with seemingly insignificant events which later prove to have powerful, multi-tendrilled consequences. Almost 75 years ago here in Baltimore, a young junior college student met an even younger high school senior. If Marion and Walter had not met and cultivated their subsequent relationship and marriage none of us would be here today. I mean not just not in Baltimore, but for some of us, we would never have been born, because it was that chance meeting that served to bring them together to create this family that we represent today.
In my emails I've been using the phrase “ashes to ashes” reflecting the old Christian admonition, “Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return”. The cremains that we have here today are just dust and ashes, and represent the only physical presences left of Walter and Marion.
However, more important, is their real presence inside us, whether it's a physical trait, a quirky expression or word usage, a passion for something, a favorite recipe, or sense of humor; there's something that they have imparted to us, that has integrated itself into our souls.
This represents their real legacy, the imprint that they've had on us and then we on others as we wend our way through life.
These ashes are a reminder to always remember that you are connected to those who walked this world before you, that you are gifted, and that you are beloved. May the lives represented by the ashes we commit back to the earth today grant us a humble gratitude for the lives we have been given and the lives we touch. May we be thankful for Walter and Marion as they return to the dust, ashes, and earth, completing their cycle of love,
Even as they inspire our own………
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