Euology
One of my closest friends lost her father recently. She wrote the most moving eulogy I've ever heard or read. In fact, it's probably one of the most moving pieces of prose I've ever read - and I write a lot. The most moving parts to me where her father's characteristics of finding beauty in everyday things and his sense that anything was possible. Her Eulogy moved me to my core to the point where I'm trying to evolve my glass half empty self to be more like her father in those two respects. I'd like to give that gift to my son.
Here's the whole eulogy:
"A world without Gray Lewis in it: I still can’t fathom what that will
be. I’ve never known anyone who was more alive than my father;
it makes his sudden death even more unbelievable. A lively, restless,
insatiably curious mind, a jumpy, fidgety body, never still for more than a few
moments, a quick wit and a quick temper, a palpable sense of constant motion,
one eye always on what was coming down the pike: that was my
dad.
He was so dear to me: the person who took me to the
Nutcracker every year, somehow always managing to secure seats in the very first
row because I loved to peer into the orchestra pit; who sent me about 150 pens
in a big manila envelop – no letter or note, just a big envelop full of pens –
at college because I happen to mention on the phone that I couldn’t find
anything to write with; who arrived at the door when we bought our first house
with toolbox, tied with a giant bow and filled with every imaginable tool, each
individually wrapped and tied with ribbons; who listened to me cry for the
better part of a year after we lost our first baby, just a quiet loving presence
on the phone; and who sat with me – joyously – in the hospital for hours after
our next three – Zoe and Sophie and Ben – were born alive and healthy, each time
holding his new grandchild in his arms and saying “I always forget how
amazingly tiny they are.”
And he was also dear to many of
you – particularly to Hal, who loved my father dearly and had the tragic
misfortune to outlive his son, to Allison and Miles, who lost their father far
too soon and will miss him terribly, and to Jill, who shared his life and home,
family and future dreams for 27 years.
I was writing this eulogy
last night, struggling with sorrow, with what to say, what to tell all of you
about my dad. How could I capture in words how I loved him, what he meant
to me, the ways in which he shaped my life. Of course, I couldn’t do
it. It’s impossible. So many parts of who I am (the good and the
bad) and so much of what I strive to be and do in my own life are rooted in who
he was.
Who was he, then? He was a man who cherished ideas
and books and the life of the mind; who had a strong sense of social
justice that he truly tried to live in his daily life; who loved to argue, and
talk, and laugh; who was empathic and kind and a wonderful friend; who loved
what he called the ‘texture’ of his dear, beloved New York City; and who was
fairly confident most of the time that he was right and you were wrong, unless
you were agreeing with him, in which case he thought you were really
smart. He didn’t – excuse the language, but I’m quoting him here – he
didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought. This last quality, though
horrifying during my adolescence, when even having parents is embarrassing, was
tremendously exciting when I was a little girl and it certainly provides a
refreshing, freeing model for my adult life – though I don’t carry it quite as
far as he did.
As I tried to make sense of him and what’s happened,
I kept coming back to two things about my dad that have been wonderful in my
life, and I imagine in Allison and Miles’ lives, and that I hope I can
give to my kids.
The first is my dad’s rare and remarkable
ability to weave moments – little oasis of beauty or pleasure or personal
meaning – into daily life. He would go ten blocks out of his way to spend
a few minutes in a gallery looking at a beautiful painting he’d caught a glimpse
of through the window of a passing cab the previous day; he would stop in
the street to admire the way the clear light and deep shadows on an autumn
afternoon made two old men sitting on a park bench look figures in like a Dutch
masters painting; he took incredible pleasure in lovely objects, not just
for the beauty of the objects themselves, but for the care and craftsmanship
that had gone into making them. He could be transported by a really
wonderful chicken sandwich. The ability to find epiphany in the ordinary –
what a gift that was. That cliché that life is what happens when you’re
making plans is really true – and my dad, while always making big plans for
tomorrow, also infused his existence with meaning by fully experiencing and
appreciating the texture of daily life.
Another gift my dad gave to
me and, I think, to many others here today, as well, was the sense that
anything was possible. Never, ever in my life did he greet an idea of mine
with discouragement, never with reasons why it couldn’t or shouldn’t happen –
his attitude was always, well, why not? He never even said things like,
“you won’t make any money doing that,” or “that field is very
competitive”; there was no judgment, no warnings, no
second-guessing. He reacted to all of my dreams and ambitions and hopes as
though their coming true was the most natural thing in the world. He
exuded supreme confidence in not just me personally, though I did feel that, but
also in the very idea that all things were possible. He had the sense
that, well, someone was going to be the Secretary-General of the United Nations
or a mystery writer or a veterinarian or the president or any of the other ideas
I had – why shouldn’t that person be me? He got behind those dreams; he
supported them wholeheartedly while they lasted, and if they changed, well, he
got behind that next idea, too. I hope I can be that person for the people
in my own life.
Those were his greatest gifts to me: to find
and cherish those small but extraordinary events and exchanges with people that
have the power to transform the way you experience life, even if just for a
short moment; and a sense that anything was possible, that my dreams were
not just dreams but tomorrow’s reality.
All of us here
wish that my dad had an easier time these last years; it was hard to know how to
help him. Truth be told, he wasn’t good at asking for help, or accepting
it when offered. He wanted to be the helper, the rescuer, the fixer.
Most of the time he was able to – he was so marvelously inventive, so ingenious
and persuasive, so alive to the possible. But some things of the
last years were just beyond him. I know he was heartbroken when Paul and I
lost our first son, Sam, seven years ago; I think that 9/11 affected him
more than he let on – the assault on his beloved New York I think to some degree
fundamentally altered his sense of the world. And of course, he would have
given anything he had, done anything he could, to ease the pain that Allison and
Miles have had these last five years; they were both so so dear him.
But again, even in these hard times, I know that he had moments,
little pockets, of great joy.
To go forward into the rest of my
life without my dad; it’s a terrible thought. I can’t believe that I
articles he’s cut out for me will stop showing up in the mail, that the phone
will ring, but it won’t be him. I can’t believe that he won’t be part of
my daughters’ lives or that my baby son won’t remember him. But I will see
him when I look at my daughter Sophie’s eyes, the exact color of his, and I will
try to keep alive and hold close his unique and beautiful spirit."
posted by Mamma Lynn @ 9:13 AM
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