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I don’t know how to write a traditional eulogy, and my dad never insisted I stick to tradition.
I’m going to talk to you about my personal experience of my dad, reflecting on the person I saw, what his way of living has meant to me, and what I believe my own experience may tell us about him.
Hopefully I’ll bring to the surface some gifts he offered that everyone else might take into their lives today.
I’ve tried hard over the last days …and years… to distill a central teaching from my dad.
When I finally articulated a likely candidate recently it was funny to me, because it is reminiscent of the exact task I was on: I think It was his unique ability to get to the core of a matter. And to keep it locked-in his sights, unrelentingly.
The opposite of sweating the small stuff or getting distracted by minutia.
The term I want to use for this is Prudence. When I use that word today, that’s the sense in which I mean it.
Not in the modern sense of mere “cautiousness”, but the classical way the ancients used it:
The virtue of seeing clearly,
Identifying what matters,
And steering life accordingly.
It’s an almost comically simple guiding principle, but that doesn’t prevent it from being surprisingly rare among people.
This virtue of prudence came through from him in practical, day-to-day ways. but it also functioned as a foundational layer of his personality upon which he grew more complex and beautiful structures in his life.
In his professional life - especially in mediation, negotiation and agreements - he not only interpreted the surface level legal and contractual details, but even more so the individuals involved, and their specific situations. The goal of a mediation is to optimize the happiness of disparate parties: which doesn’t mean each party is perfectly satisfied, but rather each is as satisfied as is realistic given the circumstances.
In his relationships with others the virtuous perspective was straightforward: Put friends, family and love above all else, always; have tolerance for people’s differences.
Pretty simple… though often easier said than done.
When it came to his personal interests, inner life and demeanor, he knew who he was, what he was about, and where he stood with others in his life. he was proud of his own interests and hobbies, even among critics.
I saw him as typically patient with frustrating people, but I had a deep respect for his ability to adopt an “ah, get lost” stance with someone - either literally saying aloud it or keeping it inside - and then moving on without holding a grudge.
That last bit there being the important part.
a lot of this stuff is familiar from popular aphorisms and even hokey bumper stickers. But it’s one thing to wear a “life is good” slogan on your shirt, which he absolutely did! - you can see it there on his hat - and quite another to personally embody deceptively simple, timeless wisdom…
I am most inspired when I consider the rich fruits he was able to grow off this efficient root stock of virtue:
. . .
In the places where it mattered, he enjoyed a profound certainty.
Maybe he wasn’t sure whether the black or the saddle seats would look best with that exterior color on a new car, but he never second-guessed where he stood with those he loved.
When I moved farther away, the physical distance was hard but it didn’t put a single dimple in the depth of our relationship.
My dad was a lifelong runner, so naturally every time I go running I think about him.
Earlier this spring he was briefly at the hospital to get some tests done. I texted him and told him I ran a little faster for his sake and was sending it his way. He told me he was proud of me and that he’s always glad to know he’s in my thoughts.
I responded “daily! and not just when you’re in the hospital [laughing emoji]”
He wrote back with a thumbs up. and then after a few moments … “Gold is up to 3,000 an ounce”.
The point here is that our connection was so mutually obvious to each other, that it barely needed to be said.
Always refreshing to hear it again, but we were both certain it wouldn’t dilute. Even if we didn’t speak for ages.
That physically-distant relationship trained me for feeling our connection without his direct presence - which is an enormous comfort in this moment…
The most recent time when my parents visited us in Rhode Island, when he was leaving we were hugging - each squeezing slightly more and more tightly until it was almost alarming… I told him that even when we’re not in the same place, I feel very connected to him. That of course It’s better when we’re together and having a big hug, but even when we’re not, it’s still just as strong.
I know we shared that certainty - an assurance that comes naturally to the virtuously prudent.
. . .
Trailing behind certainty comes confidence.
Personal pride in himself, and in how he related to and was perceived by others. There are the surface-level benefits of confidence - that I hope many of us here feel in our own lives - but there’s a deeper aspect I believe I witnessed in my dad.
A freedom from feeling threatened, and a relaxed security.
One way this came across to me was in the way we deeply bonded even through our differences. Freedom from feeling threatened is a prerequisite for truly respecting the decisions of others.
I’ll explain what I mean with an anecdote.
I was a weirdo in high school. I still am. I also really liked cars. I still do. Most recently I preferred super fast and totally silent electric cars while my dad was still a fan of a loud, throaty V8…
Anyway, high school:
My dad and I always bonded over cars, with the selection and purchase of my first car being a big moment for us, culminating in a ridiculous storybook conclusion that I don’t have time for here.
He helped get me a summer job at a mechanic’s shop in the Bronx. My dad went to high school with the mechanic who owned the shop and remembered him as “part of a hippie crowd” - a separate social clique from my dad’s, but they hung out together in the context of their shared interest in working on muscle cars.
It was a job I enjoyed, and it was down the street from his office so we could meet up for lunch.
But looking back on it, his message to me was, “Some of your interests might be different than mine, but in my life I’ve found ways to forge strong connections with people I don’t fully overlap with.”
The point here is about respecting the decisions and differences of others in an environment of sufficient confidence that you can still form deep bonds.
The way I see it… It’s something about two individuals having strong and secure definitions for their selves,
which then permits their open, social aspects to fully spool out and intertwine with other people.
That effect continued for his entire life with me, like when I was in my 20s and he was attending a loud, crazy concert my band was playing, or when Jai-Lee and I were in our 30s and he was helping with the purchase of and maintenance tasks on a 300 year old house.
…Which I’m sure he thought we were more than a little nuts to jump into!
In more recent days, as I began starting my own business ventures (and failing a few), our circles began overlapping in ways that were more solidly in his comfort zone. Having a chance to relate as peers like that was a real joy.
But all my life I felt like we had a little unspoken game where we were each pushing the other slightly outside his comfort zone,
while simultaneously welcoming our counterpart into our own space. Free from threat or judgement.
. . .
I realize more and more that he has left me a lot of breadcrumb lessons.
Some obvious to me today and some that I know are hidden on the path in my future.
I’ve been slowly picking them up and recognizing that one can only leave that kind of legacy when one is confident, trusting, and respecting of others.
As if saying, “Hey, if you have chosen this path, here are some supplies for you. If you choose to go another way, this is the model for how you can leave a trail for someone else.”
. . .
My dad exuded a sense of composure and steadiness of mind.
About a year ago, when he was dealing with a lot of changes across his life from work to health, I texted him a long message with some thoughts about periods of chaos and balance in life.
Part of his response was “yes, I will get back to my Zen self”.
I told him “The value of inner peace and cool is one of the best lessons you’ve taught me”. his response was “it pleases me to hear that. it’s one my dad taught me.”
That was news to me and I was really happy to learn that I got that through him from my grandfather!
I made a joke that perhaps it traces back centuries to the ancient greek and roman stoic philosophers.
Well, it was half a joke…
More recently, I was reading some of those same philosophers and their practical wisdom on “how to live” and I was struck by something… I told my dad, “You know, I’m reading these books from like 2000 years ago - and this is great stuff and all… but a lot of it feels obvious and innate to me. it feels like stuff I already learned from you in the background throughout my whole life!”
Those ancient traditions have a term for this steadiness of mind: Equanimity.
Equanimity
. . .
My dad epitomized discernment and the virtue of prudence.
Whether it was a complex business negotiation or the simple yet profound resolve to prioritize family above all else.
From that perspective bloomed certainty in his relationships, and an easy confidence in his choices and respect for the choices of others.
Add in a tendency towards inner peace and calm - that equanimity - and you arrive at
a framework for harmony and a foundation upon which beauty and love can flourish.
. . .
In the year 58 CE, the Roman philosopher Seneca wrote an essay entitled, On the Happy Life…
In it, he invokes the term euthymia. Which is literally “cheerful calm” or “well-spiritedness”.
Seneca uses euthymia to refer to a state where, having achieved equanimity, one can live freely and happily, without distraction.
These are essentially the fruits borne of virtue. A free, happy, focused life.
. . .
When you were around my dad, the priority and goal was always clear: Let’s enjoy our lives and our time with each other. All the hard stuff is handled by that framework for harmony - and all the small stuff isn’t worth our attention to begin with!
There’s something so efficient, strategic and demonstrably successful about his approach.
He was a business entrepreneur with various successful endeavors under his belt; but I think he was also a life strategy entrepreneur: In this domain, rather than material riches and market success, his profits were spiritual and social wealth beyond measure.
And he reinvested those earnings far and wide in his family, friends and community.
. . .
I’ll leave you with an image… And looking back now, this probably could have been all I needed to say:
My dad built a boat in which he rigged up the rudder to always steer towards a bright star that he discerned.
With the navigational machinery configured correctly, all those who were close with him could board the vessel and enjoy each others’ company and the beautiful scenery without worrying too much about steering.
While cruising in harmony and balance, only small nudges and adjustments are necessary to stay on course,
and when seas get rough and more extreme measures are in order, the numerous and well-loved crew of close relations can work together under the guidance of the captain until the seas calm once again,
confident that the ship will still be moving in the right direction.
A glimpse at the distant sight of such a voyage and the wake that ripples out across the world is a gift even to those on shore, not fortunate enough to be passengers.
Luckily for us, we are all on board; And we can keep the voyage going.
Thank you for being here.
And for loving my dad.
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At first all I could write was … My dad died. Isn’t that enough?
But I must talk about his legacy and how it lives on in me and my children.
I will tell you how he loved nature and plants. And when my son Dante comes with a discarded baby tree he found and tucks it carefully in a cup of water to take home and replant, That’s my dad’s care shining through.
How he loved animals. When my daughter Grace finds a baby bird or injured mouse that she cradles in her hands, and brings to me for nurturing, That’s my dad’s gentleness shining through.
How he loved people and when the kids and I drop off Christmas gifts at a local charity hospice, by cover of night and speed away like giddy secret santas- that’s my dad’s generosity shining through.
How when we go for a drive and throw our saved peach pits out the windows excited with the possibility of the future generations enjoying a peach from a tree planted by us long ago, that’s my dad’s provider -energy shining through.
It’s all true- he does live on through us. But I feel the need to capture him more- perhaps it’s my grasping to have him back in his body, next to me. I just want more.
How does one define someone so special, how do you describe a loss so massive?
Well, you can look up definitions in the dictionary. Trying to satisfy my mind, ever the problem solver, always doing her homework, that’s what I did. Maybe that’s his dedication shining through.
After finding Grief in the Webster and Oxford dictionaries, I took my favorite book for definitions off the shelf my dad hung- Brene Brown’s “Atlas of the Heart.” In her research 3 foundational elements of grief emerged from the data: loss, longing and feeling lost. That sums it up. Those are the 3 parts making up right now.
When my dad got sick and then sicker, a dear friend shared the proverb that divides a marathon into 3 parts. I rushed to tell him right away, as he and I had taken that journey already once many years ago, training, raising money for blood cancers and running San Francisco together.
The first part of a marathon, you run with your brain. Strategy and planning- get him back to NY, organize his stacks of medical documents, tests, images, reading, researching, curbsiding medical friends I trust. Bringing him and that stack to doctors, trying to translate the vagueness into clarity. Getting him transferred to the most expert experts.
The second part of the marathon you run with your legs. Relying on well trained systems, both physical fitness and, in the case of countless appointments with subspecialists, logistical fitness. You need a team- our family headed the call. ER visits turned into long hospitalizations requiring intense physical therapy merely to cling onto function. His decades of morning exercises and yard work flexing their muscle memory hard.
The third part, the final part of a marathon, you run with your heart. It’s the most challenging, the physical fatigue is significant and you draw on inner strength to push through the intense discomfort to reach the finish line.
The very last leg of the San Francisco marathon has this ridiculous hairpin loop by the ocean. It’s both gorgeous and horrifying. You turn left when you know the finish line is to the right. And then run all the way down the beach, waving at those that are a head of you who have already turned the corner and are gleefully nearing the goal. When we ran, my dad and I acknowledged, through heavy breathes, how shitty it felt to be aware that each stride put more distance between us and that glorious end. It’s a really hilly race and I had trained on flat roads.
The last few months of my father’s life felt like that hairpin loop to me. Big effort needed to put as much distance as possible between us and the finish line, all the while knowing that at some point we have to veer right and will have to face the end head on. I could feel my dad veering right for quite some time. I was functioning….in life, at work, in parenthood, transitioned to a new job, summer camp schedules, juggling all best I could- while the honest truth is I was shattering. Tormented by the thought that he could possibly be making that turn alone while I, along with my family, were still running straight, not looking back at the inevitable that he was staring down. I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his silence often. I had promised my dad months earlier that I would ensure a cloak of comfort when the time came and I knew I had to deliver but what if I failed him?
The latin word for cloak is Pallium - which is the root of Palliative Care- It’s what I do for a living. That is his compassion shining through.
My dad has been providing me with palliative care my whole life- he has been a cloak of comfort in my darkest times, my loneliest and scariest times. In my weakest times.
His wisdom, kindness and boundless energy wrapped around me covering me during some of my life’s toughest storms. From his lifting me to keep my head above water when I was succumbing to a ripe tide as a child, to his uplifting morning pep talk while I raced across campus having overslept for a final exam, to chauffeuring me to the different specialists my babies needed so I could just focus on being their relaxed and loving mom to his trustworthy arms embracing me when life taught me the painful costs of misplaced trust, to his handy skills helping me rebuild a life, shelf by shelf - I realize now that he was my mentor in the field of palliative care for as long as I can remember.
Elizabeth Gilbert (most known for being the author of Eat, Pray, Love) wrote “Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, grief has alot in common with Love.
In those final hours, when I had the deep honor and privilege to care for my dad as both a daughter and a doctor I felt my heart stretch beyond what I thought was possible with intense grief in one hand and incredible love in the other. Carly Simon was right- there IS more room in a broken heart and like her, and because of my dad, I still do believe in love.
My dad loved love. He understood and embodied what the Atlas the Heart outlines about love. Love is not something we give or get; it is something that we nurture and grow, a connection that can be cultivated between two people only when it exists within each one of them- we love others only as much as we love ourselves. We cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection.
I feel so grateful that I was raised by a person whose love for me permeated me so deeply that it took up residence inside my heart as self-love. That legacy I hope to be giving to my children as well. And I am soothed knowing that he was here to see that I did find that heart quenching love that he embodied -in my own life.
I will close with something my dad wrote. My brother has been typing out my dad’s chicken scratch journaling- it’s a massive and eternal gift to all of us Vinney- thank you.
June 22, 2021 Vincent Cavallo writes:
The flight
Light chop is what he called it
Our bodies wobbled in unison from side to side
Looking down the aisles all I see are heads swaying and nodding as if one entity
We are all passengers on the Flight
The overhead speaker chimes ding/dong and an announcement tells us we will be landing shortly.
Ding/dong. Final approach. Please prepare for landing
We live our lives always preparing for landing.
When touchdown comes we can only hope that we enjoyed the Journey and didn’t worry or waste time thinking about the chop
Dad- I will see you in the skies, I will be your co-pilot any day. It will forever sweeten the bitterness of this grief for me to know that we were there to ensure your smooth landing - That was All of your love coming around again.
Thanks for the dog, I’ll see you in the yard. I love you.
Words will never do my dad justice. But we are trying anyway and now it’s my turn.
My dad was a true lover of life. But not just the good, fun, easy parts of life - who doesn’t love a good vacation? My dad even loved the work of life. The daily, unglamorous, grinding, difficult work of life. He rose with the sun, whistled while he worked, worked hard without complaint, and never seemed too busy in time or mind to do more. He took pride in his family and his work and cherished both. He cared for things – his cars, his kids’ cars, his home, his kids’ homes, his yard, his kids’ yards, and his especially his family and friends. He took good care of us.
My dad was a tireless doer. If something needed to be done, he helped. When we got the yearly garden mulch delivery, he was over by 8:30 am with gloves, coffee, and breakfast ready to shovel and spend time together working. When we wanted to build a koi pond he was ready, able, and willing to swing the hoe until the job was done. When we wanted to move houses, he vetted any house choice, crunched the budget numbers, and essentially handled everything from there including the closing and showing up with the truck on moving day. There are hundreds of other examples, and I know my siblings have their own hundreds, and some of you all probably have some as well. And while he gave so much of himself, he expected so little in return. He actually expected nothing in return.
My dad did not miss a thing – he was ever present and always brought his best self. He loved being with his family. He loved celebrating. If someone had an accomplishment or a milestone of any kind, not just the big ones - it was celebrated and celebrated well. He gave the best toasts. He made people feel special. He shared lots of inside jokes and he made traditions. So many traditions. He was sharp witted and funny. He made everything special and fun.
My dad was gentle and accepting. When I have made what any parent would objectively view as questionable life choices, my dad had a way of redirecting and guiding that never made me feel ashamed or scared. He accepted and loved me unconditionally. I knew I could go to him with anything and he would support me to get to the right place. My dad was always safe. I felt he could bear anything. I trusted him fully and completely.
He was the absolute best grandfather a kid could have. He was hands on. The kind of grandpa that that rocked and cuddled babies, got down on the floor to play trains and blocks with toddlers, built countless sandcastles, and taught his grandkids to captain a boat and play poker. He was always present and prideful.
My dad was magnetic. He drew people to him – he was the kind of man people just liked being around. He just had a way about him – something about just the right balance of strength and softness, seriousness and lightheartedness. He knew how to connect with people, when to crack a joke, when to give a hug, when to talk, and when to listen. This carried through to all areas of his life – he was the life of the party, the center of the closing table, the leader of the pack. He had a deep intelligence that generated feelings of safety and trust.
He was the only ally you needed, he was always ready to hear about a problem or issue and give sound well-reasoned advice. He was flexible, a peace maker, and a solution finder. Even as an attorney, it was never about the fight, argument, or divergence; it was about the solution, the equities, and the meeting of minds. He was confident and poised, a formidable opponent of the highest caliber but never a bully. He always had or found the time to help, listen, advocate, and act for any of us.
My parents shared a fairytale love story and his love for my mom, and their love for each other, was the backdrop for our family. Their wedding anniversary, October 21, 1973, was truly their national holiday. It was quite a high bar they set for what marriage and love should be and it was beautiful. Their constant, warm, loving, and passionate union made their home a sanctuary.
My dad deserved a longer life. He deserved even one more decade with his wife. He deserved to enjoy his retirement, to play some golf, to play more card games, to winter in Florida, to take up some new hobbies, and to do some traveling. He deserved to put more miles on his Corvett. He deserved to watch his grandchildren grow up and maybe even to hold a great-grandchild. But life is much more mysterious than what is “deserved” and what is “fair.” And we must accept this, as he did.
My dad was the bravest, strongest, kindest, gentlest, and most generous and loving man. I am so very grateful to have had the privilege of being his daughter and growing up so close to his light. The gap his passing leaves is cavernous and seems insurmountable. He was a giant tree at the heart of our family forest. Our forest feels stripped down, but not to bedrock. Because my dad left behind the most fertile soil. In his memory and with his guidance - we will take care of each other and accept this succession, and our forest will continue to grow. Thank you, dad. I love you.