{"id":39548,"date":"2023-09-23T00:01:34","date_gmt":"2023-09-23T07:01:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/barbarafalconernewhall.com\/?p=39548"},"modified":"2026-06-06T06:07:04","modified_gmt":"2026-06-06T06:07:04","slug":"humans-are-ineffable","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/humans-are-ineffable\/","title":{"rendered":"We Humans Are Ineffable"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"toddlers-1941-humans-are-ineffable\"<\/a>
Humans are ineffable: my brother and our cousin as toddlers. Sutcliffe family photo<\/em><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

At a memorial service for my cousin Bob Sutcliffe<\/a> in Pentwater, Michigan, last month, the gathered family and friends were asked to say something about him. Just a few words.<\/p>\n

One by one, Bob’s siblings, nephews, nieces and friends rose to the occasion and spoke up.<\/p>\n

Soon it would be my turn and I wondered, how to describe Bobby? This moment cried out for thoughtful words that could evoke — capture, define — my cousin. But what were those words? Who was<\/em>\u00a0Bobby anyway?<\/p>\n

We Humans Are Ineffable<\/strong><\/h5>\n

Bobby was very real to me.\u00a0 I’d known him all my life. He was a few months younger than my older brother. Our mothers were sisters. He was there in the Michigan woods near Pentwater every summer when my own family made its months-long pilgrimage to our cottage on a lake.<\/p>\n

In my mind I could see Bobby’s face, square-jawed, and hear his voice with its Michigan twang. I could tell stories about Bob, but I couldn’t put Bobby — the real, felt Bobby — into words.<\/p>\n

When it came my turn to speak, I muttered something that said more about my affection for Bobby than about who my cousin was. There was no describing him. There were no words. It couldn’t be done. Bobby, the person, was ineffable.<\/p>\n

People are a little like God. They are right there next to you. You know who they are. But that who<\/em> can’t be captured or summed up. We humans are ineffable.<\/p>\n

‘Who Was Jon, Anyway?’<\/strong><\/h5>\n

Back in August, 2022, I participated in the Community of Writers workshop<\/a>, which takes place every summer up in the Sierra at the ski lodge where the 1960 winter Olympics were held. I submitted to the group some of the posts I had put up on this website during the days and months following my husband’s death in 2021.<\/p>\n

My writer colleagues liked what I had written well enough, but they wanted more. They wanted me to write about Jon. Who was Jon, they wanted to know. Tell us who he was<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\"lake-michigan-woods-is-ineffable-as-humans-are-ineffable\"<\/a>
Oak trees and beach grass on the Lake Michigan beach where we played as children. Photo by Barbara Newhall<\/em><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

That I can’t tell you.<\/p>\n

Jon had blue eyes, full lips, a smattering of blond hair. He had a lovely tenor singing voice. He loved chess, the Giants, cats. He loved children — anybody’s children, not just his own. If we entered a room full of people that included a kid or two, it was the children Jon headed for.<\/p>\n

All this is true. These things are true about Jon. But they are not Jon. They are descriptions, not of Jon, but of what Jon, the ineffable, was known to do.<\/p>\n

I came across an obituary in the San Francisco Chronicle the other day for Marian Zailian, a woman<\/a> I knew and very much enjoyed when we were both on the staff at the Chronicle. I wanted to write a note to the family saying what Marian had meant to me.<\/p>\n

What did<\/em> she mean to me? She was not a close friend, but she was a person I had shared time on the planet with. She meant something to me, but she was as indescribable as my husband Jon and my cousin Bobby.<\/p>\n

Eat, Drink and Tell Stories<\/strong><\/h5>\n

Jon’s family has a tradition of gathering together after a death to eat some food, drink some wine and tell stories about the deceased. Poignant stories are good on these occasions. Funny stories are even better. A gentle roasting of the dead is not against the rules.<\/p>\n

One by one people get up and tell a story about the departed. They know better than to try to capture the ineffable, so they talk around it, with stories.<\/p>\n

The lost person does not come alive at these events. But something else does. And for that, once again, I’ve got no words.<\/p>\n

More big thoughts at “My Old Stuff — A Little Moldy, a Little Dusty. But Unlike Certain People, It’s Still With Me.”<\/a>\u00a0 Also, “In Judge Harbin-Forte’s Courtroom — Where Jury Duty Is an Exercise in Mindfulness.”<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

\"pentwater-michigan-cemetery\"<\/a>
The cemetery at Pentwater, Michigan, where Bobby is buried, not far from his mother and mine. Photo by Barbara Newhall<\/em><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\"toddlers-1941\"<\/a><\/p>\n

People are a little like God. You know who they are, but that “who” can’t be captured or summed up in words. We humans are ineffable.\u00a0 Read more.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":49093,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13,14],"tags":[2765,1013,2616,34,2766,29,2767,504,1207],"class_list":["post-39548","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-my-rocky-spiritual-journey","category-widowed","tag-bob-sutcliffe","tag-cemetery","tag-community-of-writers","tag-dont-miss","tag-ineffable","tag-jon","tag-marian-zailian","tag-pentwater","tag-woods"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39548","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=39548"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39548\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":49096,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/39548\/revisions\/49096"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/49093"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=39548"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=39548"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/server.stagingweb3.net\/barbarafalconernewhall\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=39548"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}