Paul E. Weber
1950-2016
tribute
Paul Weber was an exceptional friend, guide, mentor, father, champion of all in hardship, seer of truths and flaws and beauty.
He was a complex soul of searing intelligence, unfathomable steadfastness, irreverent humor, and deep, abiding love. His clear blue eyes saw right through you, unflinching and solemn. And then the clouds would part, his face would soften, he’d tilt his head, and a conspiratorial smile would unfold. It was hard to look away from that face, so full of courage and solitude.
Paul dedicated his life to the Nimatullahi Sufi order, starting in the mid-1970’s. As a young man practicing the Gurdjieff work, he read a poem that moved him deeply. He travelled to Iran to find its author, becoming one of a handful of American followers of Dr. Javad Nurbakhsh. Upon returning, he helped in the purchase of the first several khaniqahs (Sufi gathering houses) in the U.S., and was instrumental in bringing the order to North America.
Though his focus was on the inner, he walked this world with fascination and finesse. He was educated at Yale and Columbia, and never stopped sharpening his intellect and acquiring knowledge. He was a natural athlete, playing and coaching soccer, hiking and skiing the Alps. As a young high school English teacher he wanted to roam the world with a book of poetry and a notebook in a rucksack. But his steel-trap mind and steely resolve landed him in law school instead. A partner for many years at the corporate law firm Schulte Roth & Zabel, L.L.P., he played the game expertly, yet redefined the rules with his integrity and generosity.
He loved Leadbelly, Ella, Beckett and Yeats. He valued music and literature of all genres, connecting most with themes of essential loneliness and persistent struggle. He knew sports scores, travel lore, film history, something about everything. He cited to connect, to fold you in, to bring you up. He treasured One Hundred Years of Solitude, himself equal parts magic and realism. His favorite quote, summing up a family’s tribulations at the end of a Faulkner novel: “They endured.”
Many, many pages would be needed to describe the totality of his life, and his effect on the lives of others. But here, at least, we can try to pay tribute to a remarkable man with our memories and reflections.
Growing up in an environment of Swiss austerity he was trained to never falter; perfectionism was at once a guiding companion and demanding warden. He devoted his life to spiritual evolution, firmly on the Sufi path, yet inspired by the teachings of various traditions.
One of the original translators of the first Divan-e Nurbakhsh, [Collected poems of Dr. Javad Nurbakhsh] and an editor of the second, he was a wordsmith ne plus ultra for Khaniqah Nimatullahi Publications. As an editor of SUFI journal he tirelessly edited and proofread text, refining, clarifying, and bringing to life the words of others.
As a spiritual leader, he taught by example. He helped those whom others might shun, at times that others might find inconvenient. When the khaniqah took on volunteer efforts, he was the first one on site, chopping vegetables, delivering food to the infirm, serving in the soup kitchen.
Nothing cheered him more than darvishes working, playing and sharing meals together. His occasional extemporaneous discourses were eloquent and instructive, but their real power was in his commitment to the message: we’re in this together.
There is no way to tell all the ways in which Paul was a teacher: in khaniqah, at work, in life. But perhaps these few scenes from his life might give us a glimpse of how he lived:
Here he is at the law office. Uncharacteristically, he’s leaving at noon. It’s December 23rd ,and an important deal closes the morning of the 24th. By late afternoon the heat is on; the client’s lawyers want to know where he is and the junior partners are making excuses since they don’t know. At 8 pm he returns, brushes past them and works through the night. The deal closes on time. Years later it was discovered he had left to buy and deliver gifts to sick kids at St. Vincent’s Hospital.
He’s giving the waitress his credit card before the meal begins, He’s buying dinner, lunch, coffee for everyone, again. If you tried to protest he’d say, I pay, because that’s what I can do. If a darvish had an art show, he’d show up and buy something. When someone opened an online book business, he ordered books. He amassed countless IOU’s that he never once mentioned.
It’s a quiet and grey afternoon. He’s on the end of the pier, feet in the water, watching drops of rain make disappearing circles on the pond. Perhaps he’s thinking of sparse beauty, of temporality, of nature’s balm. He has brought the roiling river to the sea of steady calm.
He’s on a bus, lurching and inching through traffic. This could take all day. He’s going to a 1st birthday party and he’s got a small gift bag in his hand, pink tissue sticking out. He’s everyone’s family, and he shows up when someone needs him to be their only family.
Go to Garber’s Hardware, he’s telling you. It’s around the corner on Greenwich. Go to Garber’s and get this paint, this tool, these nails, in this color, this box, this kind, with this money. Do not skimp. Do not skimp on quality. Do not skimp on the steps of a job, or on the job as a whole. But most importantly, never, ever, skimp on intention.
See him now on 11th Street, crossing Hudson, passing wine bars and designer shops. Lanky and ever so slightly bent, he puts down his things and turns a key in the door. For all the world like an old preacher who just walked up a desolate country road to open his clapboard church. Inside he works in the basement, sharpening tools, putting things away, sorting documents, making lists. Absorbed in continuous activity and focus.
He’s in the back room, listening, listening, advising, shaking his head in disbelieving solidarity. This while he struggled to get enough breath to speak and enough calories to live. Every person’s difficulty was the hardest thing his compassionate heart had ever heard.
Last March. He’s slowing down a bit. The tulips push up through the ground in Abingdon Square, and voices of children waft from the playground. On a bench, he sits in silence. The bench. Sitting for a moment after a lifetime of forward motion. Taking in warmth after a long winter. Shining like the sun.
The final snapshot: a starburst of light. He’s been lifted from his troublesome vessel. The vessel that he pushed and pushed to incredible lengths. He’s throwing rays, glinting this way and that, through each of us he’s ever touched. His love endures. His love inspires. His love can be found in the hearts of all who knew him. And in a toolbox, on the shelf, in the basement, of 306 W. 11th Street, forever.