CRITICA

I first met Michael when we had offices on the same corridor at Langley Porter. I think it was 1979, and I introduced myself since he seemed like one of the good, cool guys, and he was gracious whenever I bummed cigarettes from him.

We became close, working in the same office suites for the next 40 years. For a long time, we were single together, talking in the evenings and doing stuff on weekends. Michael used to say “we were joined at the hip”—a good deal for me, I’d say. He was always ready to offer patient and clear-minded advice and support about matters both trivial and consequential. We revelled in our shared irreverence, going to stuffy lectures or parties, hanging by the drinks table and talking trash to each other about some of the notable characters. Michael didn’t go in for the usual bullshit: This was serious fun; his laugh was a window to delight. He was for real, open, caring and present, taking care of business–there. Over the months since he died, I admire him more and more.

I’m hardly the only person that would say this. Those of us who have talked with Michael’s patients kept hearing the same thing—that he had a way of being himself with them, being an available and open presence and person, not sacrificing his professionalism, offering wisdom and generosity, all with his glowing commitment to being helpful. That their memories, filled with grief, were so consistent is a remarkable tribute to his deep reliability and integrity. This was hardly limited to his work: Look at Lily and Eleanor—what poised, present, attentive women they are. (For sure, Sandra is no parenting slouch, either.)

As we take on Michael’s legacies today, we can also reflect on how he carried forth the legacies amidst which he found himself. He followed his father into analysis, echoing Emanuel’s dignity, enthusiasm and independence. He furnished his office with his father’s pre-World War II, Modernist credenza and desk, keeping them in elegant shape, filled with his father’s old journals. The first Dr Windholz took the train from Prague to Vienna regularly to study with Sigmund Freud, and Michael specialized in teaching Freud to beginning analysts, shepherding the Freud curricula at his analytic centers for many years. He was also a psychotherapy researcher–contemporary and traditional at the same time (as were the suits he wore almost every day to the office). Given all the rest of who Michael was, we may not begin by thinking of him as an intellectual. But his command and commitment to the literature–as to his colleagues’ work–was intense, detailed and sophisticated, probing yet invariably appreciative.

I never knew Michael’s mother, Lily, but I can only imagine he carried something of her in his warmth and love for the world. His joy in white water rafting was not just contagious, it was compelling. I remember the first time I fell into the rapids, breathlessly afraid that I would drown, and then the second, relishing the rough ride, knowing that Michael and my other boatmates would pull me out. This is shorthand for what it meant to be Michael’s friend. I think of him, who had polio as a child, leading trips down the Snake River and Grand Canyon, swimming his miles, backpacking at high altitude in the last years of his life. He faced cancer with hope and fortitude, keeping the vitality and joy in motion, doing what he could to protect us from the worst, leaving us with his spirit and moral vision. He is to be missed.