Leonard Visits Me

I recently heard a friend sing a lovely version of Leonard Cohen’s Anthem. Not many people know, but Leonard and I grew up together. We met when I was in high school. He wrote the songs and did the singing and recording. I bought the records and sheet music and sang along. I loved his unapologetic sadness—his joyous expression of the mysterious impossibility of life. His songs were never about resolution, but were a celebration of whatever particular imperfect moment you happened to be in. Leonard’s vocal range was small and his guitar abilities limited, but he found a way to bring his heart and soul to every note.

I first got to know Leonard through Judy Collins’ version of his earliest big hit, Suzanne. I was just learning how to shave, how to play the guitar and how to kiss girls. I never really knew what the song meant or when was the exact right moment to kiss or not kiss. But I never tired of singing about the ‘tea and oranges’ that came ‘all the way from China’ or of imagining that perfect kiss. Suzanne’s hypnotic melody and the mysterious romantic yearning were a perfect expression of my own confusion and endless longing.

Thirty years later, my Zen teacher would tell stories about sitting retreats at Mount Baldy Zen Center with Leonard and his gravely voice. The senior monks, like Leonard and my teacher, were sometimes invited to drink sake and smoke cigars after hours with ‘Roshi’ – the old Japanese teacher who was a fierce, brilliant and, as it turned out, a serial sexual predator that maintained a cult-like hold on his Zen acolytes. Leonard had left his high-profile pop-star life to live the austere Zen life, but he was eventually disillusioned and returned to life in LA.

While away at the Zen center, Leonard’s personal fortune had been squandered by his financial manager and that led to a new burst of necessary creativity and a world tour by the then old man. I bought the London album and had the good fortune to see him when he came through Boston. His voice was lower and more limited than ever. He was old and creaky and delivered an amazing and exactly choreographed show. At one point, he knelt down in a romantic gesture and it was clear how much that physical effort cost him. He managed to get back to standing, but it was not a sure thing.

But I woke this morning with the chorus of Anthem going through my head:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

 These lyrics have become an anthem of the Mindfulness movement and have been dutifully recited in mindfulness classrooms around the world. Assuming iconic status is a mixed blessing. Having heard them so often, I usually just tune them out, but yesterday, heard them fresh again.

Humming to myself in the dark room, I was first struck by the injunction to ‘forget your perfect offering’. How necessary it is to abandon our notions of perfection and how things should be. How easy this is to say and how difficult to live. Moment after moment is filled with expectations about myself and those around me. Part of my brain is constantly comparing what is happening with what I think should be happening. Only in the moments when I give up how it should be, can I fully appreciate how it already is.

Then I moved on to the humor and the poignant acknowledgment of the first line ‘Ring the bells that still can ring’. A sweet reminder that, as we move on in our lives, not all the bells can still ring. We can’t walk as fast or work as long as we used to. The capacities of youth stay with the youth as we cycle through the stages and ages of life. Not a problem. Use what you have. Sometimes you can run, sometimes you’re lying in bed. Sometimes you have words, sometimes just a glance or a squeeze.

So, the encouragement for us all this morning is to forget how it should be and let whatever is here be enough. You are already the full presentation. Just a few notes or no notes are more than enough. In each kiss the universe finds itself again. The light has already entered and nothing can be fixed.