bless

.

Ring the bells that still can ring 

Forget your perfect offering 

There is a crack, a crack in everything 

That’s how the light gets in 

The birds they sang at the break of day “Start again”, 

I seem to hear them say 

Don’t dwell on what has passed away 

Or what is yet to be 

Ah, the wars, they will be fought again 

The holy dove, she will be caught again 

Bought and sold and bought again 

The dove is never free 

Ring the bells that still can ring 

Forget your perfect offering 

There is a crack, a crack in everything 

That’s how the light gets in 

We asked for signs, and the signs were sent 

The birth betrayed, the marriage spent 

Yeah, the widowhood of every single government 

Signs for all to see 

I can’t run no more with that lawless crowd 

While the killers in high places say their prayers out loud 

But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up a thundercloud 

And they’re going to hear from me 

Ring the bells that still can ring 

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything 

That’s how the light gets in 

You can add up the parts

But you won't have the sum

You can strike up the march

On your little broken drum

Every heart, every heart

To love will come 

But like a refugee

Ring the bells that still can ring 

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything 

That’s how the light gets in 

That’s how the light gets in 

That’s how the light gets in  

—Leonard Cohen

.

 

When I met Leonard Cohen, I was a failed writer, and I acted like one. We were waiting to bow into the walking meditation line at the Rinzai-ji Zen Center in Los Angeles. I pretended I didn’t know who he was and asked him if my Ford Festiva was parked in the right place. “Sure,” he said. I feigned surprise: “‘Everybody Knows.’

I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”

His monk’s name, Jikan, means “noble silence,” and he manifested it then. I was mortified.

I gave up writing to become a Zen monk, and then, a decade after meeting Jikan, I wrote a book about being a monk. A helpful nun left chapters of the work-in-progress in his cabin during a retreat. I was the head monk at the monastery, and I approached him at the end of a long day to ask how his back was. He was short, thin and old, but he still sat like a rock in the zendo meditation hall.

“I don’t feel a thing,” he said. I nodded: “Your meditation must be really strong.” He shook his head and said, “OxyContin.” Then he looked into my eyes with a clear, almost startled expression and said: “Hey, I love your book. How can I help?” I refused all his generous offers but one, and he wrote the book’s foreword.

He had a decades-long relationship with our teacher, the Roshi, and it was my privilege to witness these two powerful men “make relationship,” as Roshi would say. I think Roshi liked having Jikan around because Jikan did not make any demands on him. They could just sip tea in silence. (Once people start talking, they inevitably start fighting, Roshi said.)

One afternoon, Roshi, 106 years old by then, diminished by both age and a sex scandal that devastated our community and his reputation, had an accident in his adult diapers. As I took Roshi to the bathroom, Jikan filled a basin with warm water, removed his suit coat and cuff links, and rolled up his crisp white sleeves. “Jikan, I can do that part,” I said. “I wouldn’t think of it,” he said. I helped Roshi stand while Jikan knelt behind him and gently wiped him clean. Watching Jikan serve our teacher, unobsequiously and with intelligence, care and respect, helped take the sting out of my own failures as a writer and as a man. You learn that there is something greater than artistic success when you see a great artist humbling himself. Jikan, like any good monk, was devoted to what his teacher was devoted to.

He and Roshi had a similar project, a shared vision: Roshi taught it, Leonard sang it. With none of Leonard’s eloquence or Roshi’s wisdom at my disposal, I would describe it as the union of contrary things — and then their separation again, and the struggle in between. In different ways, they each gave their lives to breaking and maintaining silence on what Buddhists call the Great Matter and what Roshi called True Love. Was Leonard an artist consumed by despair? No, his work was shot through with the opposite of despair. But in Leonard’s world, the opposite of despair was not hope — it was clarity. From this clarity came the vision of a prophet: “I’ve seen the future, brother/It is murder.”

The penultimate time I saw Jikan, I was getting lunch on Larchmont Street with an old friend from my Hollywood screenwriting days. I had given him a copy of my book. Only one thing about it impressed him: “Dude, I can’t believe you know Leonard Cohen!” We left the pizza parlor, turned the corner, and who should be sitting at a table outside a burger restaurant but Jikan Leonard Cohen himself. He had an office nearby, and we spent the afternoon brainstorming about how to revitalize the monastery now that our teacher was dead.

“What if you put in a rifle range and get a bunch of young guys up there?” Jikan said. “Man, if I were 15 minutes younger, I’d join you.” Yes, rifles. For all the self-satisfied liberals who want to claim him as one of their own, I’m sorry, but Leonard Cohen belongs to everyone. Once, when we were waiting in the lobby at the doctor’s office, he said: “My National Rifle Association hat came in the mail today. I looked at the tag. I couldn’t believe it: Made in China!” After I rearranged my jaw on my face from its descent to the floor, I said, “You’re an N.R.A. member?” He kept staring straight ahead. “Let’s keep that between us,” he said.

I think of that episode now, during our current historical moment. I have no idea how Jikan would have voted in the past election, but if there was anyone who could hold both extremes in his hand and heart, it was the man who, for the last words on his last album, chose these: “I wish there was a treaty we could sign/… I wish there was a treaty between your love and mine.” For an artist informed by a vision of True Love, opposite forces and peoples are just different kinds of love trying to meet. Jikan sang of and from the longing in this struggle.

The last time I saw him, he looked epiphanic and light, as if he were disappearing. There was great pain in his eyes, and his breath was heavy. He told me that during his stay in India after his years at our Zen monastery, something clicked and he found a peace inside that had never left him. “This stuff works,” he said. “Somehow everything I’ve been doing all these years comes down to the work I did with Roshi.” He played his new album for me. At the end, gorgeous, soft strings set the tone, lulling you into a drifting, pensive melancholy. Then his voice emerges with the wish for a treaty of love. He sat in silence before me, this aged, tiny, impeccably dressed poet, his black fedora tilted lightly on his head, his voice booming all around us.

—

—Shozan Jack Haubner

Ode to Leonard Cohen, From a Fellow Zen Monk, New York Times

Jack Haubner is a Zen Buddhist priest and writer. His second book, “Single White Monk: Tales of Death, Failure, and Bad Sex (Although Not Necessarily in That Order),” came out Oct. 10, 2017.

thank you, wait - what ?

.