I’m Your Man: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen and my Zaida Adam
The story of Isaac
In the Jewish tradition, there are several methods for understanding and interpreting biblical literature. The two most widely known are peshat and derash. The word peshat comes from pashut, which means simple. The peshat method of interpretation looks for the most literal, obvious meaning of a text. Derash, on the other hand, looks beyond the surface. The word comes from lidrosh, which means to seek. Derash seeks out what’s hidden within the text.
To illustrate the peshat/derash dichotomy, take the story of Abraham and Isaac from the Old Testament. According to peshat, it’s fairly linear. God commands Abraham to offer up his son, Isaac, as a sacrifice. Abraham agrees. Once Isaac is bound to the alter, a messenger from God stops Abraham from completing the sacrifice. Abraham is directed to sacrifice a nearby ram instead. From a derash perspective, on the other hand, there are myriad possible interpretations. Is it a cautionary tale about the consequences of blind obedience? Or proof of God’s mercy? Or a meditation on how we manage moral quandaries? Or something else entirely?
Peshat and Derash represent two distinct approaches to biblical literature. But I see them also as two ways of being in the world. Some of us inherently lean toward peshat, while others lean toward derash. The first group is apt to experience the world at face value. To them, reality is a straightforward proposition. Things are as they appear. For the second group, everything within us and everything around us is infused with meaning. And by scratching the surface, we may uncover truth, wisdom, and beauty. (Spoiler: I fall into the latter camp.)
Like a bird on the wire
To further elucidate the peshat/derash dichotomy, consider a somewhat lighter example. Two friends wake up bright and early to go birdwatching. Binoculars in hand, they spot a cardinal and share their initial impressions. One friend, who is peshat-oriented, describes the cardinal’s appearance—its brilliant red feathers, thick orange bill, and prominent crest. The other friend, who is more derash-oriented, focuses on the cardinal’s symbolic value as a harbinger of hope and joy.
Birds feature prominently as metaphors in many of the songs that have made their mark in popular culture. In “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac, Christine McVie uses bird imagery to depict love as an act of selflessness:
To you, I’ll give the world
To you, I’ll never be cold
‘Cause I feel that when I’m with you
It’s alright, I know it’s right
And the songbirds are singing
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before
Paul McCartney wrote “Blackbird” as a commentary on the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960’s. Specifically, he was referencing “The Little Black Nine”—the nine Black students who confronted racism by attending a formerly all-white school, thereby paving the way for desegregation. Inspired by the students’ courage, McCartney wrote:
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
My personal favourite is Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on a Wire,” which he wrote in the same era while living on the remote island of Hydra in Greece:
Like a bird on the wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free
The bird is meant to fly but is helplessly tethered to the wire. Similarly, much as we humans want to be free, we are often bound by society’s rules and expectations.
Forget your perfect offering
Like Leonard, my late Zaida Adam was a Jewish Montrealer with a low, gravelly voice. He died a little over a year ago at the age of 99. When I spoke at his funeral, I remarked that one of his most compelling traits was his intellectual curiosity. The bookshelves in his condo were lined with great works from the Western canon, evidence of his insatiable appetite for knowledge.
But erudite as he was, Adam wasn’t one to wax philosophical. On the contrary, he was extremely practical and grounded in the present. He seemed to readily accept and embrace the world for what it was, with all its flaws and all its beauty. He was hopeful and optimistic about the future but didn’t deny or begrudge reality. He embodied the peshat mindset and he was fundamentally grateful and content.
Leonard had a decidedly different outlook. Through his powerful music and evocative writing, he explored such themes as loneliness, passion, religion, and politics. His art suggested that he was disposed to the derash mindset. Leonard drew upon a range of symbols to express his ideas: The famous blue raincoat. The flag on the marble arch. The bird on the wire. The list goes on.
New York is cold, but I like where I’m living
Leonard was the quintessential seeker. He was born in Montreal but went on to live in London, Manhattan, Hydra, and the top of Mount Baldy near Los Angeles. Adam, born in Poland, came to Canada as a refugee after the War and spent the next 75 years in Montreal.
Leonard had a room in New York’s legendary Chelsea Hotel. Adam had a condo in Hallandale Beach, Florida where he went to escape the cold Montreal winters.
Maybe there’s a god above
Cohen strongly identified with his Judaism, but wasn’t spiritually monogamous. He was profoundly influenced by Christianity and Hinduism, dabbled in scientology, and spent a decade as a Zen Buddhist on the aforementioned mountain.
Adam was a proud Jew and enjoyed practicing the rituals of his faith. He regularly attended Saturday services and led our family’s Passover seders in impeccable fashion. The image of him praying each morning, his arm wrapped in tefillin, is seared in my memory.
Dance me to the end of love
Leonard had a long line of lovers: Joni Mitchell, Janis Joplin, Marianne, and Suzanne, to name a few. But of his many dalliances, he once said, “My reputation as a ladies' man was a joke that caused me to laugh bitterly through the ten thousand nights I spent alone.”
Adam met and married his beloved Paula in Vienna in 1948. He remained steadfastly devoted to her for the rest of his life.
In my secret life
As the above quote suggests, much of Leonard’s brilliant music was fuelled by pain. He was dogged by clinical depression throughout his life. Was this a function of his derash nature? Was Adam’s peshat mindset the reason for his happiness? These are, of course, unanswerable questions. And perhaps it’s a stretch to depict Adam and Leonard as two sides of the same coin. But I like to imagine that had they crossed paths, they’d have had a nice chat about politics or literature or the Canadians. Or that they’re having that chat right now, somewhere high above the clouds. Leonard in his fedora and my Zaida in his newsboy cap. Sharing a Scotch and watching the birds soar beneath them.