Dear friends,

A few days ago, I took the boys on a pilgrimage to Leonard Cohen’s gravesite in Montreal. We winded our way up and down Mount Royal, crossed some Canadian mud patches with only one ruined pair of pants, navigated through one Catholic cemetery, then another. Along the way we discussed the nature of these places, where we bury our dead.
“Don’t step on the gray stones!”
“Why not?”
“Because there are people buried under them?”
“So?”
“Each one of them was buried by people who love them, and we respect that love by not stepping on the graves.”
“Are they skeletons?”
“It depends how long they’ve been there.”
“Do we all become skeletons when we die?”
“First our skin becomes part of the earth, then our flesh, and then we are like skeletons for a while. But it’s not really us, just what’s left of our bodies.”

As a parent, I find this moment liberating. I question myself, talking this way to a five-year-old, but the anxiety I used to pick up from him on this topic is absent now. Maybe the matter-of-fact way his older brother talks about the role of worms and their digestive system helps normalize the inevitable.

“We’re going to the grave of one of the most famous Canadians ever,” I tell them.
“What is he famous for?”
“Guess.”
“He invented something,”
“No.”
“He was a sports star.”
“No.”
“The president of Canada?”
“They don’t have those here. And no. Keep thinking.”

Finally, we arrive at the Gate of the Heavens Cemetery (Sha’ar Hashamayim). We examine one “Cohen” grave, then another, and another as we look for Leonard’s. Some of them have stones placed on them, a practice which I also try to explain to the boys. None of the graves, however, have the different type of Star of David we’ve been instructed to find. Different in what way, we’re not exactly sure.

Finally, we detect a gravestone completely covered in little stones, along with flowers, laminated letters, pencils, pieces of art and other little gifts left for the dead man. Ezzy confirms that it’s got the right name written on it, and below the name indeed we find a different type of Star of David. Instead of triangles, hearts link themselves as they move in and out of one another. A gentle transformation of nationalism into love.

“So what was he famous for?”
“He wrote songs and poems.”
“That’s it?”
“You see all those things people left on his grave? That’s because music is one of the greatest gifts a person can give. That’s why he’s so loved.”

While Ezzy and Manu begin gathering sticks as their gift a few more pilgrims come by. We stand in front of the humble gravesite, looking at the stone in English and art, and the smaller one at his feet in Hebrew, with his Hebrew name and the letters תנצב"ה, an acronym for the words: “His soul be tied into the chain of life.”

One of the pilgrims describes poetry readings in downtown Montreal in the seventies, where Cohen would be accompanied by piano. “Appropriate to come here on Passover,” he says.

I tell the boys they know one of his songs, and we all sing Hallelujah together. As we begin our walk back up the mountain, I ask them what they think he meant by “the holy or the broken Hallelujah.”

Manu knows the answer:
“A holy Hallelujah is when you say it at a holiday and you’re so happy that you just say it. A broken Hallelujah is when you say it when you’re sad because something bad happened, or frustrated, or angry.” Five-year-old wisdom for the ages.

We walk and talk about some ancestors that I knew but they didn’t, and others neither of us knew, pass back through the Canadian mud, this time unscathed, and back to the car, pilgrimage completed.

In the Haggadah we sing: “All my bones will say: Who is like You?” Does that happen up here or down there?

This Earth Day I ask: Aren't we lucky that we will one day become part of the earth?

Shabbat Shalom, Chag sameach and happy Earth Day,
Rabbi Misha

Becoming Earth