When Leonard Cohen died back in 2016, I felt as if I’d lost a lifelong friend. He was eighty-two then—still spry the last time I saw him perform, first in Las Vegas and then in Los Angeles. Ray and I even flew to Denver to hear him again, though that concert was rained out. We talked about going all the way to London for one more show, just to be in his presence.

My relationship with Leonard Cohen has always been a love affair of the deepest kind. It began in the late 1960s when I first heard Suzanne and Sisters of Mercy. His voice—low, wry, and full of ache—became part of my inner landscape. My three daughters grew up hearing me sing those songs to them at bedtime, along with a few from Joni Mitchell.

When my sister died, I quoted Leonard’s words from Anthem at her funeral:

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.

Those lines have guided me through grief and back toward gratitude more times than I can count.

Even now, years after his passing, I still turn to his music when I need comfort. Just yesterday, feeling a little blue, I put on one of his albums. The moment that gravelly voice filled the room, I felt steadied. His lyrics—poetic, spiritual, grounded in both human frailty and divine mystery—continue to offer solace. He taught me that beauty and suffering can coexist, that holiness lives inside imperfection.

And how remarkable that a Jewish man, shaped by both mysticism and Buddhism, could use Christian imagery to reveal something universally true about the human condition:

And Jesus was a sailor
when he walked upon the water…

That verse from Suzanne still gives me chills.

Though nine years have passed since his death, I still feel the loss of my old friend. Leonard Cohen’s words and voice have been companions through so many seasons of my life—steadying me in sorrow, deepening my joy, and reminding me that beauty and brokenness are always intertwined.

Yes, I miss him. But I’m also grateful. Because his music is still here—waiting, faithful, familiar. Whenever I need bolstering, I can hear him again: gravelly, tender, wise. Offering comfort in the way only he and his music can—with a pure and tender heart.