Love, Loss, and the Meaning of Life—and Why It Really Is Important To Twinkle After All

Leonard Cohen, my favorite prophet, wrote many songs with deep and thoughtful lyrics—poems, really, set to music. And, in spite of his gravelly singing voice, described by one critic as sounding “like the bottom of an ashtray,” the songs are beautiful works of musical art as well as profound statements about the condition of being alive and how he struggled, through his songs, to find meaning in his own life. 

One of his best was titled “The Tower of Song,” in which he presents himself as a  deceased spirit existing in a lonely tower, but aware of the presence of the spirits of other songwriters who have come and gone before him. As always, Cohen uses this as a vehicle to ask the question that seemed to be central to all his work: what does it all mean? Ironically, and there is always irony in Cohen’s songs, these very personal, heartfelt musings are backed by a trio of singers intoning “Doo dah-dum-dum-dah-doo-dum-dum” like a 1950’s Doo-wop group. In performance, the song ends with those nonsense syllables being offered up as the real meaning of life—the humor is lost here, but you can check it out on Youtube for the full effect. 

As I approach my 72nd year, the age that Leonard Cohen was when he embarked on his final concert tours, after he spent five years on retreat in a Buddhist monastery, I  often ask that same question about my own life—evaluating the past, examining the present and wondering about the future. I don’t imagine this is unusual; I expect we all do this sometimes, more and more so as we get older and closer to moving on from this phase of ourselves.

So how do we measure the worth of our lives as human beings? How do we determine if our own lives are well-lived?

Most of us will declare that accumulating wealth and possessions is not the most important thing to strive for, but surely none of us minds if our finances are in good order and we can be comfortable—no one wants to be poor, and money problems can be worrisome for anyone who experiences them. As George Bailey said to his guardian angel, Clarence Oddbody, in the film It’s A Wonderful Life when Clarence declared that money wasn’t necessary in Heaven, “Well it comes in pretty handy around here!” But we all know that wealth and possessions really can’t be the arbiter of what constitutes a well-lived life.

The acquisition of knowledge and the development of ability are admirable life goals that often occur in tandem. Expertise in any area of endeavor is a highly prized commodity that can bring us respect, even acclaim, while giving us personal confidence and self-esteem. It is important to be able to walk through life with your head held high, feeling that your knowledge and abilities have led to accomplishments that have made you a useful and productive member of society—valuable, in a word. But that knowledge, that ability, suddenly feels like a drop in the universal bucket if we consider the totality of existence and how much there is that we simply don’t, and possibly can’t, know—at least not here, not now. 

So what’s it all about, then? When it’s all done, when the final evaluation of our lives is taken, what is the one thing that determines our worth as human beings? In my humble opinion, it is the most important, basic, four-letter word: love. That is a very big word, love, and it encompasses many forms: romantic, familial, platonic, spiritual. It is something that can be given to other people, to other creatures, to causes that we believe in. In all cases it is deep and abiding, and is not easily shed or discarded; it seems as essential to our lives as air, food, and water. We can’t, and we don’t, live without it—all of us love something or someone throughout our lives.

Like most of us, I have experienced love in all the ways mentioned above and continue to do so as I grow older—perhaps even more so as the importance of love in life increases while other concerns and values decrease and fade away. And like most of us, I have experienced the inconsolable loss of people close to me whom I have loved and continue to love deeply.

My first great loss was my father, who died when I was in my early 30s. Our relationship was complicated, as is often the case between fathers and sons—we were, and are, much alike so some conflict was inevitable, but any problems were overshadowed by mutual love. It was all the more painful then, to lose him at a time when we were just beginning to establish an adult relationship as grown men. I miss him greatly and still feel his presence many years later.

As hard as the loss of my father was, the recent passing of my wife of 39 years is the most devastating thing I have ever experienced. Words are not adequate to describe what it feels like to lose the one person you have chosen to spend your life with, especially at an age far too young and with so much hope for the future; only those who have been through this themselves can understand the depth of such a heartbreaking loss.

But even with the most unfathomable losses, there can be something that gives us hope and comfort. Family, friends, and community can be there to support us, and I have been blessed with many great friends and colleagues in the Suzuki community. Sincere condolences, gifts, visits, but especially the warm, supportive and continual contact from some of the finest human beings I know sustained me throughout a very dark time and have shown me what love really means: caring selflessly, asking for nothing in return. 

My Suzuki families stuck by me at a time when I was distraught, distracted, and certainly not the teacher they have a right to expect for their excellent children. They all deserve thanks and praise for coming together as a group to help someone in need with their patience, forbearance, and understanding.

Because of this outpouring of help and support—this outpouring of love—any thoughts of retiring from teaching have been shelved for the foreseeable future. The wonderful things about being a Suzuki instructor—the openness of the students, their curiosity, positivity, and love of learning; the relationships that develop with wonderful, caring parents—give all of us who teach so many things to look forward to each day in the studio. Likewise, the Suzuki community—dedicated teachers who are committed to what they do as a way of making the world a better place to be while we are here—has shown how true fellowship can get us through some of the most difficult times in our lives, and I feel privileged to be a member of a group of such exceptional people. 

Sayings and adages abound in our world of high ideals, and it can be so easy to lose sight of the essential truth of the things we repeat so often in our public speeches as representatives of the Suzuki Method, as well as in personal conversations with one another. But in the end, it really does all come down to the most basic things we believe in as members of this community: the absolute truth of Dr. Suzuki’s simple but profound statement, “Where love is deep, much can be accomplished.” 

I want to thank two of the best people in the world for being there to share some of the best times and some of the worst times: David Madsen—friend, fellow wine lover and the man who knows where the fish are biting—and Kevin Hart—friend, editor par excellence and the man who knows where to get the best pastrami sandwiches.