Ballad Of The Purple Rain Maker

You say you want a leader

But you can’t seem to make up your mind
I think you better close it
And let me guide you to the purple rain . .

Every century produces only a few of them. Prince was one. One what? Scholar? Genius? Inventor? Artist? Philosopher? Prophet? Scientist? What? Pull up a stool and I’ll tell you What . . .

Well let’s see . . I’m sitting out back in my sun-baked yard; and what has caught my attention? The diaphanous beauty of newly sprung dandelions. Slight amendment: a few are lovingly ‘enstalked’ in the bated suspense of “what’s next?”; a few have dispatched their seed-laden parachutes far and wide; and a few are basking (unassumingly) in fractal, spherical glory.

I sit in stillness and wonder . .

I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted one time to see you laughing
I only want to see you laughing in the purple rain

That’s just it, isn’t it? When you cut through the bullshit, ego-bristling, jabber of our tenuous dispositions, what’s left? A purity of soul that knows how to receive and extend kindness with exquisite ease . . A soul lost in the ‘Purple Rain’ . . .

I never wanted to be your weekend lover
I only wanted to be some kind of friend
Baby I could never steal you from another
It’s such a shame our friendship had to end

Parent, daughter, son, sibling, lover, companion, mentor: we belong with each other; not to each other. When we figure that one out, we’re back in the ‘Purple Rain’ . . .

I know, I know, I know times are changing
It’s time we all reach out for something new
That means you too

Not reaching out for “something new” when the need is screaming at us, is to keep the ineffable dandelion imprisoned in its slender stalk. Don’t do that, especially if you have a free ticket to the gig!

You say you want a leader
But you can’t seem to make up your mind
I think you better close it
And let me guide you to the purple rain

Hmmm . .

If I had to capture the essence of Prince’s lyric here, I would use the following Haiku poem by 19c Japanese monk/writer, Ryokan:

The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind;The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind. The flower opens, the butterfly comes; The butterfly comes, the flower opens. I don’t know others, Others don’t know me. But by not knowing, we follow nature’s course.

The Purple Zone is timeless, silent, mindless, and perfectly aligned with Source.

If you know what I’m singing about up here
C’mon raise your hand

But we do, Prince! We do! It’s just . . It’s just that we can’t put it into words like you.

Wrap Up One

The eulogist at the funeral of Thomas Merton, one of the 20th century’s greatest contemplative writers, likened Merton’s premature death (at 53) to the toppling of a freshly opened bottle of exquisite wine. Damn! It’s gone . . and all we’re left with is the fragrance . . .

So take another whiff in honor of the Purple Enigma . . .

Wrap Up Two

The raw, unadulterated, passionate play of “The Boss” – take it away Bruce!