One of my daughter’s favourite books is the American classic Harold and the Purple Crayon. If you haven’t had the good fortune to come across it, it’s about a little lad called Harold, whose magical purple crayon enables him to create the world around him.
Whenever I read it to her as a bedtime story, I spend the rest of the evening pondering what I would create if I had a magical purple crayon of my own.
Purple crayons were always my favourite, and they weren’t even magic. I still love purple.
Purple: the colour of waiting. The present moment is important, even if nothing particular seems to be happening.
Purple: the colour of mourning. There is a place to ackn0wledge the fact that things are occasionally, or quite often, painful and distressing, that grief and loss are real.
Purple: the colour of majesty. My life is my own.
Purple: the colour of chocolate wrappers. There is a place for pleasure.
I’d draw a purple tent, for shelter and sanctuary and rest. I’d draw a purple train, for transport and connection and adventure. I’d draw a purple crown, to keep me possessed of my own presence. I’d draw a purple sofa, for luxury.