Sono nato in un contesto cattolico. Sono stato battezzato, ho fatto la comunione e la cresima. Ma già alle superiori ero sulla sponda agnostica. Agnostico ascendente ateo. All'università mi sono lasciato incuriosire dal buddhismo, complici qualche lettura (Herman Hesse, Siddhartha). Soprattutto, mi sono lasciato affascinare dallo Zen, e negli anni mi sono letto i libri di Suzuki, di Nyogen (101 storie zen), di Watts.
Però anche nel Buddhismo ci sono degli aspetti fideistici che non mi piacciono. Se devo credere alla reincarnazione, a sto punto mi conviene restare al paradiso purgatorio inferno danteschi.
Alcune delle 101 storie zen mi piacquero molto. Alcune non le ho capite, ma ci sta. Altre mi hanno lasciato perplesso. Nella storia 35 un uomo, dopo aver studiato 10 anni, era diventato maestro zen. Quando andò a trovare un altro maestro zen pioveva, e aveva lasciato gli zoccoli e l'ombrello fuori dalla stanza. Il maestro più anziano gli chiese se avesse appoggiato l'ombrello alla sinistra o alla destra degli zoccoli. Siccome il primo non se lo ricordava, si mise a studiare altri 6 anni. Questa, e altre storie, mi hanno lasciato la sensazione che meditazione e illuminazione fossero, perseguite così, una forma di feticismo.
Ho scoperto il Taoismo più tardi. E il Taoismo mi piace più degli altri approcci. Anche perché lo vedo come una filosofia, non una religione. Se dovessi spiegare il Taoismo non ci riuscirei, per vari motivi. Soprattutto perché l'incipit del Tao Te Ching afferma che "Il Tao che può essere spiegato non è il vero Tao".
Qualche giorno fa mi è capitato di ascoltare con attenzione "Dear Prudence", la canzone dei Beatles. Dedicata a Prudence Farrow, che meditava troppo. E ho avuto la sensazione che la canzone fosse un manifesto taoista. E allora ho chiesto all'intelligenza artificiale:
Please write a short essay explaining why the Beatles song "Dear Prudence" is a Taoist manifesto.
La risposta del modello (xiaomi/mimo-v2-pro) spiega la mia intuzione meglio di quanto avrei potuto fare io.
"Dear Prudence": The Beatles' Hidden Taoist Manifesto
Introduction
On the surface, "Dear Prudence" is a gentle plea from John Lennon to Prudence Farrow—locked away in her room during the Beatles' 1968 stay in Rishikesh, India, meditating with obsessive intensity. But beneath its lilting melody, the song articulates a remarkably coherent Taoist worldview—one concerned with wu wei, the beauty of the natural world, the rejection of spiritual striving, and the essential unity of inner and outer life. Read through the lens of the Tao Te Ching, the song is less a casual invitation and more a philosophical treatise set to music.
The Danger of Excessive Seeking
The central premise of the song is that Prudence has withdrawn from the world in pursuit of transcendence. She is meditating so intensely that she refuses to engage with reality. From a Taoist perspective, this is a classic error. Lao Tzu warns repeatedly against excessive effort, attachment to method, and the paradox that grasping too tightly at enlightenment drives it further away:
- "The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao."
- Trying too hard is itself a departure from the Way.
Lennon's repeated refrain—"Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?"—is not merely friendly encouragement. It is an argument that the spiritual path has become a cage, and that genuine awakening lies not in retreating further inward but in re-engaging with the simple, living world.
Wu Wei and the Way of Nature
The song's middle section paints a vivid portrait of the natural world:
The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful, and so are you.
This is not idle pleasantries. It is a deliberate invocation of what the Taoists call ziran (自然)—the spontaneous, self-so quality of nature. The sun rises without effort. The sky is blue without trying. Beauty simply is. Lennon is pointing Prudence toward the first principle of Taoist philosophy: that the natural order unfolds on its own, and the wisest response is not to transcend it but to participate in it.
This echoes wu wei (無為), often translated as "non-action" or "effortless action." Prudence's intense meditation is the opposite of wu wei—it is forceful, contrived striving. Lennon gently suggests that she stop trying so hard and simply be present with what already surrounds her.
"Look Around" — Returning to the Ordinary
One of the most Taoist lines in the song is deceptively simple:
Dear Prudence, open up your eyes. Dear Prudence, see the sunny skies.
The instruction to simply look around resonates deeply with Taoist and Ch'an (Zen) traditions, which teach that enlightenment is not found in extraordinary states of consciousness but in the ordinary and immediate. The Tao is in the stream, the stone, the wind—not in a sealed room behind closed eyelids.
Lao Tzu writes that the sage "acts without effort and teaches without words." Lennon does something remarkably similar: he does not lecture Prudence, does not argue theology. He simply points to the sky.
The Middle Way Between Withdrawal and Engagement
Taoism consistently warns against extremes. Prudence has gone to one pole—total withdrawal—and the song gently pulls her back toward the center. This is not an argument for hedonism or worldliness. It is the Taoist Middle Way: neither clinging to the world nor fleeing from it. The song's warm, unhurried musical structure mirrors this philosophy. It does not build to a dramatic crescendo. It breathes. It circles. It unfolds the way a river moves—without urgency, without resistance.
The fingerpicked guitar pattern, rising and falling in repetitive waves, is itself an embodiment of the Taoist rhythm of nature: cyclical, patient, self-renewing.
Conclusion
"Dear Prudence" is a song about a woman who has confused spiritual intensity with wisdom—and a gentle corrective rooted in some of the oldest philosophical principles on earth. Its message aligns almost perfectly with the Tao Te Ching:
- Stop striving.
- Return to nature.
- Open your eyes to what is already here.
- The Way is not found by force.
Lennon, whether consciously or not, composed a pop Taoist manifesto—a three-minute reminder that the extraordinary is hidden inside the ordinary, and that the sun, the sky, and the simple act of seeing are, in the end, enough.