I'm thankful enough or blessed enough to be able to say that

In the ancient rhythm of remembrance, Prince’s words echo through time: “I’m thankful enough or blessed enough to be able to say that Miles Davis was a friend when he was alive, and he was a wonderful mentor and really, really funny, you know.” In this utterance, the humility of the student meets the glory of the master. It is a confession not of pride but of gratitude, a recognition that greatness is not born alone but shaped in the company of those who have walked the road before. Prince, whose genius stretched across genres, bows his head not before fame, but before wisdom, friendship, and laughter—the sacred fire that keeps the artist’s spirit alive.

In the world of the ancients, when the young warrior trained beneath the gaze of an elder, he learned not only the strike of the sword but the temper of the soul. So it was with Miles Davis and Prince—two titans of sound, whose hearts spoke in notes more profound than speech. Davis, the horn player whose breath could move mountains of emotion, became a mirror for Prince to see the infinite reflections of music. And Prince, in turn, honored that bond as one honors the dawn that follows the night—not as competition, but as continuation. To be mentored by greatness is to glimpse the eternal lineage of art, stretching from one soul to another like the flame passed from torch to torch.

It is said that when Alexander the Great met his teacher Aristotle, he proclaimed, “I am indebted to my father for living, but to my teacher for living well.” The same spirit breathes through Prince’s words. For in calling himself thankful and blessed, he acknowledges that his own brilliance was polished by another’s light. The mentor, in every age, is the silent architect of destiny, guiding without chains, offering wisdom without possession. Miles Davis was such a man: fierce, unpredictable, deeply human. And Prince, though already crowned by fame, never ceased to learn, never ceased to listen.

When Prince says that Miles was “really, really funny,” he reveals a hidden truth of the wise: that joy and humor are as essential to mastery as discipline and pain. For laughter breaks the walls of ego. It reminds the seeker that creation is not a burden but a dance. In the laughter shared between mentor and pupil lies the secret of the universe—that even the gods play when they create. To laugh with one’s teacher is to see the divine not as solemn, but alive, breathing, and smiling through the imperfections of man.

Consider the sculptor Michelangelo, who once said that he did not create the statue, but only freed it from the stone. Such is the way of the mentor: to see within the student the form already waiting to emerge. Miles Davis saw in Prince not a rival, but a continuation of his dream—a melody that would echo after his own trumpet fell silent. And Prince, by acknowledging this bond, showed that even the mighty must kneel before the source of their becoming. Humility, then, is the crown that adorns true greatness.

Let the listener learn this: no one walks alone upon the path of creation or life. Every man and woman is the echo of a voice that came before. Be thankful for those who teach you, whether through wisdom, hardship, or love. Be blessed not by fortune, but by the presence of those who challenge you to grow. And above all, when you meet your mentors—whether living or gone—remember to laugh with them, as Prince did with Miles, for that laughter is the music of remembrance.

Therefore, let this teaching settle in the heart: Seek mentors as the ancient seekers sought oracles—not to copy them, but to awaken your own song. Honor them in deeds, in gratitude, and in joy. Speak of them when you rise and before you rest, for through their guidance you touch the eternal. Be not ashamed to say, as Prince once did, “I was blessed enough to call greatness my friend.” For in that blessing lies the secret to all art, all wisdom, and all love—the humility to learn, and the courage to carry the flame onward.