I don’t consider myself much of a dreamer or a visionary. I mean, I’ve always had dreams, but I’ve never seen them as that.
There was this peculiar dream I had a few weeks before I eclipsed 20 years. I was awake in the car, and the dream was about a man. I pictured him walking onto stage — his stroll, a complex of grace and urgency, swiftness and precision. We were in audience, and we watched him make his way from stage left to stage right. It was silent, save for the soft click of his shoes. You couldn’t hear anyone breathing — but that was because no one was. We held our breath as we watched and counted his steps, each one exacting purpose and awe.
He approached center stage, looked down (his side still facing the audience), turned his head, and then walked toward us. He came off the stage, and his foot touched earth. His foot touched our level; he came onto our level. The stage, that chasm that separates the celebrity from the mass, had been crossed, and he initiated the move. He belonged on the stage, but his defiant act proved his nature and build: Human with a spark of the divine.
We watched in silence as his foot set on mission — straight through the crowd, right up the center as if bisecting a circle down its longest diameter. The pressure of his step exacted something mysterious. His passing stirred the air into secret whispers. His presence was a gift — one that we hardly deserved.
It’s a fanciful image, and it was one I saw awake. Among other things, it was a natural progression. I saw the man, and I knew his movements were going to be spectacular; they were going to be the emphasis. He possessed power and influence, and he did not waste the commodities. His walk elicited magic, and his passing turned the air from the trivial into prophecy. So human, yet so different.
I want to be this man — a man that the world will watch; whose actions are graced by the divine, sourced by the divine; whose movement is desired, and whose movement moves movements.
This man was Michael Jackson, recording Thriller at 24. He was Mozart, writing music that remains relevant at 12. He was Alexander the Great, inducing Hellenization at 21, and American boys gaining a foothold in Western Europe at 18. He was Rosa Parks, affirming herself on that Montgomery bus at 50, and Jacqueline du Pre, definitively emoting the Elgar at 24. He was you and me, my brother and your sister, our father and our mother, our lover and friend.
This man is waiting to burst from within us. He’s been waiting in me for 20 years. Let’s not keep him any longer.
Final Note: You have power and you have influence. You have been called to something unique, to persons that only you can reach, and to something that only you can be passionate about. There is a shoe that will only fit you, and a jacket with the measurements that wrap your body. There is an element of transcendence in all of us. Find it, and unleash it. Nothing will stop you because no one will be in your way — we will be watching, wishing we could be you.