Sure, I could give advice; I could, say, travel the world

The words of Mark Morris — “Sure, I could give advice; I could, say, travel the world, listen to music. But all I can really say is do something you want to do and do it well. And if you want to be a choreographer, then you have to make dances.” — strike with a simplicity that hides profound depth. They speak to the eternal truth that wisdom is not found merely in listening, but in doing; not in dreaming only, but in the work of hands and heart. The world is filled with counselors and guides, yet the true path of life can only be carved by the steps of action.

The ancients taught that philosophy without practice is like a tree without fruit: impressive in form but barren in substance. So too Morris warns us that advice, though abundant, cannot replace the discipline of creation. One may travel, one may hear great music, one may gather inspiration from a thousand teachers, but none of these will bring forth the masterpiece unless the soul rises to labor. If you seek to be a choreographer, you must not only dream of dances, but step boldly into the rhythm and create them with your own body and will.

Consider the story of Michelangelo, called to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Many voices offered him counsel — some said he was a sculptor, not a painter; others warned of the enormity of the task. He could have gathered endless advice, he could have traveled to see the works of other masters, he could have studied the scriptures and their music of words. But in the end, the great fresco was born because Michelangelo climbed the scaffold and laid brush to plaster. He created, stroke by stroke, day after day, until the vision within him became the glory above him.

This is the heart of Morris’s teaching: the gulf between aspiration and reality is bridged only by action. To want is the seed, but to do is the harvest. Many desire greatness, yet falter because they mistake listening for labor, or planning for practice. A would-be choreographer who never makes dances is like a sailor who never builds his ship: he may dream of the sea, but he will never feel its salt upon his face.

There is also humility in these words. For Morris, a master of his art, does not cloak himself in riddles or complex doctrines. He tells the truth plainly: do what you love, and do it well. Excellence is not born in wishing, but in repetition, refinement, and courage. To create is to fail many times, to rise again, and to shape the rough stone into smooth beauty. He speaks not only to dancers, but to all who aspire in any field — for the principle is universal.

Let us draw the lesson with clarity: if you wish to build, then build. If you wish to write, then write. If you wish to love, then love with action, not with words alone. The world is changed not by the multitude of intentions, but by the few who discipline themselves to act. Do not wait for permission, for the perfect moment, or for endless streams of advice. Begin where you stand, with the tools you have, and shape your destiny with your own hands.

In practice, let each listener set aside one moment each day for the work of their calling. If your dream is to dance, then move. If your dream is to write, then take up the pen. If your dream is to heal, then study and serve. Let your craft be not a distant desire, but a daily discipline. For the world honors not the dreamer who remains idle, but the doer who transforms dreams into form.

Thus we see that Morris’s words are not merely about dance, but about the nature of all creation. Life itself is choreography: steps arranged in time, woven into beauty. Each man and woman must make their own dance upon the stage of existence. Let your movements be deliberate, your art sincere, and your labor faithful. For in the end, greatness is not promised to those who only want, but to those who dare to do.