The 5 AM Club. Robin Sharma
long time. But I’m not in the best place.”
“Yeah, brother,” said the artist. “Tell us your secrets for an epic morning routine that helps me become the best painter—and man—I can become.” He waved his notebook in the air as he spoke. “Send us your plane. Take us to your village. Give us some coconuts. Let us ride your dolphins. And improve our lives. We’re all in.”
“None of what you’ll discover will be motivation,” noted the scraggly soul with a degree of seriousness he hadn’t shown before. “All of this will definitely be about transformation. And it will be supported by strong data, the latest research and immensely practical tactics that have been battle-tested in the tough trenches of industry. Get ready for the greatest adventure you cats will ever experience!”
“Excellent,” declared the entrepreneur as she reached out to shake the weather-beaten stranger’s hand. “I need to admit that this entire scenario has been extremely odd for both of us but, for whatever reason, we now trust you. And, yes, we’re totally open to this new experience.”
“You’re very kind to do this for us. Thank you,” blurted out the artist. He looked somewhat surprised by the extent of his graciousness.
“Awesome. Smart decision, guys,” came the warm response. “Please be outside this conference center tomorrow morning. Bring at least a few days’ worth of clothes. That’s all. Like I said, I’m stoked to take care of everything else. All expenses are on me. I thank you.”
“Why are you thanking us?” wondered the entrepreneur.
The homeless man smiled tenderly and scratched his beard thoughtfully. “In his final sermon before he was assassinated, Martin Luther King, Jr., said, ‘Everybody can be great because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You don’t have to know about Plato and Aristotle to serve. You don’t have to know Einstein’s Theory of Relativity to serve. You don’t have to know the Second Theory of Thermodynamics and Physics to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.’”
The tramp wiped a morsel of avocado from the edge of his mouth and then carried on what he was saying.
“One of the big lessons I’ve learned over the years is that giving to other people is a gift you give to yourself. Raise the joy of others and you’ll get even more joy. Increase the state of your fellow human beings and, naturally, your own state of being ascends. Success is cool. But significance is rad. Generosity—not scarcity—is the trait of all of the great men and women who have upgraded our world. And we need leaders, pure leaders and not narcissists obsessed with their own self-interests, as never before.”
The homeless man looked down at his large watch one last time. “You can’t take your title, net worth and fancy toys with you when you die, you know? I’ve yet to see a moving truck following a hearse on its way to a funeral.” He chuckled. The two listeners grinned.
“He’s a treasure,” whispered the entrepreneur.
“Def is,” acknowledged the artist.
“Stop saying ‘def’ so much,” said the entrepreneur. “It’s getting irritating.”
The artist looked a little shocked. “Okay.”
“All that matters on your last day on Earth is the potential you’ve leveraged, the heroism you’ve demonstrated and the human lives you’ve graced,” the homeless man said eloquently. He then grew quiet. And let out a deep breath. “Anyhoo. Incredible that you’re coming. We’ll have a cool hang.”
“May I bring my paintbrushes?” the artist asked politely.
“Only if you want to paint in paradise,” came the homeless man’s reply with a wink.
“And what time should we meet you outside this place tomorrow morning?” asked the entrepreneur, placing her handbag onto a thin, bony shoulder.
“5 AM,” instructed the homeless man. “Own your morning. Elevate your life.”
Then, he disappeared.
A Flight to Peak Productivity, Virtuosity and Undefeatability
“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma—which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become.” —Steve Jobs
“I’m so tired,” the entrepreneur muttered with the energy of an ancient turtle on a vacation day, while holding a monstrous cup of coffee. “This journey might be harder than I thought. I’m starting to feel like I’m walking into a whole new world. Like I told you yesterday after the seminar, I’m definitely ready to change. Set for a new beginning. But I’m also feeling uneasy about all this. I didn’t sleep much last night. Such eerie—and sometimes violent—dreams. And, yes, this experience we’ve agreed to might be dangerous.”
“Well, I feel like death, man,” said the artist. “I hate being up this early. This was a terrible idea.”
The two brave souls were standing on the sidewalk outside the hall where The Spellbinder had worked his legendary skills—and broken many hearts with his collapse—the day before.
It was 4:49 AM.
“He won’t show up,” barked the artist roughly. He was dressed in black with a ruby red polka-dotted bandana on his left wrist. Same boots as yesterday. Those Australian ones. He hurled a mouthful of spit into the desolate street. He squinted at the sky. And then he folded his tattooed arms.
The entrepreneur had a nylon duffle bag over her shoulder. She styled a silk blouse with bohemian sleeves, designer blue jeans and a pair of sandals with high heels—the kind you see off-duty supermodels with sunglasses the size of Greek island sunsets wearing. Her lips were scrunched together and the lines on her face were arrayed in a series of interesting intersections.
“I’d bet the homeless man’s a no-show,” she said with a sneer. “I don’t care about his watch. It doesn’t matter that he could be so articulate. It means nothing to me now that he reminded me of my dad. God, I’m exhausted. He was probably at the seminar because he needed a place to rest for a few hours. He probably knew about the whole 5 AM Club morning routine because he heard—and stole—that bit of The Spellbinder’s presentation. And the private plane he talked about was probably part of his favorite hallucination.”
The entrepreneur had returned to her familiar skepticism and hiding within her fortress of protection. The hopefulness of the day before had clearly dissolved.
Just then, a pair of strikingly powerful halogen headlights pierced the wall of darkness.
The two companions looked at each other. The entrepreneur managed a smile. “Okay. Maybe instinct really is much smarter than reason,” she muttered to herself.
A gleaming Rolls-Royce, the color of coal, pulled up to the curb. With swift efficiency, a man in a crisp white uniform leapt out of the sedan and greeted the two with old-school civility.
“Good morning to you, Madam. And to you as well, Sir,” he enunciated in a British accent as he placed their bags into the vehicle with one skillful swoop.
“Where’s the derelict?” asked the artist with the tact of a hillbilly who’d never left the woods.
The driver couldn’t help but laugh. Quickly, he regained his composure.
“So sorry, Sir. Yes, Mr. Riley dresses in very unassuming attire, shall we say. He does that