The manifesto

Even though you and I may never meet, I wish for you the same three things I wish for myself.

One. May you live long enough.

Long enough to see your children grow into adults you admire. Long enough to finish the work your name was given for. I carry habits that argue with this wish, and unmaking them is my hardest project. I work on it the way I work on everything: honestly, in public, one habit at a time.

Two. May you be present.

Not merely alive and in the room, but there. At the dinner table with your phone face down. In the audience when your child looks for you. In the conversation when a friend needs more than advice. Presence is the rent we pay for the people we love, and I am still learning to pay it on time.

Three. May you leave a legacy.

Something that outlives the funeral flowers. For me it is children raised well, stories written down, a family name with a crest and a trust behind it, and businesses that feed people who are not related to me. Build something that keeps working when you stop.

That is the whole manifesto. Three wishes, one life.