If I could offer one final reflection to those who remain behind, it would not take the form of a ten-point plan, nor a stern instruction manual, nor even a solemn warning. Heaven knows the world has never been short of those, and most of them are received with the same enthusiasm one reserves for an instruction leaflet about assembling flat-pack furniture. No, what I should like to offer is something lighter, gentler, and perhaps more enduring: a blessing, a benediction for the living.
For blessings have a curious quality. They are not rules to be obeyed nor burdens to be carried. They are more like lanterns held aloft on the path, or the warmth of a hand laid upon the shoulder: encouragements rather than demands, invitations rather than obligations. They do not tell us what to do so much as remind us who we might yet be.
And so here is what I would say:
May you find joy in the ordinary. Do not despise small things, for life is mostly composed of them. The daily turning of the earth, the taste of bread, the sudden appearance of a bird at the window, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, these are the very fabric of existence. Wonder, when it is sought in grand spectacles alone, often eludes us; but wonder sought in the commonplace reveals itself abundantly.
May you discover that fulfilment lies not in endless striving, but in the quiet contentment of enough. The world whispers incessantly, “More, more, more,” but peace is found in learning to say, “This will do, and I am grateful.” To cultivate sufficiency is not to lack ambition, but to resist the futility of a race with no finish line.
May you carry humour as your walking-stick, for it lightens the load on uneven terrain. May you keep kindness as your compass, for it will keep you on course when you are tempted by bitterness or despair. And may you welcome courage as your travelling companion, for sooner or later every road presents its steep climbs and dark valleys.
May you resist the cheap cynicism of the age. It poses as wisdom but is, in truth, only weariness wearing a clever mask. Instead, may you cultivate hope, not as a passing mood, but as a discipline. Hope is not naïveté; it is the stubborn insistence that goodness is worth pursuing, even when the odds look unfavourable.
May your heart remain open to surprise, for the world has a disarming habit of ambushing us with beauty when we least expect it. May your mind remain open to learning, even when it comes from unlikely sources, children, adversaries, or one’s own mistakes. And may your arms remain open to those who stumble, for at some point it will be you who needs steadying.
May you leave behind not only possessions (which moth and rust will inevitably claim), but also stories worth retelling, laughter worth echoing, and love worth continuing. These, unlike trinkets, do not gather dust. They move through generations like invisible threads, binding hearts long after names have been forgotten.
And when the time comes, as it surely will, whether sooner or later, may you meet your own mortality not with fear but with gratitude. Gratitude that you lived not perfectly, but faithfully. That you did not withhold yourself from the gift of life, even if you sometimes stumbled, faltered, or made a fool of yourself. To have lived fully, even imperfectly, is infinitely better than to have lived timidly and safely.
That, I think, would be the finest legacy one could hope for. And so, to the living, whoever and wherever you are, go well. Love deeply. Walk lightly upon the earth, as though it were holy ground (which it is). And for heaven’s sake, do not forget to laugh at least once a day. For laughter, more than anything else, reminds us that to live is still a joy, and that joy is the most fitting benediction of all.
