May you remember that each breath you take is the first in a long chain of breaths, stretching down to all those who will be touched by you, loved by you; by those who descend from you, and by those who honor your memory.
May you remember that each breath you take is the last in a long chain of breaths, drawn from ancestors, all the way back to The Very First.
May you honor all these, with each breath.
May you be thirsty.
May you remove a splinter from your thumb.
And peel a grape.
And go an entire day without hearing an engine or an electrical appliance.
May you remember a grievous wrong done to you, and think of something very funny you could have done in response.
May you remember your calling.
May you fall out of bed.
May you make your own ice cream.
And eat it.
And may you hear crickets, and distant thunder, on an evening in August, when you are not in a hurry and the dishes have already been done.