For more than a century, the people in my family ended their letters with the same four words.
They appeared beneath Civil War correspondence. On postcards. In journals. In letters sent home.
Nobody explained them. Nobody had to.
That question runs under everything I write: a memoir about what we carry before the biography begins, and a book forming about what a thinking age asks of the human soul.
Worked at the intersection of water, agriculture, finance, and AI. Sat inside an institution living through this turn in real time.
I don't write about building and breaking from the shore. I write about it because I did it.
Religion, mythology, depth psychology, and consciousness. Years with the perennial traditions and the question of what the interior life actually is.
Most people become fluent in one language. My work has been learning to speak in both at once.
The founder's world still pays the rent: I serve on boards, mentor founders, and advise teams on AI through this turn. See the advisory work →
Each one circles the same thing: what remains. A memoir, out now, about what we inherit. A book forming about what a thinking age asks of the soul, and the collection where the water work began.
Water. Inheritance. Soul. Three books, one question.
A man traces the mentors, mystics, founders, and unfinished conversations that shaped him across fifty years. The questions themselves may have been the inheritance.
You arrived with something. It has been waiting.
In 1965, a Jesuit priest sat in a room with philosophers and scientists, turning over a possibility that seemed impossible: a machine that could think.
What happens to our ideas of the soul if a machine can think?
The room could not answer it. Sixty years later, the machine exists. The question remains.
What happens inside a human being when the machine arrives? Less a forecast. More a field guide.
Where the water work began. An edited collection that gathered the voices calling for a different future, before the tools existed to build it.
Shorter dispatches, published on LinkedIn.
Usually when I have found something worth sharing: an excerpt, an essay, a thing I am working through. No noise. Just the work.