I go down to the marsh to welcome Father’s Day, and the soon to be longest day of the year.  The sun is shining.  I wonder where the fog went and think of these words of Alan Watts:

The anxiety-laden problem of what will happen to me when I die is, after all, like asking what happens to my fist when I open my hand, or where my lap goes when I stand up.

It’s like that, living and dying happening all the time, signing and signaling the joy of being here now, today.