But he is not your present. The past does not grow claws in death, it's just the retreating of the skin that makes it seem so. The present is a 70 degree day in June. Death is far away at either extremes. He is not reaching for you now, and won't be doing so tomorrow either.
My life feels like a harbor.
My harbor is not just a sheltering bit of geography. It is teeming with life, life to be celebrated. The insects are born on the film of the water, dodging fish below and bird above. The roots on shore reach out to the vessel of life. The waves wash away the dirt at their roots, the tree topples, another takes its place to try again. Bodies swim through, for just a little while relishing the return to our amniotic home.
The harbor, the cove, the inlet, is not just a place of shelter. It is a place of wonder. It is a place of life: always shifting, but always present. Never the same, but never a bore. It is a gift, it is a present, and it is the present. It is a salvation, spinning perpetually all around us. It is love, motion, and stillness, forever and ever.