We entered the woods this year. In January. We didn’t slowly stroll in—we were yanked out of our complacency and tossed into the thicket.

 

We never left, but often forgot we were still in the forest while we enjoyed those days when sunlight shone down upon us as we lived our ordinary lives.

 

Don’t go back to your complacent sleep, the woods yelled, as the ambulance came for a second time this year to race my husband to the hospital.

 

We’ve been granted another reprieve, and left with a large scar spanning his belly to remind us we live in a forest, where we’ll remain, until one of us, then both of us, have said our last goodbyes to this life.

 

Our job now in this forest is to continue to find the light of gratitude and love.

And to live, as my mother advised days before she died, by “having fun, being kind, and loving.”