Forest

"The vines attach themselves to the branches when the trees are small, and stay with the trees, growing as they do, until they eventually choke the trees." 

This, from our guide as we walked through the Australian rainforest on our honeymoon. I couldn't draw a metaphor then--we were stupidly, foolishly happy then; relieved to be far from everyone we knew and starting our life together. We couldn't see the vines--the ulcerative colitis setting the stage for the colon cancer that took Paul's life; the way the relationships we held closest would cease to bring us joy--we only saw one another, in this Eden, where the rainforest meets the Great Barrier Reef.

Now I live in the space between the strong trunks of the trees and where the vines curve their seductive and sensual tendrils ever upward. I live where there is beauty, and uncertainty and the constant fear of the inevitable.

I live in the loamy air of the forest, where the greenness hurts my eyes and the humid air makes breathing a struggle. I live where it's uncomfortable, where every step requires an assessment of my footing and an abundance of caution prevents me from making sudden moves.

Like the trees, I keep trying to reach out toward the sky, unfurling my leaves, and extending my branches. But I know what they don't: that the friendly-seeming vines, part of the symbiosis of this forest are wrapping their delicate tentacles around me and threatening to eventually destroy me on their own climb to the light.

I know the path through this forest. It's dark and twisty, winding through dense brush and clearing. I've told friends new to the path that I will walk it with them, because from where I am, it's less scary, even if it's not yet comfortable. I'm not going to tell them about the vines yet; perhaps they will find a path that leads out before they get caught up. Perhaps I will be able to follow them toward the treeline, back to the edge of the reef.