“My soul is trembling in the wake of a colossal change,” I said —

“This is what you do,” replied a dear friend of many decades, reminding me of my life’s path so far, the cataclysms that have driven my personal evolution.

I’m sitting on my sheepskin beside the fire in the wood stove in a cabin built 150 years ago. I’m listening to Boris, the glorious Americana rooster sing his cock-a-doodle-doo. I’m watching Anna’s hummingbirds, one, two, four, five, seven and more, stream to the two feeders outside the window, their magenta head-dresses glowing in the muted light of this overcast day. The beams and shingles of the 19^th century cabin ceiling were crafted from hand-hewn redwood milled from this canyon long ago.

It wasn’t an easy process, leaving my four-bedroom home in a quiet neighborhood on the edge of endless corn and soybean farms in the middle of the continent. The neat widow’s nest I’d fluffed and sorted until it was just right, my late husband’s library organized by subject in the redwood bookshelves he’d built, my tribe of loving and creative friends, my well-appointed Little House on the Prairie. Four years of dramatic transition – and blessed support.

And now, back home.

The tender romance that blossomed before and during the months of my cancer treatment: beginning in a French bistro in Carmel, a cup of coffee and a hug, with the kind-hearted gentleman who went on to take care of me the week of my surgery and who swept me away back to the coast in a madcap road trip last month.

Feeling the blessing of my husband on the other side, who would want me to be cared for, loved and happy.

Now, feeling nostalgic for a place I wanted to leave for much of my time there. We human beings are such odd creatures. Perhaps it was the shock of all Big Sur’s easily forgotten details – cold bedrooms and hauling firewood, poison oak blooming on my arms and face from touching the pets, a dash of PTSD looking out at the wooded canyons all around this Little House in the Big Woods.

Small things, a small price to pay for the privilege of living in love, again.

The joys of touch, the warmth of hugs, of cuddling under the covers. A delightful man who brings me coffee in the morning, who kisses my feet and makes me laugh. Like, duh.

Such a decisive moment and when did this change begin? A query from my sweetheart’s spiritual daughter, a beekeeper and animal rescuer who visited us this week.

It began in the moments when I realized I might have only 5 years to live. Wouldn’t one last chapter be sweet? My gentle knight in shining armor consoled me, telling me over and over that I would be OK, and we agreed we wanted to spend this next chapter together. So here we are.

Now begins a time of forest bathing, star-gazing, and luminous healing in domestic bliss.

Even a spiritual warrior trembles on the brink. She wonders about choices and consequences, longs for what is past, then clarifies her priorities in order to move forward with a peaceful and courageous heart.

And away we go!