A few years ago, in my early fifties, I found myself in a Costa Rican rainforest, surrounded by all its awe-inspiring beauty—the colourful flowers and leaves, the sounds of frogs and howler monkeys, the smell of fresh rainfall. 

I sat on the back deck of my bungalow in the rainforest and watched the birds, brought close to my hammock by slices of banana skewered on a stick. There were at least six different species that morning, all of them glistening with metallic blues and greens, lemon yellows and blood reds. Deep, dense colours, perfectly patterned and symmetrical. Science, sure, but that day the colours seemed more like magic. 

I wept, and felt my heart expand with gratitude. I was a small-town girl with a chronic illness, told she would not live past twelve, sitting in a rain forest in Costa Rica, listening to the singsong of birds. I sat still and thought of how lucky I had been year after year, thanks to my relatively good health.  

I tried to process the miracle of it all:  strong lung function, a life filled with joy and purpose, beloved friends and family. And a promising, healthy future. I told myself to hang on to this feeling—contain it, keep it tight inside—chase away the worry with this memory.  

To stay ‘in the moment’ is a hard skill to conquer for most people. Add CF to the recipe and it’s nearly impossible. Even after many decades of practice, I still struggle with this.  

However, I try. 

When joy and happiness come, I sit with them. I welcome them for tea. 

“Have a seat,” I tell them. “Stay awhile.” 

I remember the birds so vividly, with their fluttering wings, their tiny beaks nipping at the banana. Their delicate feet tap, tapping on the branches.  

I thank them for their visit and for the reminder of the miracles.