{"id":87,"date":"2026-02-04T00:29:36","date_gmt":"2026-02-04T00:29:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/tnf.ola.mybluehost.me\/rw\/2025-autumn\/?page_id=87"},"modified":"2026-02-04T23:01:19","modified_gmt":"2026-02-04T23:01:19","slug":"the-tunnel-to-forever","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/rw\/2025-autumn\/the-tunnel-to-forever\/","title":{"rendered":"The Tunnel To Forever"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<style>\n.bodyLeft {\n  float: left;\n  margin: 0 32px 32px 0;\n  max-width: 480px;\n  width: 100%;\n}\n.marginBottom {\n  margin-bottom: 48px;\n}\n.seperator {\n  font-weight: 700;\n  margin: 32px 0;\n  text-align: center;\n  text-indent: 0px;\n}\nh1, h2, h3 {\n  margin-block-end: .5em;\n  margin-block-start: .5em;\n  text-align: center;\n}\np {\n  text-indent: 32px;\n}\n@media (max-width: 1280px) {\n  .bodyRight {\n    margin: 0 0 16px 32px;\n    max-width: 320px;\n  }\n}\n@media (max-width: 640px) {\n  .bodyRight {\n    margin: 16px auto;\n  }\n}\n<\/style>\n<div class=\"container\">\n\t<section class=\"backNext\">\n\t  <h4><a href=\"https:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/coreopsis\/\">Back to Journals<br> Home<\/a><\/h4>\n\t  <h4><a href=\"\/rw\/2025-autumn\/rainy-days-and-sun-rays\/\">Next Wonderous<br> Story<\/a><\/h4>\n\t<\/section>\n\t<div class=\"content\">\n\t\t<main>\n\t\t\t<img decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"bodyLeft\" src=\"\/rw\/2025-autumn\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/02\/Tunnel-to-Forever.webp\"\/>\n\t\t\t<h1>The Tunnel To Forever<\/h1>\n\t\t\t<h2>Torger Vedeler<\/h2>\n\t\t\t<h3 class=\"marginBottom\">Illustrated by Kerry Mairie Scott<\/h3>\n\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cThere\u2019s little more we can do,\u201d the doctor said in his most professional tone. \u201cIt\u2019s just spread too far.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t<p>He had her test results before him, the MRI and the biopsy, all the wonders of modern diagnostic medicine laid out like a sterile symphonic score, and the look on his face suddenly made her think of Beethoven. How had the composer felt when he learned that he was going deaf? Had he thought then about the masterpieces unwritten, or the ones unheard, the ones that would never be played? He was working on a tenth symphony when he died, you know.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>What an odd thought to have just now<\/i>, Claire told herself. I\u2019m neither a genius nor a composer. <i>I\u2019m not a Beethoven, but just a nobody who now is going to die.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Other words followed while the doctor gave her details that no longer mattered.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>I have a tumor in my brain<\/i>, she thought, a malignancy chewing through my identity. <i>I never smoked or drank, always tried to take care of myself. I\u2019ve always done everything I could to make other people happy, and now my own body is betraying me as though I should be punished. Sometime soon I will be angry with God. Sometime soon, I will need to hate him.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>But not just yet.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Claire heard her own words then, the two words no one ever thinks they will hear from themselves, so cold, so sterile.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cHow long?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWith a cancer this aggressive, six months, maybe. With intense treatment, we might be able to add one or two more.\u201d Despite being just middle-aged, the doctor had short, graying hair, his lab coat clean and immaculate over a bolo tie and blue shirt. Yeah, middle-aged, not that much younger than her, his expression gentle and his skin charcoal black. His name was Worrell, a gentleman.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>But<\/i>, his eyes said, and the images flashed before her: <i>If we do the drugs and the radiation, you will be bald, thin, vomiting from the nightmare stereotype of chemotherapy, a riktus dead already. Gone. All over.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cNo. I don\u2019t want chemo,\u201d she told him, making up her mind so quickly that it surprised her. \u201cNo radiation. I don\u2019t want to go like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>He nodded. \u201cI understand. We\u2019ll make you as comfortable as we can. I can refer you to a therapist, and a good hospice company. You aren\u2019t alone in this.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Then why does it feel like I am?<\/i> she thought. <i>I can\u2019t fight and I can\u2019t win. I can\u2019t run away. All I can do is die.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Claire went home to her small house and garden, to the safe place she had bought after her divorce ten years before. The quiet place with her things, the familiar things that she had gathered over a lifetime: A favored old book by John Steinbeck that had actually been printed before his death, the foreword referring to him in the present tense, and the wall in her bedroom decorated by a small, framed painting that she had bought in Vienna from an artist who she couldn\u2019t name. Little dolls on her dresser that she had played with as a child and never brought herself to give away to her nieces. Polly and Penny, they were named (the dolls, not the nieces), and now they smiled at her as they always did.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>We are with you<\/i>, they said silently. <i>Always. We are your friends.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>That night she sat alone drinking herbal tea. <i>I need to get things in order<\/i>, she thought. <i>So many things<\/i>.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>The next day Claire rose, having slept fitfully but surprisingly well considering, and after breakfast she went down to the basement. As basements often are, this was filled with other things, some of them clutter and some not, and not knowing why she found the shovel she had sometimes used for gardening. She found her hammer too, and the chisel she had bought years ago but never needed, this on the advice of her mother: \u201cBetter to be prepared, to have it and not need it rather than to need it and not have it.\u201d And Claire took these things and stared at them for a long time.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Dig<\/i>, the voice suddenly told her from nowhere. <i>Dig.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Claire stiffened, looking first left and then right. \u201cHello?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Silence, as there should be in a basement you visit alone. But then, more urgent, the voice.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Dig!<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>A breath, her breath, in with a snap. Up the stairs then, hurrying, startled. Up, away, the rush of adrenaline that comes with fear.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Dig!<\/i> The voice called, echoing behind her.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Later, sitting in the dining room and staring at her shaking hands, the rational and logical explanation came. <i>You have a brain tumor, you fool. You\u2019re dying. Nothing you see or hear can be trusted.<\/i><\/p> \n\t\t\t<p><i>But the voice<\/i>, she answered. <i>It was so real. It had something true in it.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>I don\u2019t want to die.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>So dig.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>How long she wept now, Claire didn\u2019t know. This isn\u2019t fair, she thought. Why is this happening to me? How long do you just sit alone, in the end?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Rising finally, Claire made her way back to the basement door. The voice met her.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Are you afraid?<\/i> it asked.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cYes,\u201d she managed.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Of me?<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Again, \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Now the voice went silent. Claire waited, then asked her own question.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>The first answer, even before it had a chance to come, rose from nowhere. <i>I am the cancer. I am death, your death, your own body betraying you, rotting you out from the inside. You are going to die and I am the manner of it. So be afraid, Claire, because after me there is nothing, your identity and all you have ever been or done erased. Meaningless.<\/i> But then the actual voice came, not her imagination, not harsh, not gentle, aloud, answering nothing.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>I am that which I am. You need to dig, Claire. Now! While there is still time.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d she protested. \u201cI\u2019m too weak. I\u2019m afraid.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>You are stronger than you think. I am that which I am. I will help, but you are the one who must do the work.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Words now, questions. Help me live, or help me die?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>So she began.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>The concrete broke under her blows (again, to be prepared she also owned a hammer and a chisel), even as it struck her as odd that the floor should give way so easily, for she was not a strong woman, nor a big one. But after a day or two the floor crumbled until there was room to cut away the rebar (she also had a hacksaw), leaving a hole big enough for her small frame to pass.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Dig<\/i>, the voice said. <i>I will be waiting. Where you are too weak I will help you.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWhy?\u201d she asked finally. \u201cWhy are you doing this? I\u2019m dying. I\u2019m nobody. Why should I do anything?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>You need to do this<\/i>, the voice answered. <i>You need to do something, anything, because that is why you are here. Do not ever say that you are nobody, Claire. To be somebody is why you were born.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cTo obey you?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>To obey me is to obey yourself. It is to obey all things. Look how strong you are.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Foot after foot down, excavating, and suddenly Claire realized that if she was worried the soil might collapse in on her, this fear did not stop her. If it buries me then it buries me, she thought, only a little ahead of the soil of the graveyard.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Yes<\/i>, said the voice. <i>You are learning.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cLearning what?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>The most important lesson.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>After a while disposing of the dirt proved a problem, and so Claire started carrying it up and out to her backyard garden, scattering it among the flowers there. I will miss you, she thought to them, remembering how she had planted each one, how she had tended them with water and fertilizer. Will you remember me?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Yes<\/i>, they answered silently. <i>Always.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Down. The earth smelled rich, welcoming.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Keep going.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWhere are you?\u201d she asked. \u201cWho are you? Why are you talking to me?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Down here, there are answers to questions that no one ever seeks to ask. Keep going so you can ask them. Then you will understand.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Does it matter? Keep going.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Somewhere up there, in the world of before, in the world where she had once been Claire, people came to visit, to console her. Her sister wept on the phone and promised to come out. There will be hospice care, the experts said, when you want it, when you need it. Please don\u2019t think you are alone.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI know I\u2019m not alone,\u201d she told them, and wondered why she had said it.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Dig.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Perhaps this struck them as odd, living where she did, how she did. Cut off, no real friends, but kind neighbors who were so often too busy with their own lives to be as attentive as they should.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cNo,\u201d she told them. \u201cI\u2019m fine, really.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>A grief counselor? they asked again. Clergy?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI\u2019m fine.\u201d They all knew she was hiding something, but how do you ask?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>She was at Dr. Worrell\u2019s office now, surrounded by the clean and sterile walls, the paper folders on the desk awaiting each new patient, and he regarded her. \u201cThe cancer has slowed,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019re doing better than we expected.\u201d His young, dark eyes, gentle. A different bolo tie.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>How many others have sat in this office?<\/i> she wondered. <i>How many others have thought what I\u2019m thinking right now?<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>How many others have been told to dig?<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>As he talked, the more important words came from elsewhere. <i>Have I led a good life? Has my time here been worth it?<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>What will it feel like to die?<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cHow is the pain?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cIt hurts,\u201d she answered.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWe can get you things for that. The normal rules don\u2019t apply. Morphine, or stronger things. Just say the word and the hospice company will provide them.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWill they dull my senses?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cThey might.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI want to feel,\u201d she said. \u201cI want to feel while I still can.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cEven pain?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cEven pain. To a point.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>He gave her the prescriptions just in case she passed that point, little bottles clearly marked, pills and syringes. Two days later, the hospice nurse came for the first time. He had a kind smile and was a little heavy, though a lot of this was muscle brought from lifting and moving the sick.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>She had dirt on her hands. \u201cDoing some gardening?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cThat\u2019s good.\u201d It was impossible to hide the growing mound of dirt outside. \u201cHow do you feel?\u201d He was handsome, and a small part of her envied his wife.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI\u2019m all right. My sister will visit in another week. She wanted to come earlier, but she has things to do, and I told her to do them.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cAre your affairs in order? Your will and the DNR paperwork? Are there possessions you want to go to particular people? We can help with that sort of thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cThank you. They\u2019re fine. My money will go to some charities, my things to my sister and her kids. She and I will work all that out when she arrives.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cGood. If you need anything, even just some company, you can always call. And I will check in with you every few days.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Her tunnel grew. The roof held even though it shouldn\u2019t have. Sometimes Claire would look up at it, at the way the roots of plants overhead traced in the brown, illuminated by her flashlight. She tried hard not to disturb them.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>It\u2019s all right<\/i>, the trees said. <i>We\u2019re fine. Dig deeper.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWhat am I digging for?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>You\u2019ll find it when you find it.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Wendy, who insisted on taking a cab from the airport, arrived at last. \u201cMy God!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cWhat\u2019s with all the dirt?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI\u2019ve been gardening.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Wendy did that thing with her nose, not quite a scrunch, not quite a wiggle. The two of them had the same nose, inherited from Dad.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cWell,\u201d she said, \u201cwe\u2019ve been talking. We want you to come and stay with us.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Until\u2026.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Wendy. Family. Claire felt the pull, the old, loving pull. <i>When I die, will you be there to hold me? You will. I don\u2019t want to lose you. I don\u2019t want to lose a lifetime of you, my sister.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Claire realized that she was weeping, and that Wendy was weeping also, holding her.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI\u2019m afraid,\u201d Claire admitted.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Wendy\u2019s face. What do you say to that?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cCome home with me, Claire. You should be with family.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>When you die.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>But then, there was also more. This something more, calling her, drawing her. Deeper and deeper. Claire heard her own voice, weak but real.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cMy garden,\u201d she said. \u201cI don\u2019t want to leave my garden.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Wendy\u2019s face, her confusion. <i>But we are family<\/i>, her eyes said. <i>We love you.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Dig.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Finally: \u201cYou\u2019re alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>You\u2019re dying.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Dig.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI\u2019ve been alone for a long time. And I\u2019ve made some new friends here. You and the kids are always welcome.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Wendy\u2019s lips parted, her jaw open, then closed. \u201cYes,\u201d she managed. \u201cThat\u2019s good. But\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>But you\u2019re dying. You\u2019re my sister and you\u2019re dying. Dying changes everything. When Mom died, it changed everything. When Dad died\u2026.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Everything.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Where was Dad, there at the end, when the two of them had stood beside his bed? His body, yes, but it wasn\u2019t him. Looking out into nothing, it wasn\u2019t him, talking to Mom like she was still alive. Claire remembered holding his hand, and the way it all just\u2026 stopped.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cDo you really want to stay here?\u201d Wendy asked.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>I have this thing I need to do<\/i>, Claire thought. <i>I hope it\u2019s the right thing. I can show you down there, if you want. I\u2019m sure they won\u2019t mind. You\u2019re my sister.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Discomfort. Life is busy. Living is busy, getting affairs in order, busy. But you, Claire, you have nothing to do now. Everything that matters has been stripped away. A few months, and then?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Come down here,<\/i> the voices called. <i>You\u2019re almost there.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>And then?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>You\u2019ll see.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI want to stay,\u201d Wendy managed, \u201cbut\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Claire. \u201cIt\u2019s all right,\u201d she said. \u201cYou are forgiven. For anything you might regret, that you ever might have done, you are forgiven. I want you to know that.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>They wept together again, the two sisters. And Wendy promised that she wouldn\u2019t be far away.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>The roots now held the soil, parting it for her, making it easier to dig despite the pain. Claire kept the morphine close, still not wanting to start with it.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI don\u2019t want to lose you,\u201d she told the voices. \u201cI\u2019ve lost so much, so many. I think I\u2019ve lost my sister. I think I drove her away. I should have let her take care of me. Why do I always do what people tell me to do? Is there anything I have ever done simply because it mattered to me?\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>You have never lost anyone, Claire. Listen to me. What matters most are those things you have done for others that you never knew you did. They are close, we are close. You are close. Keep going. Keep going.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>How far? How long?<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Forever. So close. Forever.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>And then\u2026.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p class=\"seperator\">#<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>The pain, real. Her eyes, blinking away tears, real in the darkness, not needing the flashlight. <i>Listen,<\/i> the silent voices said now. <i>The pain binds you, it ties you to here, to this place and world. But you are now deep, and the path forward is open for you to walk. Don\u2019t be afraid. We are waiting to love you. We love you already. We have always loved you.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cBut I <i>am<\/i> afraid,\u201d she admitted. \u201cIt\u2019s hard to move, and I feel so weak. I feel so helpless.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>The roots moved quickly now, no longer needing to hide their true nature, parting to show the way, the rich soil no impediment. They and the earth and she were one, joined.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>We will dig for you now, Claire. Your work is almost complete. We will carry you the rest of the way.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Finally they reached a place and stopped, not knowing why but knowing she should, and the path behind her vanished into the cool earth. The embrace of the roots gently tightened and time ceased to be. Wendy, she thought. I\u2019m so afraid to leave her.<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>It\u2019s all right. The fear is a part of the greater whole. The pain also. But more than these is the joy, the love that is all creation. Do you feel it now? It is greater than any pain can be. It is forgiveness, absolution, a thing beyond any words or even what words can comprehend. Do you feel it?<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>\u201cI think\u2026. Yes\u2026. There are no words\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>The roots caressed her, the rich soil close. <i>No words. You have come so far, Claire. You have reached the final place and the beginning place and you are safe here. Wendy will never be far away. She will understand and you will greet her again in time. All of them will understand, as your mother and your father do.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Please,<\/i> Claire thought. <i>Please\u2026.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p><i>Let go. You are loved, forever.<\/i><\/p>\n\t\t\t<p>Claire obeyed, surrendering at last, and the last of the rich soil, thick with the roots of the living, compassionate trees, closed gently and finally around her.<\/p>\n\n\t\t\t<p>THE END<\/p>\n\t\t<\/main>\n\t\t<section class=\"authorBio\">\n\t\t\t<img decoding=\"async\" loading=\"lazy\" src=\"\/rw\/2025-autumn\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/02\/Torger-Tunnel.jpeg\">\n\t\t\t<p>Torger Veleder is a graduate of the Taos Writers Workshop in 2024, Torger Vedeler has had work published in a variety of science fiction and fantasy venues, including Not On of Us, Palimpsest, and The Fifth Di\u2026. 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\u201cIt\u2019s just spread too far.\u201d He had her test results before him, the MRI and the biopsy, all the wonders of modern diagnostic [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-87","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v27.5 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>The Tunnel To Forever - Roses and Wildflowers Autumn 2025<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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