This rutted path. Later, I know, will come a fork. I worry over the looming choice: left, or right? The future hangs in the balance.

Walking, now, numb and and in waking sleep. Familiar ground. Why do I wait to choose? Have I no options now? Do I dare awaken, place a foot differently, look with new interest at a well-known hedge?

Yea, in my rooms, even whether to sit or stand is a bracing freedom. Guide me now, Lord, and then now again.

(Letter #2,482)

In an open meadow, I set off in one direction. They trust me and follow.

I listen for guidance, will you sing me into the right way?

I follow your voice.

(Letter #2,481)

So many tracks through these woods, used by so many creatures. The one I walk, I do little more than borrow it. I am here, then gone from this earth.

What will be left after I am dust? Not even my footprints.

My trace will be seen in the memories and stories of the descendents of those I have greeted as I walk these woods.

So let me smile at this fellow who now approaches.

(Letter #2,480)

I live by habit, walking the same ways through each day.

There is no path from one moment to the next. Each direction leads to each. The day is cascading possibility.

I think I march upon the trail, but I am in flight, a dragonfly, fearsome and free and small and nimble.

Lord, buoy me with warm wind underwing. Each choice is new freedom. Let me choose and choose again.

(Letter #2,479)