I opened my eyes and found myself gazing at a grassy hill. A cart track led from me to the top. To one side, quite a distance away, was a leafy tree. It was summer; the blue sky was dotted with white clouds.
“Choose,” said someone behind me. “Follow the tracks or go to the tree.”
I glanced over my shoulder. There was no one there. I felt myself wanting to panic, but the urge faded. It was okay. I was safe.
The cart track was right in front of me, going up and over the hill through the long summer grass. I was curious what lay on the other side, but the tree was more attractive. I couldn’t see the bottom, under the leafy boughs—the angle of the hill prevented that—but maybe there were birds in it. Maybe they were singing. I’d loved climbing trees when I was a kid. Maybe I could do that again.
An invisible hand touched my shoulder. “Choose.” The voice was neither male nor female, but it was filled with patience and caring.
I was reminded of the Robert Frost poem about the road not taken and was torn, but only for a moment. “The tree.”
So I went, and as I drew nearer to it, I felt lighter and lighter, until it seemed I might even fly. Filled with joy, I ran.
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