Sunday I took the new bike to my favorite waterfront park to play, learn to change gears, go in circles to be sure I could actually stay on before trying to ride in front of other people. I felt like a kid, wanting to announce to the Border Patrol, “Hey, look at my new bike. Isn’t it cool? I even have one of the car racks. I’m one of the athletic ones now. I should go get some Clif bars for us all to share.” I felt like I’d joined the Club of Life and couldn’t stop smiling.
As I was riding, just a little bit further, just a few more moments before heading home, I was met with ice, lots of ice. Huge sheets of ice, spanning the entire way across the river to Canada, maybe 20 feet across. Plates that used to cover Lake Erie somewhere and now were sweeping their way to Niagara Falls. I stopped and watched, listened to the rushing power of all that ice, sheets beating against each other and the rocks which were trying to hold them back, force them on down the river, down the current, away from the open expanse of the lake which was ready for spring. Their speed was almost dizzying, almost hard to watch with my legs feeling like jelly after my ride, but I couldn’t move, realizing that this was something unusual, something worth watching for the full five minutes as what looked like a football field passed me by.
One sheet even held an entire park bench. It was broken, but all there, the refuse of someone’s perch, a spot where someone once watched the river go by was now being taken down the river, empty as it watched all of us on shore.
Spring is always a time of new beginnings and lately, I’ve been feeling like things were stirring for me. The blockade of my dissertation is starting to break up, starting to move. I feel like it’s a little easier to breathe with each page, each footnote that I put down. There’s still a lot to send down the river, but at least there’s movement. I’m feeling a little lighter in life too. Nothing’s really changing or improving, but I’m happier, easier, freer, hopeful about what’s to come. The frozen waters are busting up, eager to move along. The ice is still powerful and awe-inspiring and frightening as it jostles on the current, but its passing makes the river seem peaceful, no matter how powerfully the water still roars. It’s dangerous water, but it’s just water. It moves and movement means change.
It’s nice to watch the ice pass.
well with the hand-painted yarn. Overall, a big woo-hoo for a quick one-skein project! Definitely a keeper if you're looking for a fast, pretty present idea (or a new scarf to make the never-ending winter a little brighter).
put something in this bag and put it to use. Perfect? Far from it, but so far I've gotten compliments every time I've used it. There's a lesson in there that my perfectionistic/procrastinating self is avoiding. I'll think about that... later. Certainly after I've agonized over a few more unfinished projects!
Pattern: Spindle Socks from My Fashionable Life 
Insert random story - In college, I was not exactly a frequent visitor to the basement laundry. There was waaaay too much to do to be bothered with such nonsense, especially when underwear was cheap at Wally World. When I came home, I'd load up the car with all my dirties and put mom's machine to the test. (Sorry about that, mom. And sorry I was still doing that when I was in grad school and living five states away...) My first semester I returned from Thanksgiving with what I thought was enough clean laundry to make it to Christmas. My sock supply ran dry just before finals and at that point, I was too freaked out with studying to even bother buying more. Luckily, my packrat ways came to the rescue and I was able to pull out all those mismatched socks that were lingering at the bottom of the drawer, waiting for their long-lost mates. I took, and aced, every final that semester wearing socks of two different colors. Being the superstitious student, I washed those mismatched socks and saved them for every finals week for the rest of my college career. I may have looked like a complete fool taking that advanced linguistics exam, but the A was worth it!
I've heard for years that this indoor, urban market was de rigueur for people all over the area. Families have their own traditions for when they go get their butter lamb and placek. 
I couldn't resist this beauty, a handpainted Russian egg. From what we could figure out, the symbolism of the designs on the eggs differs slightly between the various countries represented and each uses a different technique to paint the wooden eggs, but all were quite beautiful and unusual. Nothing like the plain ol' Paas dyed eggs of my past!
