This lovely little turquoise building is actually a boathouse. It, and this deck, is suspended over a marshy section of land in Lake Erie Metropark, south of where I live. I know it's a boathouse because I have pressed my face up against that little window because I really had to know what was in there. And there are some old wooden canoes in there, that's what. I can only assume that at one time this marshy span was more a river... I mean, why else would a boat house be here? Still, I want the back story. I am a journalist by nature.
But beyond that, I feel like I'm waiting lately. Waiting for something good to happen. Waiting for the right project to hit me over the head. Waiting for everything to be okay. Waiting for summer. Waiting for the perfect time to open that $100 bottle of wine I was gifted during an outrageously fun evening earlier this spring (a story best told over wine--but maybe not that $100 bottle). Waiting to have enough money. Waiting to feel really comfortable with myself. Waiting for the lock on that boathouse door to be mysteriously gone, or broken, or just unlocked, so I can get a better look at what's inside. Waiting for a stroke of creative genius.
Jane wrote about feeling restless some posts ago, and I so hear that call. I am restless. I want a change. I'm ready for a surprise.
Bring on the waters.
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