The snow in the city is melting away, the ground wet and shiny, the mounds of ice that line the walkways weeping underneath. I don't have much space in my head right now. My brain is trying to work it's way through a tangle, to find the perfect path through the labyrinth. That spot, the underpass by Bethesda Fountain with its storied winged angel in Central Park, has so many moods. This one struck me as a good metaphor for where I find myself at this moment. The climb may be slippery, the footfalls unsure, but here I go, an angel at my back.