The Kite by Annie Chocolate

The Kite by Annie Chocolate

Feburary 25, 2016

I stand on the wind, still, barely moving, glorying in my strength, my composure, my ability, in the heights I have reached. A casual observer, glancing up, could see me there, challenging the wind and winning.


But if the observer stopped, looked harder, he would see the string that led from me back to the earth, back to The Man who stands straight and firm, also watching my flight, with eyes that burn with a fierce pride.


Let him look closer yet and he would see that The Man is not completely still. His hand, the hand that holds my string, moves slightly, quietly, without show or drama. But those slight movements, the gentle twists and tugs, travel up the string, their power and effect increasing as they go, finally reaching the kite so high above.


And then the observer would understand that the kite flies because of The Man. She hangs so steady in the air only because the man holds her where the wind supports her. His ceaseless attention, those tiny adjustments and corrections, are what ensures she remains aloft.



And the observer would have discovered something, learnt something new. But The Man has always known it was He who controlled the flight; and the kite has always known from where she draws her ability to fly.


I ride on the wind, joyful, playful, exuberant; diving towards the ground then leaping heavenwards again, twisting, swooping, turning, dancing.


My Master watches. He exults in my excitement, my liveliness, my daring. I feel his pleasure in me, his approval and pride adding to my joy, spurring me on to greater heights, more dizzying feats. I fly free for my Master.


But still my string runs back to Him. His hand moves, controlling, adjusting, protecting. My heady dives towards the earth stop short of disaster because He halts them. When my swoops and soars become too wild, He gently calms them. My twists and turns never lead to entanglements because He balances them. He enhances, encourages and empowers my flight, reveling in my spontaneity and joy. His control is firm but never oppressive.


I feel the wind becomes too strong for me, it buffets me, tears at me, makes me afraid.


My Master knows this, sees and understands my fear, but also knows I need to face the force of the wind and my fear and overcome them. So He draws me down, back to him, but he does not turn me away from the wind. Instead his fingers encircle the struts which are my strength, supporting them, stiffening them. Holding me thus He turns to face the wind with me, allowing me to feel its pull and bluster. But now I am safe in the knowledge that I can face it, deal with it, for we are together - his strength bolsters me, supports me, gives me the ability to ride the storm, experience it and come safely through, stronger for having done so.


The wind is too light, too feeble to support me. No matter how many adjustments my Master makes I tire, the effort of staying aloft becomes too great. He sees my weariness and brings me in, with no hint of disappointment or blame. He knows I have tried and feels pride in my efforts. 


He sits and rests me on his knee, his fingers gently encircling my struts to keep me safe and in place. I feel His quiet calm as He sits holding me. His strength, His confidence and His patience comfort me, reassure me, re-affirming his belief in me and my belief in myself. His certainty teaches me that I will fly again, but higher, stronger, better than before, and that His pride and pleasure in me will grow and grow.


Throughout my flights Master is with me, His attention, most often, firmly fixed on my flight.


Sometimes, though, His attention is not solely on me - yet still I am His focus. If He looks around then often He does so to check there are no dangers, no hazards approaching that may harm me.


Occasionally even the focus blurs - He looks around purely for the pleasure of the view, or His attention is given to someone who stops to speak to Him. But even then His awareness of me is absolute. Let that tension of the string He holds in His hand alter - tighten, loosen, jump - and instantly the full force of His attention is directed towards me, He identifies the situation which caused the change and makes the necessary adjustments.


Master feels I have flown enough. He brings me down and carries me home. Here there are no observers to see, no distractions for His attention, and no wind for me to ride upon. I am totally dependant on him. 



Yet this is not enough for Him. 


Carefully laying me before Him, He removes the tail that gives me my stability - I have no need of it now, for he provides my stability, his hand holding me steady on the table, preventing me slipping or falling. 


Still not enough. 


With gentle hands he removes my struts, the very things that give me my shape, my form, my strength - for now I do not need them either - He is my strength, my shape is what He chooses. 


And then I am no longer a kite, but simply the material that holds the essence of what the kite is, has been, or might become. And my Master glories in seeing me thus, as no one else will ever see me; completely dependant on him for shape, form, strength; totally open and vulnerable.


He studies me, seeing and noting every change made by the day's flying. He examines the cross of material usually protected by the strength of my struts, hidden from all eyes but His. He sees every mark, every blemish and He knows what caused them, understands why they are there. He accepts them, loves them, cherishes them, for they are what make the kite His Kite; He claims them for His own.


He checks old repairs, testing them, probing them, making sure they are still sound. He searches for new damage - poking and prodding to discover the full extent, cutting away the surroundings to find sound material on which to re-build.


He finds a hem where the stitching is failing and He is merciless. Pulling away the stitches which hold it in place He firmly, but with oh, such care, unfolds the hem. And there He finds material which has never been exposed before, its colour and texture so strong, so vibrant. He looks, touches, studies, examines, probes - on and on, until He is satisfied He knows it thoroughly, completely, entirely - never damaging or marking it. He understands how precious its innocence is, and how easily spoiled. He feels honoured to be the one who knows of its existence, the one who will protect it.


He re-creates His kite from the ragged, exposed, shapeless material before Him. The marks of the day are lovingly and carefully cleaned away; rips, tears and frays made whole again. He tenderly re-folds the hem, knowing that though He can no longer see the vulnerable beauty it hides, He will never again look at His kite without knowing it is there.



He re-attaches the tail - hung in a slightly different way to correct a slight wobble. 


He replaces the struts, now cleaned and polished, creating a shape and strength that are just a little better than they were before.


He checks the string - not tied so tight that it will cut into the struts, or warp them, but firm and secure


Satisfied at last, He holds His kite up to the mirror - and I see me, through His eyes, and I am strong and bright and precious and beautiful. And my heart soars.


Soon I will fly high and free again, rising joyfully to reach heights never yet attained. But always I will be safe and protected, held firmly in the palm of His hand.


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