Wednesday, June 13, 2012

And she soared

Sitting outside, it seemed even the coffee swirled inside the cup, the wind was so strong.  Holding those whose hearts are heavy upon my own, the whisper of ‘kite’ rode upon the wind.  I am 58 and have never flown a kite. I giggled and drank my coffee. ‘Kite’ the wind whispered as the neighbor’s sprinklers danced and bent.  This time I listened.
Off to the one store where I thought they might be, only one was left, waiting for me.  And then I became afraid.  My eyes are not good and my hand tremors and stutters and cannot grasp.  As the nice man took my money, with shy eyes I asked if he would help.  As I stuffed my stuttering hand back into my pocket, unseen, his face softened and he put it together and tied the string.

To the lake I went. Holding the kite against my body, my back to the wind, I unraveled the string. As I turned, releasing my grip I released the drowning, heaviness, death, and silence gathered around those faces upon my heart.  With a whoosh and jerk the kite soared, almost taking me with it.  I whispered “Please” to the sweet Hands of Life, “Hold still my hand, the wind and kite. One picture please to remember.”  And Life giggled back, as she drew the kite closer to her own heart.  “Two pictures my child. One for you.  And one for those who now fly into my embrace.”

I am 58 and still do not know how to fly a kite.  A stranger’s compassion became my hands.  My body turned to face the sun, the wind pushed me back and I loved with laughter and sweet tears…and Life accepted the gift.  


  1. Sweet, Sweet Angel ~ Have you any idea just how much you matter? Have you any idea at all just how much your words, strung together with the tender threads of your heart, have touched us? (Well, ME anyway) I am so grateful to Terri (St. Cloud) for adding you to her newsletter. She is a Master of finding treasure. And you, Dear One, are a brilliant gem in a world that so needs to see you shine. BRAVISIMO!

  2. Your words are much to kind, and gentle do they touch my heart. Perhaps (she writes with a giggled smile) tis not my words but the beauty of your own heart. I gather feathers and write of loose threads, I am graced some of the threads found a home. Namaste my friend.