Kites

I’ve always been quite mesmerized by kites. I was never sure why they intrigued me so, but throughout high school and college the margins in every clean notebook was soon filled with small illustrations (thanks in part to my short attention span)  of kites attempting to fly, kites crashing to the ground and kites soaring high. While in grad school, these pen drawings turned into paintings – watercolor, acrylic, oil – I have a dozen or so of each. I bought shadow box frames for 4 of these paintings and hung them on the wall, ascending up the staircase in the entrance to my house. These are by far not the “best” of the kites, but something about the simplicity of them puts a smile on my face every time I walk upwards, into the kitchen.

I’ve been thinking of posting them on here for some time, but had been struggling with the words to post with them. Then I happened (not on coincidence, I don’t believe in coincidences) to stumbled upon this poem by John Newton this afternoon. After reading it a couple times, there was no need to come up with anything else on my own.

Once on a time a paper kite

Was mounted to a wondrous height,

Where, giddy with its elevation,

It thus expressed self-admiration:

"See how yon crowds of gazing people

Admire my flight above the steeple;

How would they wonder if they knew

All that a kite like me can do!

Were I but free, I'd take a flight,

And pierce the clouds beyond their sight,

But, ah! like a poor pris'ner bound,

My string confines me near the ground;

I'd brave the eagle's towering wing,

Might I but fly without a string."

It tugged and pull, while thus it spoke,

To break the string--at last it broke.

Deprived at once of all its stay,

In vain it tried to soar away;

Unable its own weight to bear,

It fluttered downward through the air;

Unable its own course to guide,

The winds soon plunged it in the tide.

Ah! foolish kite, thou hadst no wing,

How could'st thou fly without a string!

My heart replied, "O Lord, I see

How much this kite resembles me!

Forgetful that by thee I stand,

Impatient of thy ruling hand;

How oft I've wished to break the lines

Thy wisdom for my lot assigns?

How oft indulged a vain desire

For something more, or something higher?

And, but for grace and love divine,

A fall thus dreadful had been mine."

--John Newton