9.12

I've held the bar of my kite as the wind whistled, loud, through the foil. I'll be honest, it was terrifying, that knowledge: any second, a gust could come and knock me off my feet. White-kuckled, I held to the bar, desperate to let go, holding to the edge of my ability, my feet light on the ground as I desperately struggled to dig in, begging for the grass to wind up around my ankles, to keep me from flipping away on the next breeze. Let me tell you, I wanted so badly for my forearms to give up their ache, to feel strong again so I wasn't so afraid of the power of the kite. But terrified as I was, I would do it again.

Maybe it's this way with life. Maybe we make poor decisions and skate at the edge of our ability for so long because it's the thrill and the rush of feeling that knife's edge of death at our throat. But we don't see the precipice of chance for what it is, and when we're finally, inevitably dragged from the edge, we reach our fists up and curse God and the fates for doing to us what we could have seen, had we opened our eyes.

I'm waiting for the wind to rise again, though. I wish you could come fly with me. We'd poke at the probability of faceplanting, of lacerations and contusions, of wrapping the kite around a power line or a tree and losing it permanently. We'd take the risk because that's what's worth living. Don't say you're not tempted. Come, fly a kite with me.