General Relief

The hold music is catchy, yet somehow also annoying. As I sit here waiting for someone to answer my call, I write.

I write to not get frustrated. I write to get the swirling thoughts out of my head. I write for general relief.

My dog lays next to me on the couch, chewing on a bone. A glass of water with a tablet adding potassium, B vitamins and other things make you be "zen". I sip it, not really enjoying the flavor. I sip it to be "zen".

My days are starting to run into each other, punctuated only by these annoying things that must be done to keep on living.

The "zen" must be kicking in as my brain is clearing of the enervating thoughts. I am still on hold.

My call is finally answered, and she cannot help me. She says she will transfer me to a colleague who can. I end up back in the main menu, only this time, it will not allow me to select the number for my language.

I hang up.

Do I call back? After a few minutes of internal debate, procrastination or "just do it", I call back.

My hold time has increased. Of course it has. It only mirrors life at the moment.

At this moment in time, which is perhaps longer than what most would consider a moment, life is on hold. It has been in a holding pattern, yeah, that is a better description. Like an airplane circling, waiting for the all clear to land. Fuel tanks slowly emptying, I, as the pilot, hope it holds out a little while longer. Surely the runway will clear soon.

I have been flying for a while now, you see, looking for a place to land. Just when I think I have found one, I get waved off, or, as I get closer to, I see it is not the place I would like to be.

I used to think the fuel tank was bottomless. It is not. It does have an odd shape though, the fuel tank, so if I look closely, and put some work in, I can eke out just a bit more to enable me to continue on for a bit longer.

It's funny thinking of your life as an airplane, you in the pilot seat, maybe you have a copilot, maybe not. You may have passengers that come along with you, friends, family, and just people you know. Some times your plane may be full, and others flying quite empty. Your plane comes full of fuel, and there is only so much.

Or maybe the empty comes gradually, so slowly that you do not even notice.

I am still on hold. Holding pattern. Time waster.

I think about what to do today. I wonder what other thoughts will come while this catchy yet annoying music plays?

Wasting time. That is what fuels our airplane, time.

How many of us waste our time, flying around looking at all the things? Sometimes I wish I was one of those pilots that picked a destination, then flew there in the straightest line, point A to point B, done.

Instead, I flew here and there, thinking I had time, that the fuel tank was bottomless.

Maybe our fuel tank is filled with a formula, a blend of things. Time, plus energy, plus imagination, plus detemination, plus health. And maybe, if one or more of those things are out of balance, your plane will slow down, putt putting, spitting along until the ratios are back to optimal.

A little bird lands outside my window, chirping. He flies away as I move to take a closer look. It makes me smile, though, that he thought to come visit.

If I could be like a bird! Just being, doing, no thoughts of time running out. Of fuel tanks emptying. No distractions to drag you off course.

But can they feel gratitude? Love? Joy? Aren't these the things that make living human?

The hold music is punctuated by slightly grating voice telling me the same things over and over until I can almost say them along with him.

My call is picked up. Again, she cannot help me. She asks to place me on hold. There is no sound now. She comes back and says she will transfer me.

Someone else picks up my call, and she may be able to help. This hold music is quite nice.

One day, I am hopeful that I will not have to sit on this hold line, that my plane will have a destination, it will have enjoyable passengers, and that the airport I land at will be one at which I would like to stay.

I am hopeful for relief of a general kind. Nothing specific.