When I was a young person I was a member of my junior high school concert band. I was second flute for two years (because I was never good enough to challenge my way into first flute). While first flute is almost always the melody line and consequently playing frequently through out a piece the second flute is an accent instrument and often silent while other sections carry the music. The time period that you are waiting to play is called �marking time�. You count the beats and measures so that you will be on time for your next entrance. If you define the music as the passions you pursue in your life then by this metaphor I am �marking time�.

I recently had a session with my psychiatrist and I often find it amusing how I appear on the surface. He commented on the fact that since I have been his patient I have been through a great deal in my life. It seems that every time I turn around there is some sort of crisis or trauma requiring me to overcome the temptation to wallow in self pity and do what needs to be done. He called me strong and together. He asked me how I viewed my life and I told him I was �marking time� waiting to die. I am not really depressed so much as I am resigned.

I am 41 years old. The idea that I can dream about what I want to be when I grow up as though I have a chance of making those dreams come true is ludicrous. Truth is I don�t have a passion for anything anymore; it has been sucked out of me by time and circumstance. I am left with no desire to pursue any dreams and selfish with the little time that is not dedicated to the necessity of maintaining my current (some what pitiful) lifestyle. While I might obtain an engineering degree (I am certainly intelligent enough to work my way through with acceptable grades) I would need to dedicate the next four or five years to that endeavor and during that time period I would have virtually no personal life. In the end I would have the stress of trying to launch a career at the age of 46 or 47 competing against youngsters fresh out of college willing to work for less than I would care to after all my hard work. I could conceivably find myself working for the same wages I currently rate based on my education thus far and my experience. Wouldn�t that be a kick in the ass?

I briefly contemplated the idea of attempting a family but it seems likely that time will run out before I can gear myself up enough to take a crack at that life. I don�t want to do anything. I have no passion left. I am �marking time�.

The symphony plays around me and I see the passions of others. The people I see seem real to me, three dimensional, colored like the Land of Oz while I dwell in Kansas. The funny part is that I am a part of the symphony. I can�t afford to stop counting or I will fall out of the Orchestra. I watch the homeless people that I pass on my way to the job I must maintain in order to support my lifestyle and I grasp the attraction to this freedom. Grant you, most of them are not free but slaves to one or more addictions but they are not required to walk among men pretending they are one of them. They are physically apart and that is appealing. Unfortunately I prefer sleeping in a bed and having certain amenities so I am forced to count time so as to not lose my place.

The up side is that I have an appreciation for the good times that I enjoy. I recognize that the bad happens, I have little control over events and what is done is done and no amount of whining or raging can undo it. I allow myself to get lost in the moment and find pleasure in the simple acts of washing dishes, being involved in my work, making love, or teaching my martial arts class. This is why on the surface I seem content, even happy. Instead I maintain that I am simply enjoying the music around me while I wait for the end of the piece. You see my part of this life is over and I am just waiting for the final note of this symphony so that I can move on.

I don�t think there is anything wrong with �marking time�, at least in the end I will not be surprised at where it has gone. I kept track of every boring laborious beat.

I wish you Peace

~alison~

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