The only thing I like about air travel is it gives me time to

Hear the voice of Jane Lindskold, who once confessed with honesty and lightness: “The only thing I like about air travel is it gives me time to read.” At first, these words seem modest, almost playful, but within them shines a truth about the way humans endure the inconveniences of life by seeking out what is meaningful. For in her words is revealed the ancient lesson that even in discomfort, there can be blessing, and even in tedious journeys, there can be growth.

The essence of this saying is that reading transforms delay into discovery. Air travel, for all its marvels, often burdens us with waiting, with cramped seats, with hours suspended between destinations. Yet Lindskold reminds us that within this suspension lies opportunity—the rare gift of time, carved out of life’s relentless motion, which can be turned into a sanctuary for the mind. Where others may fume at delays or numb themselves with distraction, she chooses the company of books, and thus turns an ordeal into a feast of imagination.

This truth echoes the wisdom of the ancients. Recall the story of Boethius, imprisoned and awaiting death, who in his confinement wrote The Consolation of Philosophy. What others would have seen as despair, he transformed into a time of reflection and creation. So it is with Lindskold’s air travel: though she is bound to her seat as he was bound to his cell, she turns confinement into freedom by letting her mind journey through the written word.

It is also a reminder that travel is not only physical but mental. While planes carry us across lands and seas, books carry us across worlds and ages. In reading, Lindskold is able to travel further than the aircraft itself could take her—into histories long past, into futures imagined, into the hearts of strangers. Thus her dislike of air travel becomes irrelevant, for within the cabin she has already escaped into realms unlimited by geography.

But her words also caution us to look for the hidden gifts in life’s burdens. Too often we endure trials without noticing what they make possible. The long commute, the waiting line, the sleepless night—all can be wastelands if left empty, or gardens if planted with thought, prayer, or study. Lindskold reveals her own practice: fill the emptiness with learning, and even the dullest hours will bear fruit.

History offers us many who discovered greatness in such forced stillness. Nelson Mandela, confined for decades, emerged fluent in Afrikaans and armed with deeper understanding of his adversaries—because he used his confinement to read and to grow. So too, on a far smaller scale, Lindskold demonstrates the principle: when life slows you down, do not curse the stillness, but use it to strengthen your mind.

The lesson is clear: choose what you carry into the waiting places of life. Do not waste those hours with emptiness or resentment. Instead, bring with you books, ideas, questions—companions that transform waiting into learning. In this way, every forced pause becomes a step forward, every delay becomes a chance for discovery.

And in practice: let each journey, whether by air, by train, or through the long seasons of life itself, be accompanied by a book or a thought worth carrying. Turn delay into dialogue with the wise. Transform boredom into wonder. For as Lindskold teaches, though air travel may weary the body, the mind can soar freely if given the wings of reading. Thus even in the most tedious journey, the spirit may rejoice.