IN PRAISE OF ESCAPISM
It’s 4p.m., which is basically peak time temperature-wise here in Italy. The outside thermometer reads 91°F. I grew up in England, in the temperate clime of the Dorset coast where in those days a rare temperature of 80˚ was considered insufferable. Now I live in Tuscany, which for the last few weeks has registered between 90˚ and 100˚F. Evidently my blood is still English as I find this heat insufferable to the point of hysteria.
Already feeling oppressed by the pandemic, I find the addition of un-breathable heat to be yet another cruel gift from nature…even though I know that our collective behavior of the last six decades is responsible for the all of it. Yet also residing in my English blood is a kind of mad, bugger-off attitude of the kind that allowed British elites to wear suits and ties while colonizing countries whose searing heat no amount of gin and tonics could slake. I am without the aid of alcohol for thirty-one plus years now, nor do I wear a suit and tie. Furthermore I’ve given up wearing underwear recently because really, who’s going to know? Still, that jolly old chin-up and off-we-go DNA has convinced me to come and sit outside, my rationale being that if I can get my body to sit through 91˚ today, then I will be better prepared to survive the 101˚ forecast for this weekend.
Upon exiting the cool of the stone barn which is our home, I am momentarily distracted by 2 mourning doves engaged in what appears to be an avian mani-pedi; pecking away at each and themselves until, satisfied that they are ready to party, they do a flit into a nearby copse where who knows what mask-free, feathered fun awaits them.
In order to maintain whatever remains of my mental wellbeing during the hours in which I am confined indoors these last several weeks, I hover between the mindless playing of a digital puzzle and reading nature books. This week it’s Roger Deakin’s lovely “Notes from Walnut Tree Farm” where he lived for 30 years until his untimely death in 2006. The notes are both visual and musical and deeply immersed in the nature that bustles and bristles and blossoms around him. I suppose I am a somewhat selfish reader, more often than not choosing works of fiction and nonfiction that are set in the beloved countryside of my childhood. I know this is folly; that it is a form of escape that keeps me from being and accepting where I actually am, but perhaps this kind of longing is part of the territory for displaced people.
The cultural and geographical elements which define our early years are profound and it is natural and understandable to occasionally miss what we once took for granted and now no longer have. During my years living in America there were times when the absence of British wit threatened to take me down. Pre-internet I had to make do with the occasional screening of a British comedic film where I would often be the only person in the audience roaring with laughter. Now, with YouTube I can have a good old laugh whenever I want. But substitutes are just that: stand-ins for the real thing, and the partaking of the former can leave you yearning even more for the latter. Escapism can so easily become a chronic condition; a short-lived indulgence that makes the return to reality more jarring. Yet I would argue that escapism, as opposed to denial, holds some measure of courage.
Perhaps that’s what called me out here this afternoon. By leaving the confines of the house I placed myself in a reality I’ve been trying to avoid. Turns out that sometimes reality is as bad as you though it would be! And yet…reality is constantly changing. Yes, the heat has at time felt unbearable in the last hour, but there have also been moments when I was so lost in writing, in searching for something positive and encouraging, that nothing else existed; the search became the reality. And now an intermittent breeze, while not cool, at least brings movement; to the leaves above me in the holm oak, to the blonde tufted grasses, to the branches of the olive trees. And with this movement comes appreciation for the nature that surrounds me. It may not be the one I long for; the one of meadows and moats, of hedgerows and wildflowers, but it is nature none-the-less and I am humbled by my good fortune to be in it.
We are all, this year, missing what was and longing for the future, finding it challenging to have neither the comfort of the past or the knowledge of what the future holds. Perhaps what our present predicament offers, along with all its fear and hardship, is the opportunity to accept that, at times, we are incapable of perfectly navigating reality; of accepting that we sometimes lack the courage to move forward. Perhaps instead of judging ourselves and each other, we could allow ourselves to indulge in a little escapism once in a while, while causing no harm to others. As Reinhold Niebuhr wrote in 1932:
“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Stay safe,
With love
Maggie
