E is for Escape like an Earthworm #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second week of the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences,  pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge.

Today's post is all about getting lost in time; of timelessness, of when moments morphs into nectar.

I hope you'll enjoy reading it. 

Thank you.

Arti

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"Listen to presences inside poems, Let them take you where they will.

Follow those private hints, and never leave the premises."

Quote borrowed from 'The Essential Rumi' Translations by Coleman Barks

The word escape, I feel, has had a bad rep ever since it started associating with 'ism'. Escapism sounds like cowardice, like one is avoiding ones role in human form. 

To me, escape is essential for self-preservation. It's time travel. Let me explain with an example:

When I was six or so years old, time was a cloud that came rolling in without making a sound. I'd be lost in Papaji's garden for hours (according to my mother) which felt like minutes to me.

Everything fascinated me: plants, flowers, bees, leaves, soil, twigs, branches and climbing trees. 

Often, my sister and I and a few other children from the neighbourhood would congregate behind the rose bushes, under Papaji's big mulberry tree, far from adult eyes, to prepare wedding feasts for our dolls. There used to be one communal doll and its groom was usually present in proxy for no one could ever find him. 

The magic of preparing the feast lay in the pots and pans we would sculpt out of garden soil. We'd carry water in palms of hands, bottles or mugs from the grey, cement water tank next to the metal gate. Mixing water with soil and patting  pateele, tawe and karahian (pots and pans) of varying shapes and sizes would absorb all of us all at once. Six inch wide pans, uneven looking pots would start appearing on the patch of sand where the ginger plant fronds erupted. It got the most sun so the pots dried quickly. 

We'd run back and forth (stealthily and swiftly) from our kitchens stealing a potato or two, a tomato perhaps, some salt and haldi and sometimes even spoons and an odd knife. We'd will the fires to burn with scarps of stolen newspapers and twigs gathered from the garden, going phoo, phoo, phoo at the embers to get things going. 

We escaped into play with such abandon and enthusiasm that when an adult voice called out to announce that the sun would be setting soon and it was time to get back indoors, we'd all be taken by surprise.

Hastily, the half-cooked feasts in half-baked pots would be distributed by the oldest in the group who'd take charge. We'd extend our palms and relish the raw potato cubes swimming in lukewarm salty water like they were the tastiest morsels we'd ever eaten before wiping our hands on our frocks and shirts and promising each other to be better prepared for the next 'gudde-gudiya  ki shaadi' (doll's wedding).

Those tunnels of fun we travelled into when we lost ourselves in play brought us back to the surface of reality refreshed, enthused, bubbling with ideas. Like earthworms, we dug deep into our worlds and churned our energies, our imaginations, our friendships, our abilities into fertile ground for growth. 

I do it still--

escape, evaporate. 

I haven't made any pots 

with garden soil 

recently 

but losing myself in a book, 

a poem, a plant, birdsong, a bloom, or

an inefficient teapot 

teasing to be reused,

brings me back up:

refreshed, rejuvenated.

These portals of everyday, ordinary things

suck me in.

I like to indulge in time travel, I do.

And I do it as often as it pleases me.

You could say, I'm a pro

at the art of getting lost

disappearing into lines and words and the spaces left blank on pages.

One day, if I practise getting lost in tunnels of time, often.

I may find I've smudged my edges on a dragonfly's effervescent wings.

 

O! How magical that would be!

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The etymology of the word escape suggests that it was used to mean, 'free oneself from confinement'. 

Covid-19 may have confined us to our homes but we all have an escape route or two at our disposal. Of course, any addiction of any sort does not qualify for the kind of escape I'm talking about:) 

What's your escape route? When does time morph for you? If you'd like to share, you know I'd love to hear.

 Horizons melt 

Sun escapes 

ocean waves

Photos taken in June 2019, South African coast.

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This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com