Just as some of us used to have physical islands of safety such as up the wagon tongue and into the wagon bed or up the ladder to the loft when the barnyard animals got rambunctious, so we all now need mental islands of safety when the world's affairs get too oppressive and threaten irreversible cynicism and sadness.

The combatants of this down-sliding trend do what they can with what they have, but they need respite lest, like tired soldiers, they fall on the battlefield.

I am not in favor of withdrawing from the problems like the no-see-no-hear-no-say monkeys, but after a protracted dose of reading and hearing about murders, war, starvation and general wrongdoing, I need an antidote, an island of safety, a "wagon bed" or "hay loft."

I keep an inventory of my escape hatches lest I forget about some of them. For example, I sometimes forget that a newspaper-wrapped lunch taken out under some green, leafy canopy and eaten leisurely with only birdsong and cricket gossip to assail my ears is a good restorer. The simplicity of it is like a tonic - a sandwich, a pickle, a boiled egg and an apple.

Some gregarious person might ask, "Wouldn't it be more restorative if you had someone to share it with?" My answer might be, "No, not always." Conversation would naturally drift to the local, state or national troubles and that is what, for the moment, I'd be seeking surcease from.

Tending to a flower or vegetable garden is a great solace for frayed sensibilities. Who can keep thinking of a fifteen-inch bloody knife while looking down into the throat of a tiger lily, wondering what makes the petals turn backward, feeling of the spots to see if they are raised like dotted Swiss? No political scandals and heated rhetoric irritate the brain while feeling the good solid weight of a ripening tomato, running a finger over the green satin of a pepper.

Our pioneer husbands and wives had little time for domestic violence. They needed each other to survive. Have we become too affluent, too government cared for, just too many wandering in dry deserts with no point of reference?

I can forget the dark side of life by reading or re-reading a good book. Emily Dickinson expressed this well in a little quatrain that spoke of a dingy life until a book was found.

Watching the two doves make their slow, peaceful way down the length of the walk is like a balm to a brain baked by the atrocities of African wars.

A dearly loved kinswoman sought mental refuge in folding and refolding her linens. I had noticed her going to her linen closet at odd times, unfolding and folding again the sheets, pillow cases, table cloths, napkins. She would run her hands, gnarled by too much rheumatism, over the smooth fabric, make the corners meet exactly when folding, pat the folded pile every once in a while. Once, I asked her about it. "It keeps me from thinking about other things," she replied. By "other things" I assumed it was overwhelming, worrisome other things.

Aunt Marg, she of the all-day-worn black silk bonnet, would sometimes say, right in the middle of peeling potatoes for supper, "I'm going up to Buzzard's Roost." This was a large rock formation at the top of a rather steep mountain behind her home. As a child I sometimes accompanied her, stepping through the pennyroyal and mountain bergamot, but remaining silent as did Aunt Marg. Sitting at this high place, looking down on the countryside, "Pretty, ain't it?" was about all she would say. But, coming back down, she might sing "Loch Lomond" or "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton."

Make your own inventory. Climbing a mountain, walking by the seashore, listening to music, sitting in church with your church family, watching a fire in a fireplace, rocking a baby. As the Walrus indicated to the Carpenter, there are such a number of things. But be sure not to withdraw entirely into a world of such antidotes. Stay tuned in. Be aware. The Absolute Point of Reference is still there.

REJOICE!