By Mary Cristy

A View from the Hills

When bombs were dropped on Afghanistan, I was already sick over the death of a beloved sister-in-law, who for decades has been another “little sister,” along with my Viola, whose unconditional love has been one of my life’s greatest blessings. The bombs’ unequivocal message was that, however fervently we wished it, the war would not go away.

Everything we’ve ever heard about lying in bed, the “giving in” to sad, lonely, and lost feelings, reverberated in my brain. I should get out and walk, do something for somebody, write …. And then I put away all the “shoulds” and took to my bed. “I feel awful,” I said aloud.

My tall, blue-eyed son came in and offered to grocery shop for me. I gave him a list, and settled gratefully into downy pillows. Remembering G.K. Chesterton’s essay on “Lying In Bed,” that salutes the joy of luxuriating in bed, purely for pleasure I silenced the puritanical, “get things done” voices and made peace with my body. “I shall lie here until you feel better,” I promised.

Still, I was restless, until my literary friend came to the rescue with Graham Green’s “Monsignor Quixote,” and Alan Moorehead’s “Darwin, and the Beagle.” With a son supplying my need for food (for I was suddenly and inexplicably ravenous) and the company of superb books, I released everything but the desire to read and rest.

And now that the energy promises to flow again I think of things to keep hopes high, and fear at bay. Walks at Shoreline or the Baylands where pelicans, great white herons and other birds bear fascinated watching, videos of old musical comedies, wherein one escapes to a kinder, gentler world, a supper, solitary, yet blessed with happy memories, and thankfulness for the food with which God has graced my table, friends, neighbors, October’s “bright blue weather,” and , above all, my family.

I allow only the briefest interlude for televised coverage of disasters which I place in the same category as gawking at auto accidents . Inner peace comes at a premium in war-torn worlds. We need courage and intelligence to work toward, and endeavor to spread it.

As for fear of death by terrorism, we do well to reflect on W. Somerset Maugham’s “Death Speaks.” It tells of a Baghdad merchant who chastised death for frightening the merchant’s servant in the marketplace. In order to save himself, the terrified servant fled, leapt astride his master’s fastest horse, and pounded off to Samarra. Death responded, “It was my start of surprise that frightened him. But, you see I didn’t expect to find him here in Bagdad, for I have an appointment with him- tonight - in Samarra!’”

Death will come when it will come and we’d do well to celebrate and embrace life. Rejoice in the day and leave all care about the hour of death, which is God’s business, to God.

Cristy, a Los Altos Hills resident, has been writing for the Town Crier for more than 40 years. Her column is published the first week of the month.