Books: Nerves and Common Sense
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Annie Payson Call >> Nerves and Common Sense
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If this woman could open and let out her own interior tornado, which
she has kept frozen in there by her false attitude of restful quiet,
she would be more ill for a time, but it might open her eyes to the
true state of things and enable her to rest to some purpose and to
allow her household to rest, too.
It seems, at first thought, strange that in this country, when the
right habit of rest is so greatly needed, that the strain of rest
should have become in late years one of the greatest defects. On
second thought, however, we see that it is a perfectly rational
result. We have strained to work and strained to play and strained
to live for so long that when the need for rest gets so imperative
that we feel we must rest the habit of strain is so upon us that we
strain to rest. And what does such "rest" amount to? What strength
does it bring us? What enlightenment do we get from it?
With the little lady of whom I first spoke rest was a
steadily-weakening process. She was resting her body straight toward
its grave. When a body rests and rests the circulation gets more and
more sluggish until it breeds disease in the weakest organ, and then
the physicians seem inclined to give their attention to the disease,
and not to the cause of the abnormal strain which was behind the
disease. Again, as we have seen, the abnormal, rushed feeling can
exist just as painfully with too much and the wrong kind of rest as
with too much work and the wrong way of working.
We have been, as a nation, inclined toward "Americanitis" for so
long now that children and children's children have inherited a
sense of rush, and they suffer intensely from it with a perfectly
clear understanding of the fact that they have nothing whatever to
hurry about. This is quite as true of men as it is of women. In such
cases the first care should be not to fasten this sense of rush on
to anything; the second care should be to go to work to cure it, to
relax out of that contraction--just as you would work to cure
twitching St. Vitus's dance, or any other nervous habit.
Many women will get up and dress in the morning as if they had to
catch a train, and they will come in to breakfast as if it were a
steamer for the other side of the world that they had to get, and no
other steamer went for six months. They do not know that they are in
a rush and a hurry, and they do not find it out until the strain has
been on them for so long that they get nervously ill from it--and
then they find themselves suffering from "that rushed feeling."
Watch some women in an argument pushing, actually rushing, to prove
themselves right; they will hardly let their opponent have an
opportunity to speak, much less will they stop to consider what he
says and see if by chance he may not be right and they wrong.
The rushing habit is not by any means in the fact of doing many
things. It asserts itself in our brains in talking, in writing, in
thinking. How many of us, I wonder, have what might be called a
quiet working brain? Most of us do not even know the standard of a
brain that thinks and talks and lives quietly: a brain that never
pushes and never rushes, or, if by any chance it is led into pushing
or rushing, is so wholesomely sensitive that it drops the push or
the rush as a bare hand would drop a red-hot coal.
None of us can appreciate the weakening power of this strained habit
of rush until we have, by the use of our own wills, directed our
minds toward finding a normal habit of quiet, and yet I do not in
the least exaggerate when I say that its weakening effect on the
brain and nerves is frightful.
And again I repeat, the rushed feeling has nothing whatever to do
with the work before us. A woman can feel quite as rushed when she
has nothing to do as when she is extremely busy.
"But," some one says, "may I not feel pressed for time when I have
more to do than I can possibly put into the time before me ?"
Oh, yes, yes--you can feel normally pressed for time; and because of
this pressure you can arrange in your mind what best to leave
undone, and so relieve the pressure. If one thing seems as important
to do as another you can make up your mind that of course you can
only do what you have time for, and the remainder must go. You
cannot do what you have time to do so well if you are worrying about
what you have no time for. There need be no abnormal sense of rush
about it.
Just as Nature tends toward health, Nature tends toward rest--toward
the right kind of rest; and if we have lost the true knack of
resting we can just as surely find it as a sunflower can find the
sun. It is not something artificial that we are trying to learn--it
is something natural and alive, something that belongs to us, and
our own best instinct will come to our aid in finding it if we will
only first turn our attention toward finding our own best instinct.
We must have something to rest from, and we must have something to
rest for, if we want to find the real power of rest. Then we must
learn to let go of our nerves and our muscles, to leave everything
in our bodies open and passive so that our circulation can have its
own best way. But we must have had some activity in order to have
given our circulation a fair start before we can expect it to do its
best when we are passive.
Then, what is most important, we must learn to drop all effort of
our minds if we want to know how to rest; and that is difficult. We
can do it best by keeping our minds concentrated on something simple
and quiet and wholesome. For instance, you feel tired and rushed and
you can have half an hour in which to rest and get rid of the rush.
Suppose you lie down on the bed and imagine yourself a turbulent
lake after a storm. The storm is dying down, dying down, until by
and by there is no wind, only little dashing waves that the wind has
left. Then the waves quiet down steadily, more and more, until
finally they are only ripples on the water. Then no ripples, but the
water is as still as glass. The sun goes down. The sky glows.
Twilight comes. One star appears, and green banks and trees and sky
and stars are all reflected in the quiet mirror of the lake, and you
are the lake, and you are quiet and refreshed and rested and ready
to get up and go on with your work--to go on with it, too, better
and more quietly than when you left it.
Or, another way to quiet your mind and to let your imagination help
you to a better rest is to float on the top of a turbulent sea and
then to sink down, down, down until you get into the still water at
the bottom of the sea. We all know that, no matter how furious the
sea is on the surface, not far below the surface it is absolutely
still. It is very restful to go down there in imagination.
Whatever choice we may make to quiet our minds and our bodies, as
soon as we begin to concentrate we must not be surprised if
intruding thoughts are at first constantly crowding to get in. We
must simply let them come. Let them come, and pay no attention to
them.
I knew of a woman who was nervously ill, and some organs of her body
were weakened very much by the illness. She made-up her mind to rest
herself well and she did so. Every day she would rest for three
hours; she said to herself, "I will rest an hour on my left side, an
hour on my right side, and an hour on my back." And she did that for
days and days. When she lay on one side she had a very attractive
tree to look at. When she lay on the other she had an interesting
picture before her. When she lay on her back she had the sky and
several trees to see through a window in front of the bed. She grew
steadily better every week--she had something to rest for. She was
resting to get well. If she had rested and complained of her illness
I doubt if she would have been well to-day. She simply refused to
take the unpleasant sensations into consideration except for the
sake of resting out of them. When she was well enough to take a
little active exercise she knew she could rest better and get well
faster for that, and she insisted upon taking the exercise, although
at first she had to do it with the greatest care. Now that this
woman is well she knows how to rest and she knows how to work better
than ever before.
For normal rest we need the long sleep of night. For shorter rests
which we may take during the day, often opportunity comes at most
unexpected times and in most unexpected ways, and we must be ready
to take advantage of it. We need also the habit of working
restfully. This habit of course enables us to rest truly when we are
only resting, and again the habit of resting normally helps us to
work normally.
A wise old lady said: "My dear, you cannot exaggerate the
unimportance of things." She expressed even more, perhaps, than she
knew.
It is our habit of exaggerating the importance of things that keeps
us hurried and rushed. It is our habit of exaggerating the
importance of ourselves that makes us hold the strain of life so
intensely. If we would be content to do one thing at a time, and
concentrate on that one thing until it came time to do the next
thing, it would astonish us to see how much we should accomplish. A
healthy concentration is at the root of working restfully and of
resting restfully, for a healthy concentration means dropping
everything that interferes.
I know there are women who read this article who will say; "Oh, yes,
that is all very well for some women, but it does not apply in the
least to a woman who has my responsibilities, or to a woman who has
to work as I have to work."
My answer to that is: "Dear lady, you are the very one to whom it
does apply!"
The more work we have to do, the harder our lives are, the more we
need the best possible principles to lighten our work and to
enlighten our lives. We are here in the world at school and we do
not want to stay in the primary classes.
The harder our lives are and the more we are handicapped the more
truly we can learn to make every limitation an opportunity--and if
we persistently do that through circumstances, no matter how severe,
the nearer we are to getting our diploma. To gain our freedom from
the rushed feeling, to find a quiet mind in place of an unquiet one,
is worth working hard for through any number of difficulties. And
think of the benefit such a quiet mind could be to other people!
Especially if the quiet mind were the mind of a woman, for, at the
present day, think what a contrast she would be to other women!
When a woman's mind is turbulent it is the worst kind of turbulence.
When it is quiet we can almost say it is the best kind of quiet,
humanly speaking.
CHAPTER IV
_Why does Mrs. Smith get on My Nerves?_
IF you want to know the true answer to this question it is "because
you are unwilling that Mrs. Smith should be herself." You want her
to be just like you, or, if not just like you, you want her to be
just as you would best like her.
I have seen a woman so annoyed that she could not eat her supper
because another woman ate sugar on baked beans. When this woman told
me later what it was that had taken away her appetite she added:
"And isn't it absurd? Why shouldn't Mrs. Smith eat sugar on baked
beans? It does not hurt me. I do not have to taste the sugar on the
beans; but is it such an odd thing to do. It seems to me such bad
manners that I just get so mad I can't eat!"
Now, could there be anything more absurd than that? To see a woman
annoyed; to see her recognize that she was uselessly and foolishly
annoyed, and yet to see that she makes not the slightest effort to
get over her annoyance.
It is like the woman who discovered that she spoke aloud in church,
and was so surprised that she exclaimed: "Why, I spoke out loud in
church!" and then, again surprised, she cried: "Why, I keep speaking
aloud in church!"--and it did not occur to her to stop.
My friend would have refused an invitation to supper, I truly
believe, if she had known that Mrs. Smith would be there and her
hostess would have baked beans. She was really a slave to Mrs.
Smith's way of eating baked beans.
"Well, I do not blame her," I hear some reader say; "it is entirely
out of place to eat sugar on baked beans. Why shouldn't she be
annoyed?"
I answer: "Why should she be annoyed? Will her annoyance stop Mrs.
Smith's eating sugar on baked beans? Will she in any way--selfish or
otherwise--be the gainer for her annoyance? Furthermore, if it were
the custom to eat sugar on baked beans, as it is the custom to put
sugar in coffee, this woman would not have been annoyed at all. It
was simply the fact of seeing Mrs. Smith digress from the ordinary
course of life that annoyed her."
It is the same thing that makes a horse shy. The horse does not say
to himself, "There is a large carriage, moving with no horse to pull
it, with nothing to push it, with--so far as I can see--no motive
power at all. How weird that is! How frightful!"--and, with a
quickly beating heart, jump aside and caper in scared excitement. A
horse when he first sees an automobile gets an impression on his
brain which is entirely out of his ordinary course of
impressions--it is as if some one suddenly and unexpectedly struck
him, and he shies and jumps. The horse is annoyed, but he does not
know what it is that annoys him. Now, when a horse shies you drive
him away from the automobile and quiet him down, and then, if you
are a good trainer, you drive him back again right in front of that
car or some other one, and you repeat the process until the
automobile becomes an ordinary impression to him, and he is no
longer afraid of it.
There is, however, just this difference between a woman and a horse:
the woman has her own free will behind her annoyance, and a horse
has not. If my friend had asked Mrs. Smith to supper twice a week,
and had served baked beans each time and herself passed her the
sugar with careful courtesy, and if she had done it all deliberately
for the sake of getting over her annoyance, she would probably have
only increased it until the strain would have got on her nerves much
more seriously than Mrs. Smith ever had. Not only that, but she
would have found herself resisting other people's peculiarities more
than ever before; I have seen people in nervous prostration from
causes no more serious than that, on the surface. It is the habit of
resistance and resentment back of the surface annoyance which is the
serious cause of many a woman's attack of nerves.
Every woman is a slave to every other woman who annoys her. She is
tied to each separate woman who has got on her nerves by a wire
which is pulling, pulling the nervous force right out of her. And it
is not the other woman's fault--it is her own. The wire is pulling,
whether or not we are seeing or thinking of the other woman, for,
having once been annoyed by her, the contraction is right there in
our brains. It is just so much deposited strain in our nervous
systems which will stay there until we, of our own free wills, have
yielded out of it.
The horse was not resenting nor resisting the automobile; therefore
the strain of his fright was at once removed when the automobile
became an ordinary impression. A woman, when she gets a new
impression that she does not like, resents and resists it with her
will, and she has got to get in behind that resistance and drop it
with her will before she is a free woman.
To be sure, there are many disagreeable things that annoy for a
time, and then, as the expression goes, we get hardened to them. But
few of us know that this hardening is just so much packed resistance
which is going to show itself later in some unpleasant form and make
us ill in mind or body. We have got to yield, yield, yield out of
every bit of resistance and resentment to other people if we want to
be free. No reasoning about it is going to do us any good. No
passing back and forth in front of it is going to free us. We must
yield first and then we can see clearly and reason justly. We must
yield first and then we can go back and forth in front of it, and it
will only be a reminder to yield every time until the habit of
yielding has become habitual and the strength of nerve and strength
of character developed by means of the yielding have been
established.
Let me explain more fully what I mean by "yielding." Every
annoyance, resistance, or feeling of resentment contracts us in some
way physically; if we turn our attention toward dropping that
physical contraction, with a real desire to get rid of the
resistance behind it, we shall find that dropping the physical
strain opens the way to drop the mental and moral strain, and when
we have really dropped the strain we invariably find reason and
justice and even generosity toward others waiting to come to us.
There is one important thing to be looked out for in this normal
process of freeing ourselves from other people. A young girl said
once to her teacher: "I got mad the other day and I relaxed, and the
more I relaxed the madder I got!"
"Did you want to get over the anger?" asked the teacher.
"No, I didn't," was the prompt and ready answer.
Of course, as this child relaxed out of the tension of her anger,
there was only more anger to take its place, and the more she
relaxed the more free her nerves were to take the impression of the
anger hoarded up in her; consequently it was as she said: the more
she relaxed the "madder" she got. Later, this same little girl came
to understand fully that she must have a real desire to get over her
anger in order to have better feelings come up after she had dropped
the contraction of the anger.
I know of a woman who has been holding such steady hatred for
certain other people that the strain of it has kept her ill. And it
is all a matter of feeling: first, that these people have interfered
with her welfare; second, that they differ from her in opinion.
Every once in a while her hatred finds a vent and spends itself in
tears and bitter words. Then, after the external relief of letting
out her pent-up feeling, she closes up again and one would think
from her voice and manner--if one did not look very deep in--that
she had only kindliness for every one. But she stays nervously ill
right along.
How could she do otherwise with that strain in her? If she were
constitutionally a strong woman this strain of hatred would have
worn on her, though possibly not have made her really ill; but,
being naturally sensitive and delicate, the strain has kept her an
invalid altogether.
"Mother, I can't stand Maria," one daughter says to her mother, and
when inquiry is made the mother finds that what her daughter "cannot
stand" is ways that differ from her own. Sometimes, however, they
are very disagreeable ways which are exactly like the ways of the
person who cannot stand them. If one person is imperious and
demanding she will get especially annoyed at another person for
being imperious and demanding, without a suspicion that she is
objecting vehemently to a reflection of herself.
There are two ways in which people get on our nerves. The first way
lies in their difference from us in habit--in little things and in
big things; their habits are not our habits. Their habits may be all
right, and our habits may be all right, but they are "different."
Why should we not be willing to have them different? Is there any
reason for it except the very empty one that we consciously and
unconsciously want every one else to be just like us, or to believe
just as we do, or to behave just as we do? And what sense is there
in that?
"I cannot stand Mrs. So-and-so; she gets into a rocking-chair and
rocks and rocks until I feel as if I should go crazy!" some one
says. But why not let Mrs. So-and-so rock? It is her chair while she
is in it, and her rocking. Why need it touch us at all?
"But," I hear a hundred women say, "it gets on our nerves; how can
we help its getting on our nerves?" The answer to that is: "Drop it
off your nerves." I know many women who have tried it and who have
succeeded, and who are now profiting by the relief. Sometimes the
process to such freedom is a long one; sometimes it is a short one;
but, either way, the very effort toward it brings nervous strength,
as well as strength of character.
Take the woman who rocks. Practically every time she rocks you
should relax, actually and consciously relax your muscles and your
nerves. The woman who rocks need not know you are relaxing; it all
can be done from inside. Watch and you will find your muscles
strained and tense with resistance to the rocking. Go to work
practically to drop every bit of strain that you observe. As you
drop the grossest strain it will make you more sensitive to the
finer strain and you can drop that--and it is even possiple that you
may seek the woman who rocks, in order to practice on her and get
free from the habit of resisting more quickly.
This seems comical--almost ridiculous--to think of seeking an
annoyance in order to get rid of it; but, after laughing at it
first, look at the idea seriously, and you will see it is common
sense. When you have learned to relax to the woman who rocks you
have learned to relax to other similar annoyances. You have been
working on a principle that applies generally. You have acquired a
good habit which can never really fail you.
If my friend had invited Mrs. Smith to supper and served baked beans
for the sake of relaxing out of the tension of her resistance to the
sugar, then she could have conquered that resistance. But to try to
conquer an annoyance like that without knowing how to yield in some
way would be, so far as I know, an impossibility. Of course, we
would prefer that our friends should not have any disagreeable,
ill-bred, personal ways, but we can go through the world without
resisting them, and there is no chance of helping any one out of
them through our own resistances.
On the other hand a way may open by which the woman's attention is
called to the very unhealthy habit of rocking--or eating sugar on
beans--if we are ready, without resistance, to point it out to her.
And if no way opens we have at least put ourselves out of bondage to
her. The second way in which other people get on our nerves is more
serious and more difficult. Mrs. So-and-so may be doing very
wrong--really very wrong; or some one who is nearly related to us
may be doing very wrong--and it may be our most earnest and sincere
desire to set him right. In such cases the strain is more intense
because we really have right on our side, in our opinion, if not in
our attitude toward the other person. Then, to recognize that if
some one else chooses to do wrong it is none of our business is one
of the most difficult things to do--for a woman, especially.
It is more difficult to recognize practically that, in so far as it
may be our business, we can best put ourselves in a position to
enable the other person to see his own mistake by dropping all
personal resistance to it and all personal strain about it. Even a
mother with her son can help him to be a man much more truly if she
stops worrying about and resisting his unmanliness.
"But," I hear some one say, "that all seems like such cold
indifference." Not at all--not at all. Such freedom from strain can
be found only through a more actively affectionate interest in
others. The more we truly love another, the more thoroughly we
respect that other's individuality.
The other so-called love is only love of possession and love of
having our own way. It is not really love at all; it is sugar-coated
tyranny. And when one sugar-coated tyrant' antagonizes herself
against another sugar-coated tyrant the strain is severe indeed, and
nothing good is ever accomplished.
The Roman infantry fought with a fixed amount of space about each
soldier, and found that the greater freedom of individual activity
enabled them to fight better and to conquer their foes. This
symbolizes happily the process of getting people off our nerves. Let
us give each one a wide margin and thus preserve a good margin for
ourselves.
We rub up against other people's nerves by getting too near to
them--not too near to their real selves, but too near, so to speak,
to their nervous systems. There have been quarrels between good
people just because one phase of nervous irritability roused
another. Let things in other people go until you have entirely
dropped your strain about them--then it will be clear enough what to
do and what to say, or what not to do and what not to say. People in
the world cannot get on our nerves unless we allow them to do so.
CHAPTER V
_The Trying Member of the Family_
"TOMMY, don't do that. You know it annoys your grandfather."
"Well, why should he be annoyed? I am doing nothing wrong."
"I know that, and it hurts me to ask you, but you know how he will
feel if he sees you doing it, and you know that troubles me."
Reluctantly and sullenly Tommy stopped. Tommy's mother looked
strained and worried and discontented. Tommy had an expression on
his face akin to that of a smouldering volcano.
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