I could fill a book with stories of people who forgot themselves
into health and happiness. For example, let's take the case
of Margaret Tayler Yates, one of the most popular women in the
United States Navy.
Mrs. Yates is a writer of novels, but none of her mystery stories
is half so interesting as the true story of what happened to her
that fateful morning when the Japanese struck our fleet at Pearl
Harbor. Mrs. Yates had been an invalid for more than a
year: bad heart. She spent twenty-two out of every
twenty-four hours in bed. The longest journey that she
undertook was a walk into the garden to take a sunbath. Even
then, she had to lean on the maid's arm as she walked. She
herself told me that in those days she expected to be an invalid
for the balance of her life. "I would never have really
lived again," she told me, " if the Japanese had not
struck Pearl Harbor and jarred me out of my complacency."
"When this happened," Mrs. Yates said, as she told her
story, "everything was chaos and confusion. One bomb
struck so near my home, the concussion threw me out of bed.
Army trucks rushed out to Hickam Field, Scofield Barracks, and
Kaneohe Bay Air Station, to bring Army and Navy wives and children
to the public schools.
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"There
the Red Cross telephoned those who had extra rooms to take them
in. The Red Cross workers knew that I had a telephone beside
my bed, so they asked me to be a clearinghouse of
information. So I kept track of where Army and Navy wives
and children were being housed, and all Navy and Army men were
instructed by the Red Cross to telephone me to find out where
their families were.
"I soon discovered that my husband, Commander Robert Raleigh
Yates, was safe. I tried to cheer up the wives who did not
know whether their husbands had been killed; and I tried to give
consolation to the widows whose husbands had been killed--and they
were many. Two thousand, one hundred and seventeen officers
and enlisted men in the Navy and Marine Corps were killed and 960
were reported missing.
"At first I answered these phone calls while lying in
bed. Then I answered them sitting up in bed. Finally,
I got so busy, so excited, that I forgot all about my weakness and
got out of bed and sat by a table. By helping others who
were much worse off than I was, I forgot all about myself; and I
have never gone back to bed again except for my regular eight
hours of sleep each night. I realize now that if the
Japanese had not struck at Pearl Harbor, I would probably have
remained a semi-invalid all my life. I was comfortable in
bed. I was constantly waited on, and I now realize that I
was unconsciously losing my will to rehabilitate myself.
"The attack on Pearl Harbor was one of the greatest tragedies
in American history, but as far as I was concerned, it was one of
the best things that ever happened to me. The terrible
crisis gave me strength that I never dreamed I possessed. It
took my attention off myself and focused it on others. It
gave me something big and vital and important to live for. I
no longer had time to think about myself or care about
myself."
A third of the people who rush to psychiatrists for help could
probably cure themselves if they could only do as Margaret Yates
did: get interested in helping others. My idea?
No, that is approximately what Carl Jung said. And he ought
to know--if anybody does. He said: "About
one-third of my patients are suffering from no clinically defined
neurosis, but from the senselessness and emptiness of their
lives." To put it another way, they are trying to thumb
a ride through life--and the parade passes them by. So they
rush to a psychiatrist with their petty, senseless, useless
lives. Having missed the boat, they stand on the wharf,
blaming everyone except themselves and demanding that the world
cater to their self-centered desires. . . .
However humdrum your existence may be, you surely meet some people
every day of your life. What do you do about them? Do
you merely stare through them, or do you try to find out what it
is that makes them tick? How about the postal delivery
person, for example--they travel hundreds of miles every year,
delivering your mail; but have you ever taken the trouble to find
out where he or she lives, or asked to see a snapshot of his or
her family? Did you ever ask if he or she gets tired, or
gets bored?
What about the grocery boy, the newspaper vendor, the chap at the
corner who polishes shoes? These people are human--bursting
with troubles, and dreams, and private ambitions. They are
also burning for the chance to share them with someone. But
do you ever let them? Do you ever show an eager, honest
interest in them or their lives? That's the sort of thing I
mean. You don't have to become a Florence Nightingale or a
social reformer to help improve the world--your own private world;
you can start tomorrow morning with the people you meet!
What's in it for you? Much greater happiness! Greater
satisfaction, and pride in yourself! Aristotle called this
kind of attitude "enlightened selfishness."
Zoroaster said, "Doing good to others is not a duty. It
is a joy, for it increases your own health and
happiness." And Benjamin Franklin summed it up very
simply--"When you are good to others," said Franklin,
"you are best to yourself."
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