“LETTING GO”
In sleep’s sweet fetters bound.
LORD NEAVES.
A frequent cause of suffering among men and women is their idea
that they are necessary to the running of things. Usually they find
themselves mistaken. The head of a firm was once warned by a physician
that he must take a rest to avert a breakdown, but the man declared
it to be an impossibility for him to get away from the office for
even a week. He gripped his business so tight that he could not let
go, nor could he see that others could do it as well as he could. In
such a state of mind the doctor’s warning added another worry, fear
for himself,—so at last the predicted breakdown came. He had reached
the point where he had to let go, for his grip, both physical and
mental, was gone. For six months he could not concern himself with
business affairs, the necessity of fighting for life and renewed health
occupying all his faculties. He refused to let himself think of the
outcome, but put his attention upon getting well.
When he returned to his business, with his mind braced to stand any
disasters that he might discover, he was astonished to find everything
in perfect condition, and that his assistant had even corrected the
errors he had himself made in the last weeks of overworked body and
fagged brain. It was at first a blow to his pride that he was not
essential to the success of his own business, but, as he realized how
big a price he had paid to learn this simple lesson, he made a decision
that showed how far he had advanced beyond his former condition.
Turning to his assistant, he said: “Smith, as you can carry on this
business so well, I shall take three months’ vacation every year, and
have no more expensive breakdowns; and, as I want you to continue
to carry it on as well while I am away, you would better take three
months’ vacation every year, too, so there shall be no breakdowns for
you.” He had really learned two lessons in one—what things were not
worth doing, and what things could be done by somebody else. He still
had left “the things that were quite enough for any man to attempt.”
No man is really indispensable to any undertaking, however much it may
seem so to him. When James Alexander controlled the Equitable Life
Assurance Society, he made it his rule to discharge anybody who seemed
to be indispensable. His reason for this was that, the longer such a
man was retained, the more indispensable he would become, until the
association would be in danger of going to smash if anything happened
to that one man. Common prudence dictated the advisability of getting
rid of him while the company could manage to get along somehow without
him.
There was once a Dutchman who was of much the same opinion as Mr.
Alexander. His manager applied for an increase of salary.
“I t’ink I buys you bretty dear, alretty, Hans.” “Yes,” said Hans,
“I get a good salary, but then I am worth it. I know everything and do
everything about the business; in fact, you couldn’t get along without
me.” “Ach, ish dot so? Vell; vat I do if you vas deat, Hans?” “Oh,
well! if I were dead, you’d have to get along without me.” “Ach!”
replied the Dutchman, slowly, “den, Hans, I t’inks we gonsiders you
deat.” It is well to think sometimes of how nicely the world got along
before we came to it, and how likely it is to do just as well after we
have left it. If, when we are rushing around, weighed down by anxiety
and a feeling of our own importance, we should “consider ourselves
dead” for a few moments, we might find that the fever of life had
subsided.
We should have to admit that, judging from the past, the world would
not even slip a cog if we were to pass from it. And even if we were
ready to claim that no one heretofore had been so important, and no
one could ever again be so necessary, even then it were the part of
wisdom to cease hurrying and worrying. For, as the human frame can be
exhausted by overwork and overworry, it behooves the indispensable
person to preserve himself as long as possible, so as to save the world
from the catastrophe of his loss. The very thing he aims to do—save the
world—he defeats by his anxiety and haste.
Proper prudence tends to prevent trouble, not to prevent worry. No
amount of precaution and care will cure worry. In fact, the prudence
and care help to fix the thought on all the mischances, however
improbable or impossible, that may be imagined.
Elaborate precautions often defeat themselves, like a corporal who kept
all his squad out as pickets till they were cut off one by one.
I once saw a family going off to the country, five “masters” and
three servants, eight hand-packages, coachman, footman, and an extra
servant, and the family doctor to get them off. The cautious doctor got
the tickets days before, and even got checks for the trunks. An extra
trunk, taken at the last hour to hold some extra things that might be
needed, upset all that arranging.
The doctor went to the baggage-room in the gray dawn to get that
precautionary trunk checked: after a long discussion about the
place, he arranged to meet the family at the railway news-stand. The
caretaker was shown once more how to work the burglar alarm, from
which a necessary knob came off in the nervous hand of the Master of
Cares—“telephone for the electrician” but at last the blinds were
carefully pulled down, the house shut up and committed to Providence
and the caretaker, and the family and its familiars arrived at the
station nearly an hour before train-time, “getting off so nicely.” The
Genius of Forethought sent out a pair of scouts to find the doctor.
They returned, to report that there were three news-stands, but the
doctor was not at any of them.
Then this Genius of Care went himself with one of the scouts, a long
and hurried walk to the baggage-room,—not there.
Meanwhile, the doctor, who had stayed to see the trunks off, had found
the main body with its camp-followers and light baggage. All stood
in the station near a news-stand and waited for the return of the
expedition, till the doctor got impatient as train-time approached and
went off to find the Head of the House, who arrived in a flurry, having
lost his own head a few minutes after he had gone with the tickets.
At last, after the pilgrimage from the ticket-gate down to the
parlor-car, they are in the train, all safe, thank God; but the Genius
of Care did not sleep that night “on account of the worry and fuss
of getting off.” That was not the doctor’s fault. Like Martha, he had
made his own punishment the same as the rest of us by being “_careful_
about many things.” I remember an Irish servant who was shown one of
our big banks with its huge window-bars, to make it safe. “Sure,”
she said, “what’s the good of them things? The thieves is inside and
not out.” Worry is inside and not out, and Sleep, like the Kingdom of
Heaven, is not taken by force.