Quit Your Worrying! | Page 3

he dreamed of, and the reason it made so tremendous an
impression upon the English-speaking world was that it was a new note
to them. It opened up a vision they had not before contemplated. Let

me quote it here in full:
Serene I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide or sea; I
rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace? I stand
amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me, No
wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My
heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears.
The waters know their own and draw The brook that springs in yonder
height, So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor
time, nor space, nor deep, nor high Can keep my own away from me.
I have been wonderfully struck by the fact that in studying the
Upanishads, and other sacred books of the East, there is practically no
reference to the kind of worry that is the bane and curse of our
Occidental world. In conversation with the learned men of the Orient I
find this same delightful fact. Indeed they have no word in their
languages to express our idea of fretful worry. Worry is a purely
Western product, the outgrowth of our materialism, our eager striving
after place and position, power and wealth, our determination to be
housed, clothed, and jeweled as well as our neighbors, and a little better
if possible; in fact, it comes from our failure to know that life is
spiritual not material; that all these outward things are the mere
"passing show," the tinsel, the gawds, the tissue-paper, the blue and red
lights of the theater, the painted scenery, the mock heroes and heroines
of the stage, rather than the real settings of the real life of real men and
women. What does the inventor, who knows that his invention will
help his fellows, care about the newest dance, or the latest style in ties,
gloves or shoes; what does the woman whose heart and brain are
completely engaged in relieving suffering care if she is not familiar

with the latest novel, or the latest fashions in flounced pantalettes? Life
is real, life is earnest, and this does not mean unduly solemn and
somber, but that it deals with the real things rather than the
paper-flower shows of the stage and the imaginary things of so-called
society.
It is the fashion of our active, aggressive, material, Occidental
civilization to sneer and scoff at the quiet, passive, and less material
civilization of the Orient. We despise--that is, the unthinking majority
do--the studious, contemplative Oriental. We believe in being "up and
doing." But in this one particular of worry we have much to learn from
the Oriental. If happiness and a large content be a laudable aim of life
how far are we--the occidental world--succeeding in attaining it? Few
there be who are content, and, as I have already suggested few there be
who are free from worry. On the other hand while active happiness may
be somewhat scarce in India, a large content is not uncommon, and
worry, as we Westerners understand it, is almost unknown. Hence we
need to find the happy mean between the material activity of our own
civilization, and the mental passivity of that of the Orientals. Therein
will be found the calm serenity of an active mind, the reasonable
acceptance of things as they are because we know they are good, the
restfulness that comes from the assurance that "all things work together
for Good to them that love God."
That worry is a curse no intelligent observer of life will deny. It has
hindered millions from progressing, and never benefited a soul. It
occupies the mind with that which is injurious and thus keeps out the
things that might benefit and bless. It is an active and real manifestation
of the fable of the man who placed the frozen asp in his bosom. As he
warmed it back to life the reptile turned and fatally bit his benefactor.
Worry is as a dangerous, injurious book, the reading of which not only
takes up the time that might have been spent in reading a good,
instructive, and helpful book, but, at the same time, poisons the mind of
the reader, corrupts his soul with evil images,