Any psychiatrist will tell you that work-keeping busy—is oneof the best anesthetics ever known for sick nerves. Henry W.
Longfellow found that out for himself when he lost his youngwife. His wife had been melting some sealing-wax at a candle oneday， when her clothes caught on fire. Longfellow heard her criesand tried to reach her in time； but she died from the burns. For awhile， Longfellow was so tortured by the memory of that dreadfulexperience that he nearly went insane； but， fortunately for him，his three small children needed his attention. In spite of hisown grief， Longfellow undertook to be father and mother to hischildren. He took them for walks， told them stories， played gameswith them， and immortalised their companionship in his poemThe Children’s Hour. He also translated Dante； and all theseduties combined kept him so busy that he forgot himself entirely，and regained his peace of mind. As Tennyson declared when helost his most intimate friend， Arthur Hallam： “I must lose myselfin action， lest I wither in despair.”
Most of us have little trouble “losing ourselves in action” whilewe have our noses to the grindstone and are doing our day’s work.
But the hours after work-they are the dangerous ones. Just when we’re free to enjoy our own leisure， and ought to be happiestthat’swhen the blue devils of worry attack us. That’s when webegin to wonder whether we’re getting anywhere in life； whetherwe’re in a rut； whether the boss “meant anything” by that remarkhe made today； or whether we’re getting bald.
When we are not busy， our minds tend to become a nearvacuum.
Every student of physics knows that “nature abhorsa vacuum”. The nearest thing to a vacuum that you and I willprobably ever see is the inside of an incandescent electriclightbulb. Break that bulb—and nature forces air in to fill thetheoretically empty space.
Nature also rushes in to fill the vacant mind. With what？
Usually with emotions. Why？ Because emotions of worry， fear，hate， jealousy， and envy are driven by primeval vigour and thedynamic energy of the jungle. Such emotions are so violent thatthey tend to drive out of our minds all peaceful， nappy thoughtsand emotions.
James L. Mursell， professor of education， Teachers College，Columbia， puts it very well when he says： “Worry is most apt toride you ragged not when you are in action， but when the day’swork is done. Your imagination can run riot then and bring up allsorts of ridiculous possibilities and magnify each little blunder. Atsuch a time，” he continues， “your mind is like a motor operatingwithout its load. It races and threatens to burn out its bearingsor even to tear itself to bits. The remedy for worry is to getcompletely occupied doing something constructive.”
But you don’t have to be a college professor to realise thistruth and put it into practice. During the war， I met a housewifefrom Chicago who told me how she discovered for herself that “theremedy for worry is to get completely occupied doing somethingconstructive.” I met this woman and her husband in the dining car while I was travelling from New York to my farm in Missouri.
This couple told me that their son had joined the armed forcesthe day after Pearl Harbour. The woman told me that she hadalmost wrecked her health worrying over that only son. Where washe？ Was he safe？ Or in action？ Would he be wounded？ Killed？
When I asked her how she overcame her worry， she replied：
“I got busy.” She told me that at first she had dismissed her maidand tried to keep busy by doing all her housework herself. Butthat didn’t help much. “The trouble was，” she said， “that I coulddo my housework almost mechanically， without using my mind.
So I kept on worrying. While making the beds and washing thedishes I realised I needed some new kind of work that would keepme busy both mentally and physically every hour of the day. So Itook a job as a saleswoman in a large department store.
“That did it，” she said. “I immediately found myself in awhirlwind of activity： customers swarming around me， askingfor prices， sizes， colours. Never a second to think of anythingexcept my immediate duty； and when night came， I could think ofnothing except getting off my aching feet. As soon as I ate dinner，I fell into bed and instantly became unconscious. I had neitherthe time nor the energy to worry.”
She discovered for herself what John Cowper Powys meantwhen he said， in The Art of Forgetting the Unpleasant： “A certaincomfortable security， a certain profound inner peace， a kind ofhappy numbness， soothes the nerves of the human animal whenabsorbed in its allotted task.”
And what a blessing that it is so！ Osa Johnson， the world’smost famous woman explorer， recently told me how she foundrelease from worry and grief. You may have read the story of herlife. It is called I Married Adventure. If any woman ever marriedadventure， she certainly did. Martin Johnson married her when221 ·
she was sixteen and lifted her feet off the sidewalks of Chanute，Kansas， and set them down on the wild jungle trails of Borneo.
For a quarter of a century， this Kansas couple travelled all overthe world， making motion pictures of the vanishing wild life ofAsia and Africa. Back in America nine years ago， they were on alecture tour， showing their famous films. They took a plane out ofDenver， bound for the Coast. The plane plunged into a mountain.
Martin Johnson was killed instantly. The doctors said Osa wouldnever leave her bed again. But they didn’t know Osa Johnson.
Three months later， she was in a wheel chair， lecturing before largeaudiences. In fact， she addressed over a hundred audiences thatseason-all from a wheel chair. When I asked her why she did it， shereplied： “I did it so that I would have no time for sorrow and worry.”