Last of all comes food, and here is where the man who fears the physical effect of self-consciousness sees most danger. “Eat what you wish and don’t think about it, and you will be all right.” Alas, that is what the world has been doing, and instead of being all right, it has fallen a prey to numberless diseases that can be traced either directly or indirectly to dietetic errors. In food, as in other matters, we have a standard to guide us. That is the amount and kind of food that a person eats who lives under conditions that favor physical vigor. Perhaps the best we can do for ourselves is to think of the food that we ate with a relish when we were camping. Then when we find that this plain, simple diet, without “made dishes” and pastry, is no longer palatable, we will probably decide that we need a long walk, and will take it if we can possibly find the time.
Fresh air, sunlight, cleanliness, exercise, good food, good water—these, the conditions of physical vigor, come to that part of the world that is living under the intellectual stimulus only as the result of a conscious effort; but to what better use can we put our intellects after they are aroused than to the endeavor to regain bodily “wholeness”?
MORE JOY IN MERE LIVING
THE machinery of life and life itself are continually getting mixed up, both in our theories and also in our practices, and it is frequently difficult to say of a given act whether it is a part of life itself or whether it is just a means of preparation for life. It was this fact, I suppose, that Henry Drummond had in mind when he said that, even at the worst, the struggle for life was really life itself. He applied this, to be sure, to the fierce struggles for food and other necessaries of life in which, during early stages of development, human beings engaged for the purpose of self-preservation. It is just as applicable, however, to our present struggle for life, for the care and the foresight that we must exercise in order to secure the food and the shelter and the fresh air and the sunlight which are necessary simply as preparation for what we consider our life work really involve just the thought and the exercise of reason that make life for us as distinguished from mere existence. Thus the fact that the harder we must struggle for life the greater is that mental activity which is an essential part of life itself is the first source of consolation for the fact that we have to struggle.
But there is another and a greater source of consolation. It was Drummond, I think, who originated the expression, the struggle for the life of others, making it cover all the activities to which we are prompted by love. Of these activities the most important is home-making, and it is the opportunity that home affords for merging the struggle for life into the struggle for the life of others that takes the sting from the work necessary for self-preservation. Thus, in providing a shelter to protect himself from the elements and to keep him in condition for work, man, if he be a home-maker, performs the same service for those he loves; and in providing for herself food that shall fit her to be an efficient working member of society, woman, if she be a home-maker, performs the same service for those who are bound to her by affection. Herein lies the second source of consolation for the fact that the greater part of our time and energy must be given to securing and caring for the machinery of life.
In getting ready to live, and in helping others to get ready to live—in these two ways we spend the greater part of our lives. But there are some activities in life which are simply a part of living. Of these, or of part of them, Browning makes David sing in “Saul”:
Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,
The strong rending of boughs from the fir tree, the cool, silver shock
Of the plunge in a pool’s living water, the hunt of the bear,
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair,
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine,
And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine,
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.
How good is man’s life, the mere living! how fit to employ
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!
To the pleasures which are here suggested, and which are chiefly those of the senses, should be added, if we are to have anything like a complete list, those pleasures which come from going to the theater, from listening to music, and from looking at works of art, providing, of course, we do not take any of them too seriously; those pleasures which come from social intercourse with friends, and which are not dependent upon “improving conversation,” but which spring from the opportunity to be near and to talk with those we love; and those pleasures which come from meditation on life and its meaning, but which do not involve any effort to straighten out its tangles. “Improving” conversation and efforts to achieve artistic appreciation and to make the world better are parts of life, but they are also parts of its struggle, and therefore must be excluded from “the joys of mere living.”
If these pleasures that are ends and in no sense means are a legitimate part of life, they must be taken into consideration not only in adjusting the machinery of our own lives so as to have time for them, but also in adjusting the machinery of home-making so as to secure them for others. I know a woman who has four of the healthiest and happiest children in the country. She is also the fortunate possessor of horses and a carriage. If the day dawns bright and the woods seem to call for her, she has the horses harnessed, bundles the children into the carriage, puts a basket under the seat, and starts off down the street. On the way she picks up a congenial spirit or two, and stopping at the market fills her basket with bread and fruit and cooked meat or other kinds of food that can be bought ready for eating. Then, with no more ado than this, she is off for a whole day of “the joys of mere living” in the woods. This she is able to do because she has simplified the machinery of her home-making by excluding useless decorations from furnishings and clothing. Nor is it to be understood that she has thereby traded off the pleasures of beautiful home surroundings for the joys of frequent glimpses of nature. Her windows command broad views of lake and lawn, in the presence of which elaborate draperies would seem like impertinences, and her children have bright eyes and clear skins and well-developed figures, which plain clothing sets off better than ruffles and flounces.
In passing, we must not fail to note that this woman has done something more than to simplify housekeeping. She has also simplified the machinery of picnics—a great art. We have not, all of us, horses and carriages, but we can get some kind of conveyance—an electric car, if nothing better—and we can pick up on the way to the picnic food which will taste just as good in the open air as that over which we frequently wear ourselves out before starting.