The joy of positive thinking
A recent issue of Time Magazine featured scientists studying the human brain's ability to create positive thoughts. They've found evidence "positive thinking" is a survival instinct enabling humans to concentrate on hope even in what seem to be helpless conditions.
The researchers say people who work at using their power to concentrate on "hope" tend to be more successful in careers and live longer. Most of us knew this, but the findings show the brain is actually wired to help. Years ago, Norman Vincent Peale wrote the bible for positive thinkers. I memorized it and made my kids read it.
A famous satire on positive thinking was done by Wolfgang Von Goethe in 1774 titled "The Sorrows of Young Werther." No matter what terrible thing happened, Werther felt it was for the best. The book made Goethe famous but caused some people in Europe to commit suicide. I didn't think it was that bad and like fellow 1950 college mates, knew it was gross exaggeration.
My own attempt at promoting positive thinking never got that intense, as we can see by a 1991 column:
Leave it to a Scandahoovian. Arne Nilsen wants a local law making it illegal to be grumpy. Arne is the mayor of Sund, Norway. Under his plan, nobody would be punished for violations but such a law would make the locals more positive in their outlook. The law would exempt "sulkers with good cause."
I decided it would make me a better person to pretend there was death penalty in Kalispell against grumpiness. Arising Sunday at my usual 5 a.m., I was looking forward to a "real" breakfast. Eased out of the bedroom carefully to not wake Iris.
Ever come down barefoot on a sharp porkchop bone? Made my foot bleed, but I smiled while leaving bloody footprints on freshly waxed kitchen linoleum.
Grabbed a handy pair of jogging shoes and hobbled down the lane for the morning paper. "Where does it say the paper had to be in the box by 5:15, George?" I was so glad there was a law against being grumpy. Limped back to the house to prepare soft-boiled eggs, hashbrowns, sausage and toast. My mouth watered because I knew there was a leftover baked potato, my favorite hashbrown material.
Oh golly. Somebody had eaten it. Forced myself to feel glad knowing another had experienced the happiness I was denied. Joy radiated from my crippled body. Albert the cocker came over to beg, and I thought of kicking him in the direction of the bone I'd stepped on, but just fell in a chair.
Hah. Car lights at the paper tube. Was only 20 feet from the main road when I slipped on a frozen puddle. The ice was not thick enough to keep from breaking when my rear hit with full force. If you sit in a mud puddle with bathrobe on then get up, cold dirty water runs down your legs and into your shoes. All the way back, I gave thanks for the law against grumpiness.
Could swear I was not groaning, but Iris said that's what woke her. She asked, "Howcum you haven't started coffee like you usually do, Honey ... WHO TRACKED MESS ALL OVER MY CLEAN FLOOR?"
"Please Iris. Lower your voice and smile. There is a death penalty law in Kalispell for being grumpy. I stepped on a sharp bone and cut my foot. Went to the road twice for the paper, fell in a mud puddle. Shannon ate my hidden potato, yet I'm happy as a meadowlark. Just lock your mind on happiness and the whole world will be rosy."
"Tell you what, Georgie Porgie. I'll make coffee and read the paper while you clean our kitchen floor. If all your morning woes have made you so happy, that job will send you into ecstasy."
Shannon came in complaining about someone getting his new joggers full of mud and blood. Iris broke in. "Your father says there is a death penalty for being grumpy in Kalispell, so try brimming with good cheer. We'll have to humor him for awhile."
"Isn't this fun?" I interrupted, "However, the death penalty for grumpiness runs out at noon today. Maybe you two should go to an afternoon movie."
G. George Ostrom is a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist. He lives in Kalispell.