About ninety percent of the things in our lives are right andabout ten percent are wrong. If we want to be happy， all we haveto do is to concentrate on the ninety per cent that are right andignore the ten percent that are wrong. If we want to be worried andbitter and have stomach ulcers， all we have to do is to concentrateon the ten percent that are wrong and ignore the ninety per centthat are glorious.
The words “Think and Thank” are inscribed in many of theCromwellian churches of England. These words ought to beinscribed in our hearts， too： “Think and Thank”。 Think of allwe have to be grateful for， and thank God for all our boons andbounties. Jonathan Swift， author of Gulliver’s Travels， was themost devastating pessimist in English literature. He was sosorry that he had been born that he wore black and fasted on hisbirthdays; yet， in his despair， this supreme pessimist of Englishliterature praised the great health-giving powers of cheerfulnessand happiness. “The best doctors in the world，” he declared， “areDoctor Diet， Doctor Quiet， and Doctor Merryman.”
You and I may have the services of “Doctor Merryman” free everyhour of the day by keeping our attention fixed on all the incredibleriches we possess—riches exceeding by far the fabled treasures ofAli Baba. Would you sell both your eyes for a billion dollars? Whatwould you take for your two legs? Your hands? Your hearing? Yourchildren? Your family? Add up your assets， and you will find thatyou won’t sell what you have for all the gold ever amassed by theRockefellers， the Fords and the Morgans combined.
But do we appreciate all this? Ah， no. As Schopenhauer said：“We seldom think of what we have but always of what we lack.”
Yes， the tendency to “seldom think of what we have but alwaysof what we lack” is the greatest tragedy on earth. It has probablycaused more misery than all the wars and diseases in history.
It caused John Palmer to turn “from a regular guy into an oldgrouch”， and almost wrecked his home. I know because he toldme so.
Mr. Palmer lives at 30， 19th Avenue， Paterson， New Jersey.
“Shortly after I returned from the Army，” he said， “I started inbusiness for myself. I worked hard day and night. Things weregoing nicely. Then trouble started. I couldn’t get parts andmaterials. I was afraid I would have to give up my business. Iworried so much that I changed from a regular guy into an oldgrouch. I became so sour and cross that well， I didn’t know itthen; but I now realise that I came very near to losing my happyhome. Then one day a young， disabled veteran who works for mesaid： ‘Johnny， you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You take onas if you were the only person in the world with troubles. Supposeyou do have to shut up shop for a while—so what? You can startup again when things get normal. You’ve got a lot to be thankfulfor. Yet you are always growling. Boy， how I wish I were in yourshoes！ Look at me. I’ve got only one arm， and half of my face isshot away， and yet I am not complaining. If you don’t stop yourgrowling and grumbling， you will lose not only your business， butalso your health， your home， and your friends！’
“Those remarks stopped me dead in my tracks. They made merealise how well off I was. I resolved then and there that I wouldchange and be my old self again—and I did.”
A friend of mine， Lucile Blake， had to tremble on the edgeof tragedy before she learned to be happy about what she hadinstead of worrying over what she lacked. I met Lucile years ago，when we were both studying short-story writing in the ColumbiaUniversity School of Journalism. Nine years ago， she got theshock of her life. She was living then in Tucson， Arizonia. Shehad—well， here is the story as she told it to me：“I had been living in a whirl： studying the organ at theUniversity of Arizona， conducting a speech clinic in town， andteaching a class in musical appreciation at the Desert WillowRanch， where I was staying. I was going in for parties， dances，horseback rides under the stars. One morning I collapsed. Myheart！ ‘You will have to lie in bed for a year of complete rest，’ thedoctor said. He didn’t encourage me to believe I would ever bestrong again.
“In bed for a year！ To be an invalid—perhaps to die！ I wasterror-stricken！ Why did all this have to happen to me? Whathad I done to deserve it? I wept and wailed. I was bitter andrebellious. But I did go to bed as the doctor advised. A neighbourof mine， Mr. Rudolf， an artist， said to me： ‘You think now thatspending a year in bed will be a tragedy. But it won’t be. You willhave time to think and get acquainted with yourself. You willmake more spiritual growth in these next few months than youhave made during all your previous life.’ I became calmer， andtried to develop a new sense of values. I read books of inspiration.
One day I heard a radio commentator say： ‘You can expressonly what is in your own consciousness.’ I had heard words likethese many times before， but now they reached down inside meand took root. I resolved to think only the thoughts I wanted tolive by： thoughts of joy， happiness， health. I forced myself eachmorning， as soon as I awoke， to go over all the things I had tobe grateful for. No pain. A lovely young daughter. My eyesight.
My hearing. Lovely music on the radio. Time to read. Good food.
Good friends. I was so cheerful and had so many visitors that thedoctor put up a sign saying that only one visitor at a time wouldbe allowed in my cabin—and only at certain hours.
“Nine years have passed since then， and I now lead a full，active life. I am deeply grateful now for that year I spent in bed.
It was the most valuable and the happiest year I spent in Arizona.
The habit I formed then of counting my blessings each morningstill remains with me. It is one of my most precious possessions.
I am ashamed to realise that I never really learned to live until Ifeared I was going to die.”
My dear Lucile Blake， you may not realise it， but you learnedthe same lesson that Dr. Samuel Johnson learned two hundredyears ago. “The habit of looking on the best side of every event，”