Читать книгу THE POWER OF MIND - William Walker Atkinson - Страница 32

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Treating of the great subconscious region of the mind, lying outside the field of consciousness, which region is the home of the memory, the storehouse of impression received through the senses—The relation of the memory to this great storehouse is discussed, and numerous examples and illustrations are given, showing that nothing is ever forgotten, and how apparently forgotten facts may be recalled under certain circumstances—Our impressions lie hidden in the deep recesses of the subconscious mentality awaiting the hour of their voluntary or involuntary revival—The study of this chapter wiil throw new light on the subject of Memory Culture.

WE CAN form no clear conception of the nature of memory, or of the rules governing the faculties of remembrance and recollection, unless we understand something about that great region of the mind known to psychologists as the subconscious field of mentation. It was formerly taught that the mind was conscious of all that went on within itself, but the advanced thought of the age now recognizes that consciousness forms but a small part of the total of mental processes. Subconscious ideas, impressions, sensations and thoughts play a most important part in the world of thought. It is now understood that in every conscious act there is much that belongs to the region of the subconscious. In every conscious act there is a background of subconsciousness.

Back of the field of consciousness lies the great region of subconsciousness. This subconscious region contains many mysteries which are engaging the attention of psychologists and other thinkers, the results of whose investigation and labors are exercising an important influence on the thought of the age. It has been estimated that less than ten per cent of the mental operations of every day life are performed on the conscious plane, the balance of the work being done in the great subconscious regions of the mind. That which we call conscious mentation is but the peaks of submerged mountains, the vast body of the mountains being hidden by the waters. We are as if in a forest in the darkest night, our lantern casting around us a little luminous circle, beyond which is a large ring of twilight, and still beyond this is absolute darkness. And in this twilight, and in this darkness, work is being done, the results of which, when necessary, are pushed forward into the circle of light which we know as consciousness.

Memory is primarily a function of our subconscious mentality. In the great subconscious region lies the great store­house of Memory. From the moment we receive an impression, until the moment when it is again brought into the field of consciousness, the subconscious faculties are at work. We receive and store away an impression—where do we store it? Not in the conscious region, else it were always before us— down in the depths of the subconscious store­house is it stored, placed among other impressions, often so carelessly that we find it almost impossible to find it when again we need it. Where is it kept during the years that often intervene between the storing away of an impression and its subsequent revival? In this great store­house of the subconscious. What process is employed when we wish to recall an impression? Simply an order going forth from the Will, bidding the workers in the subconscious warehouse to find and bring into the light the impression laid away so long ago. And in the degree that these workers have been trained to do their work and accustom themselves to their task, do they succeed in intelligently obeying the orders of the Will. And in the measure that they have been taught to carefully store away the things committed to their charge, and to carefully note the locations of the treasures committed to them, are they apt and quick in bringing them to light when they are bidden.

Consciousness cannot be regarded as synonymous with mind. If we treat consciousness and mind as coextensive, and discard the idea of the subconscious field of mentation, we will beat a loss to explain where, during a particular conscious state, all the rest of the mind is; where are all the other bits of mental furniture other than the particular piece then in use. The field of consciousness at any particular moment is very limited, and reminds one of looking through a telescope or microscope where he sees only that which is within the field of the instrument, all outside of that field being as if it did not exist, for the moment. The mind is constantly filled with ideas, thoughts, impressions, etc., of which we are totally unconscious until they are brought into the field of consciousness.

It is believed that every impression received—every thought that we evolve—every act that we perform—is recorded somewhere in this great subconscious storehouse of the mind, and that nothing is ever absolutely forgotten. Many things that have been apparently forgotten for years, will come into the field of consciousness when summoned there by some association, desire, need or stress. Many mental impressions probably never will be brought again into the field of consciousness, there being no need for such bringing forth, but will remain in the subconscious region silently but powerfully molding our thoughts, ideas and actions. Other impressions will lie hidden in the deep recesses of the mind, awaiting the hour of their renewed use, just as future light and heat lie hidden in the coal in the uncovered strata of the earth’s surface, awaiting the time when it will be brought forth for use.

We are at any one time conscious of but a very small part of what is stored away in the mind. Many things which seem to have been forgotten, and which we have often endeavored to recall, will at some time come apparently unbidden into the field of consciousness, as if of its own accord. We often try to recall a thing, but it proves elusive, and we cease our efforts, but after a time, suddenly, the idea flashes forth right in the glare of consciousness. It would seem that our desire for recollection often starts into operation the silent workers of the subconsciousness, and long after, when we have almost forgotten the desire, they return triumphantly dragging the desired impression with them. Then again, a chance word of another may open up vast fields of memory, of whose existence we may have long since lost sight. Often in a dream we will see long forgotten faces, hear and recognize voices whose tones had faded away many years ago. Many events which have been so completely forgotten that no effort of the will seems able to recall them, still seem to be firmly imbedded somewhere in the subconsciousness, and some extraordinary stimulus, strain, or physical condition brings them forth as fresh and vivid as the impression of yesterday.

Persons in the delirium attending fever will often speak of things which they had entirely forgotten, and of which they failed to recall a single particular after their recovery, but which, upon investigation, proved to have actually occurred in their childhood or youth. It is stated that a drowning man will often recall the events of his past life, and many interesting experiences along this line are related in the standard works on the subject of psychology. Sir Francis Beaufort after being rescued from drowning, stated that “every incident of my former life seemed to pass before my recollection in a retrograde succession, not in mere outline, but the picture being filled up with every minute and collateral feature, constituting a kind of panoramic view of my entire existence.”

Coleridge relates the tale of a young woman who could neither read nor write, who, being seized with a fever, began talking in Latin, Greek and Hebrew. Whole sheets of her ravings were written out, and were found to consist of sentences intelligible in themselves, but having slight connection with each other. Of her Hebrew sayings only a few could be traced to the Bible, and most seemed to be of Rabbinical dialect. The woman was grossly ignorant, and all trickery seemed out of the question, and she was generally believed to be possessed of a devil. A physician who doubted the theory of demoniacal possession, determined to solve the mystery, and after much trouble discovered that at the age of nine she had been cared for in the household of an old clergyman. The clergyman was in the habit of walking up and down a passage of the house into which the kitchen opened, reciting to himself passages of the Rabbinical writings, and quotations from the Latin and Greek Fathers. His books were examined and every passage which the girl had uttered was found to be therein contained. The fever had caused the subconsciousness storehouse to bring forth some of its oldest treasures.

Carpenter relates the story of an English clergyman who visited a castle of which he had no recollection of having ever seen before. But as he approached the gateway he became conscious of a very vivid impression of having been there before, and seemed to not only see the gateway itself, but donkeys beneath the arch, and people on top of it. He was much wrought up over the matter, and some time afterward inquired of his mother whether she could throw any light upon the subject. She informed him that when he was a little child of but eighteen months of age, she had gone with a large party to that particular castle, and had taken him in the pannier of a donkey; that some of the people took their lunch on the roof of the gateway, while the child had been left below with the attendants and donkeys. On the occasion of the second visit the sight of the gateway brought up all the old childish recollection, although it seemed like a dream.

Abercrombie relates the story of a lady dying in a house in the country. Her infant daughter was brought from London to visit her, and after a short interview returned to town. The mother died, and the infant grew into womanhood without the slightest recollection of her mother. When she was a middle­aged woman she chanced to visit the house in which her mother died, and entered the room itself, although not knowing it to be the one in which the mother had passed away. She started upon entering the room, and when a friend inquired the cause of her agitation, said that she had a most vivid recollection of having been in that room before, and of the fact that a lady who lay in that corner, and who seemed to be very ill, had leaned over her and wept. And so the impression stored away in the subconscious storehouse of that baby brain, had remained there unknown, until its owner had grown to middle­age, when at the sight of the room the impression was revived and memory gave up some of its secrets.

There are the best possible grounds for asserting that nothing is ever absolutely forgotten, once it has been impressed upon the mind. No impression, once recorded, ever ceases to exist. It is not lost, but merely becomes obscure and exists outside of the field of consciousness, to which however it may be recalled long afterward by some act of the will, or some association, according to the circumstances of the case. It is true that many impressions are never revived, either by volitional effort or involuntarily through association, but the impression is still there and its influence is manifest in our act and thoughts. If we could reach the depths of the subconscious mentality, we would find there every impression ever received by the mind— records of every thought that had ever been born to us—the memory of every act of our life. All these things would be there— unseen but exerting a subtle influence over us. We are what we are today, because of what we thought, said, saw, heard, felt and did yesterday. Man is a composite of his yesterdays. There is not a single thought or act or impression of our past life that has not had its influence in fixing our present intellectual and moral condition. Our opinion and thoughts today are largely the result of a long succession of little experiences of the past, long since forgotten, perhaps never to be recalled.

In other chapters of this book, we will take up the subject of training the subconscious faculties, to carefully store away, to remember the location of what they take in charge, and to quickly find and bring forth, at the behest of the Will, the desired thing. We will see that the memory is capable of infinite improvement, training and culture. When we realize that nothing is absolutely “forgotten,” we begin to see the great possibilities in the direction of improvement in the art of receiving impressions, storing them away, and recalling them. We will see that the more clearly we impress upon the subconscious mentality, the more carefully we store away that impression, the more easily will we be able to bring it again into the field of consciousness. And we will see how wonderfully the subconscious workers may be trained to seek and find that which we want—how we may direct them as we would any others subject to our orders.