Applied Psychology for Nurses | Page 5

mental condition close to pure sensation, a vague feeling
of something different than what was just before.
Or this bare consciousness may come in the moment of acute shock,
when the sense of suffering, quite disconnected from its cause,
pervades my entire being; or at the second when I am first "coming
back" after a faint, or at the first stepping out from an anesthetic. In
these experiences most of us can recall a very simple mental content,
and can prove to our own satisfaction that there is such a thing as mere
awareness, a consciousness probably close akin to that of the lower
levels of animal life, or to that of the newborn babe when he first opens
his eyes to life.
Consciousness, then, in its elements, is the simplest mental reaction to
what the senses bring.
How shall we determine when consciousness exists? What are its tests?
The response of the mind to stimuli, made evident by the body's
reaction, gives the proof of consciousness in man or lower animal.
But what do we mean by a stimulus?
Light stimulates me to close my eyes when first entering its glare from
a dark room, or to open them when it plays upon my eyelids as I sleep
and the morning sun reaches me. It is a stimulus from without.
The fear-thought, which makes my body tremble, my pupils grow wide,
and whitens my cheeks, is a stimulus from within.
An unexpected shot in the woods near-by, which changes the whole
trend of my thinking and startles me into investigating its cause, is a
stimulus from without causing a change within.
A stimulus, then, is anything within or without the body that arouses
awareness; and this is usually evidenced by some physical change,
however slight--perhaps only by dilated pupils or an expression of
relief. When we see the reaction of the body to the stimulus we know

there is consciousness. On the other hand, we cannot say that
consciousness is always absent when the usual response does not occur;
for there may be injury to organs accounting for the lack of visible
reaction, while the mind itself may respond. But with due care, in even
such cases, some external symptoms of response can usually be found
if consciousness exists.
We have already realized how complex, intricate, and changing is fully
developed consciousness.
THE UNCONSCIOUS
But the mind of man knows two distinct conditions of activity--the
conscious and the unconscious. Mind is not always wide awake. We
recognize what we call the conscious mind as the ruling force in our
lives. But how many things I do without conscious attention; how often
I find myself deep in an unexplainable mood; how the fragrance of a
flower will sometimes turn the tide of a day for me and make me
square my shoulders and go at my task with renewed vigor; or a casual
glimpse of a face in the street turn my attention away from my errand
and settle my mind into a brown study. Usually I am alert enough to
control these errant reactions, but I am keenly aware of their demands
upon my mind, and frequently it is only with conscious effort that I am
kept upon my way unswerved by them, though not unmoved.
When we realize that nothing that has ever happened in our experience
is forgotten; that nothing once in consciousness altogether drops out,
but is stored away waiting to be used some day--waiting for a voice
from the conscious world to recall it from oblivion--then we grasp the
fact that the quality of present thought or reaction is largely determined
by the sum of all past thinking and acting. Just as my body is the result
of the heritage of many ancestors plus the food I give it and the use to
which I subject it, so my mind's capacity is determined by my
inheritance plus the mental food I give it, plus everything to which I
have subjected it since the day I was born. For it forgets absolutely
nothing.
"That is not true," you say, "for I have tried desperately to remember

certain incidents, certain lessons learned--and they are gone. Moreover,
I cannot remember what happened back there in my babyhood."
Ah, but you are mistaken, my friend. For you react to your task today
differently because of the thing which you learned and have
"forgotten." Your mind works differently because of what you
disregarded then. "You" have forgotten it, but your brain-cells, your
nerve-cells have not; and you are not quite the same person you would
be without that forgotten experience, or that pressing stimulus, which
you never consciously recognized, but allowed your subconsciousness
to accept. Some night you have a strange, incomprehensible dream.
You cannot find its source, but it is merely