Somewhere among all the picture-and-story books that my girls had when they were younger is one called Five Minutes' Peace. It's about an elephant mother (Mrs. Large) who brews herself a cup of tea and heads off to luxuriate in a warm bath. But no matter how desperately she tries, she can't escape the demands of her little Larges, each of whom is more cunning than the next in disturbing what she needs most in the world: five minutes' peace.

And so it goes with each of us. At home, on the road and at work, our senses are constantly being assaulted. If it's not the demands of a spouse, a friend, a child, a coworker or other drivers, then it's the discordant clang of talk radio, television, billboards, traffic or construction. Someone or something is always there to intrude.

So ubiquitous are these intrusions that most of us aren't even fully aware of them anymore. Our bodies and minds have accommodated the onslaught through a process called sensory adaptation. In essence, we become kind of numb to the pain. But conscious of it or not, we're still in pain, and the pain still takes its toll.

At least half a dozen times in the last year I've heard friends say, "I'm so burned out. I just feel like I can't give to anybody anymore."

Words of desperation. They indicate that these men and women, like millions of others, have been defeated by the assault. By not giving themselves frequent vacations from the blare, they left themselves vulnerable to its cumulative effects. And like it or not, they're now forced by burnout to do what they didn't do all along: recharge their batteries.