There are dangerous questions in life.
“Do these pants make me look fat?”
“Can I be honest with you?”
And, perhaps most dangerous of all:
“How are you?”
It sounds harmless. Friendly, even. A little social courtesy tossed across the room like a soft pillow.
But sometimes, without warning, it becomes the opening note of what I call the organ recital.
You ask, “How are you?”
And suddenly the program begins.
First, the knees step forward for their solo.
“Well, the left one is still acting up, but the right one is trying not to be left out.”
Then the back clears its throat.
“Don’t forget me. I was here first.”
Then comes the stomach, the hip, the shoulder, the blood pressure, the cholesterol, the thyroid, the mysterious rash, and the prescription that may or may not be helping but is definitely producing a list of side effects longer than the Constitution.
By the time the recital is over, you are no longer speaking with a person. You are attending a medical conference with refreshments.
And the refreshments are prunes.
Now, I say this with great affection, because I have given my own organ recital more than once. In fact, I may have gone on tour. There may be posters somewhere.
“Robert D Sears and His Wandering Body: One Night Only, Unless the Sciatica Returns.”
We laugh because it is true. The body does give us plenty to talk about. It creaks. It leaks. It sleeps badly. It makes sounds we did not authorize. It develops opinions about food, weather, chairs, shoes, mattresses, and the exact angle at which we bend over to pick up a sock.
At a certain age, picking up a sock is no longer a household chore. It is a strategic decision.
The body becomes very chatty.
But the real question is this: When I tell you what my body is doing, have I answered the question, “How are you?”
Or have I merely submitted a maintenance report?
There is a difference.
If my car is making a funny noise, I may need to take it to the mechanic. But I do not introduce myself by saying, “Hello, I am a 2012 sedan with a questionable transmission.”
At least not yet.
But with the body, we often do something very similar. We begin to report from it as though it were the whole of us.
“How are you?”
“Well, my knees are angry, my back is filing a complaint, my digestion has hired legal counsel, and my blood pressure is exploring new creative directions.”
That may all be happening. It may even be medically important. I am not suggesting we ignore the body, deny symptoms, cancel doctor visits, or treat chest pain with a positive attitude and a cup of herbal tea.
That is not spirituality. That is poor judgment wearing sandals.
But there is another mistake we make. We mistake the body’s report for the truth of who we are.
A Course in Miracles reminds us, “I am not a body. I am free. For I am still as God created me.” That is a startling sentence if the body is currently shouting from the cheap seats.
The body says, “Excuse me? Not a body? Then who exactly is dealing with this lower back?”
Fair question.
But ACIM is not asking us to deny experience. It is asking us not to confuse experience with identity.
The knee may hurt.
The hip may complain.
The doctor may have a file thick enough to qualify as a novella.
But none of that is the Self God created.
The organ recital is the ego’s favorite concert because it keeps us focused entirely on form. It hands every symptom a microphone. It puts the body under a spotlight. It says, “This is you. This is your story. This is your future. Please see the usher for a program.”
And we rehearse it.
We rehearse it with friends. We rehearse it with family. We rehearse it in waiting rooms, grocery lines, and occasionally with innocent strangers who only asked where the bread aisle was.
We rehearse it privately, too.
At 3 a.m., the mind becomes a full medical panel.
“What about that twinge?”
“Should we Google it?”
“No, we should definitely not Google it.”
“Too late. We Googled it. We have three rare diseases and possibly a tropical parasite.”
This is how the story feeds itself. Not because the facts are always false, but because the interpretation becomes our identity.
The ego says, “You are your symptoms.”
The Spirit quietly says, “No. You are still as God created you.”
The ego says, “But listen to this knee.”
The Spirit says, “I heard it. Still not you.”
The ego says, “What about the blood work?”
The Spirit says, “Useful information. Still not you.”
The ego says, “What about the thing the doctor said while looking concerned?”
The Spirit says, “Attend to it lovingly. Still not you.”
That is the shift.
We do not have to throw the body off the bus. We simply stop letting it drive.
The body may need care. It may need medicine. It may need rest, treatment, attention, patience, and possibly better shoes. But it does not need to become our biography.
I can care for the body without worshiping its complaints.
I can listen to its needs without accepting its verdict.
I can say, “Yes, this is happening,” without adding, “And therefore this is who I am.”
That little addition is where the trouble begins.
Perhaps the next time someone asks, “How are you?” I can pause before the orchestra starts tuning up.
Maybe I do not need to give the pancreas a speaking part.
Maybe the shoulder can remain in the chorus.
Maybe the knee can hum quietly in the background.
Maybe I can answer from somewhere deeper.
“I’m practicing peace.”
“I’m learning.”
“I’m grateful.”
“I’m still here, and apparently so is my lower back, but we are negotiating.”
That kind of answer does not deny the body. It simply refuses to crown it king.
Because in the end, the organ recital may be entertaining, dramatic, and occasionally medically informative. But it is not the truth.
It is only the story I keep rehearsing.
And if I have rehearsed the wrong story long enough, perhaps I can begin rehearsing another one.
Not the story of the body as my identity.
Not the story of decline as my destiny.
Not the story of every ache and complaint as proof of who I am.
But the quiet story beneath all stories:
I am not a body.
I am free.
And even if my knees would like to file a rebuttal, they do not get the final word.