It all began with podcasts.
I'm not crazy about many technical innovations of the last 20 years. The passion many share to impart every waking thought on TWITTER or FACEBOOK defies my understanding. Even less comprehensible are those who follow these dispatches with the obsessiveness of meth addicts. Today's lunch order from Arby's or your deep insight into last night's Gossip Girls are subjects best discussed in person or by phone with the very select few who share your love of the inconsequential. Please don't proclaim them to the e-world at large like they're proverbs from Ecclesiastes.. The web has more important uses - like the self-promotion of blogs.
But podcasts are another story. My iPod is bursting with more spoken-word programming than I could listen to in a century. And iTunes generates new batches every week like some electronic sorcerer's apprentice. Since most podcasts are free, I am constantly adding new and increasingly arcane series into the mix. I'm not sure how I came upon The Chopra Center offerings, but the titles of their episodes intrigued me: "Finding Balance In Your Life...," "Intention Setting," and the source for today's sermon, "Move Beyond Your Emotional Pain."
The session begins with a drawn-out Om-like tone followed by the deep, soothing voice of a narrator who makes Hal the computer from 2001 sound like Jackie Mason.
"The body is our subconscious mind containing all of our memories...Tune into your body. See if there's an area that is calling for your attention. Bring your awareness to this place. Now, in your mind, ask your body what it is trying to tell you."1
Whoa. My body is going to tell me how to overcome my emotional pain? It's never helped me with the capital of North Dakota or the definition of "recondite," but apparently it's got the goods on my hang-ups.
Despite my skepticism, I figured I could use some help with a mental quirk or two, and talking to myself was bound to be cheaper than going to a shrink. My attempts at intra-corporeal communication ran into problems from the start.
What is the proper protocol for addressing the parts of one's body? It seems to me that having shared the same space for almost sixty years, we should be on a first-name basis.
"I say, my dear hamstring, what seems to be the problem?"
However, since I've never actually conversed with them before, more formality might be proper. Maybe I should use the third person.
"Would the esteemed ascending colon be so kind as to inform me of its grievances?"
This seems courteous enough, but what happens if the respective organ, muscle, or joint doesn't understand English? If my innards speak French, Italian, or Yiddish, I might muddle along, but anything else is dicey. Given Dr. Chopra's fluency in these matters, perhaps my body speaks Hindi. There's also the possibility that it uses its own languages in which case Rosetta Stone better come up with programs for Bowelish and Scapulese.
For the sake of argument, let's assume that language isn't a barrier. Why should I believe that my various parts want to help me? Given my disregard for their well-being over the years, I think it's likely they have more complaints about my behavior than concern for my psychological health. Am I truly prepared to be called on the carpet by my guts?
How about this from my upper GI tract:
"You got some nerve asking me what's wrong. 'Oh, what ever could cause this distress?' you plead pitifully and expect some reassuring psychobabble in return. Try shutting your gob once and awhile. It's unbelievable - you stuff your face with every imaginable junk food in quantities that would stagger an elephant and need me to explain your heartburn. That hot sauce you love so much is strong enough for spot-welding. It's not childhood trauma, you idiot, it's gluttony."
Or this from my right rotator cuff:
"Oh, so now Mr. Big Shot wants muscles. For sixty years, he barely lifts his butt off the couch, and now he's pumping iron like a defensive tackle in training. You're sore? You're old. Try removing 10 lbs. on your fly reps, and don't hock me about your psychic pain."
What really scares me is that opening this Pandora's box won't lead to healing but provoke labor unrest instead. Once my aggrieved viscera learn of their common suffering, they'll want to organize. I've always suspected my left ankle of unionist sympathies. If I give him the opportunity, I bet that Commie bastard will incite my entire body to join in anti-me solidarity. Any accusation of mistreatment - an anchovy pizza at midnight for example - could no longer be settled with antacids, but would require a visit from the NLRB. A strike would be life-threatening, and I doubt local hospitals will let me raid their organ banks for scabs.
I have a better idea. Let my insides do their jobs as best they can, and I won't ask them for psychotherapy.
1 davidji, lead educator, The Chopra Center for Wellbeing.
Very funny. Who knew your GI tract had so much to say?
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