The Architecture Of Your Own Body

“Your body is a temple” says every woman magazine and every time I read this mainstream sentence I hear the voice of Morgan Freeman in my head, reminding me for some reason that I always should finish my vegetables and that an apple a day keeps a doctor away.

If my body is a temple, it’s not an orthodox one with its lack of emotion and heavy mystery.

It’s not a catholic one, with its radical enthusiam and festive mood.

It’s not Muslim, coated with layers and layers of reverence and preservation.

It’s the temple of an ancient, fun loving and greedy deity, who demands great sacrifices from people and gives practically nothing back. The temple, the walls of which are stained with weird drawings, blood and rust. And still it stands tall and proud among the woods, believing in its own beauty.

Every article that begins with “your body is a temple” has its own structure that frankly, only focuses about shape and length of your body. “You are beatiful no matter whether you are fat or slim, tall or short, just eat broccoli, don’t drink, don’t smoke, etc”. Nobody ever says that beauty is a subjective concept and sending a body positive message should start with not telling you how to live your life but how to love your body, even filled with fast food, alcohol, cigarette smoke and scars.

Your body starts with your hands.

“I have scars on my hands from touching certain people” — says Seymour Glass.

You search for those scars. They are invisible. There is not ripped and not completely healed skin on your fingers left from hands which used to hold them for hours. There are no burn marks on your wrists remaining from the mouth that once was kissing them tenderly.

The skin is smooth and white and almost flawless, with numerous lines and curves constantly intersacting on the surface of it.

The ring on your thumb is also a part of your body, it has been for wearing it for four years without removing it even for an hour. It is a reminder from your own person that she is here, she is with you, you are alright.

Your body is the most tender place on the right part of your lips, where the skin is so much thinner, because of the last, painful inhales of Marlboro Reds, which practically melts and explodes on your skin.

Your body is the sensetive spots under your ears, where the single, slightest touch makes you extremly vocal about it.

Your body is hidden moles all over the place, the existence of which only you and couple other people know about.

Your body is your tear shaped eyes and sometimes you think that you avoid crying as much as you can because of their strange shape.

Your body is the bags under your eyes which appear after every sleepless night.

Your body is your damaged and fried to the roots hair, which is not as curly and shiny as it used to be.

Your body is your smoke filled lungs, damaged liver, broken and swollen leg, scarred knee.

Understanding and appreciation of your own body comes from realizing that you are the architect of it and not a prisioner. You, personally are responsible for every skin fiber, freckle, mole, discolored patch of it.

So, no, your body is not temple. There is not a place for half-hearted admiration and prayers. It needs to be loved, accepted and reckoned with.

My body is not temple. It’s a forest, where every young and old tree, branches, fallen leaves, trunks are beautiful, just the way they are.