“Your body is a temple.” “You should treat your body like a temple.” This is an old saying, one I remember hearing occasionally from the time I was very young. I understand the idea of it—to treat your body as sacred and holy. But no one in my immediate family was a living example of this, so I can’t remember ever taking this platitude very seriously.

I distanced myself from religion pretty much as soon as I was emancipated—able to vote, live on my own and make choices for myself without the watchful oversight of a parent. This distance applied to anything and everything related to Catholicism or Chris- tianity in general and extended to the places of worship too, now that I think of it. I was in a church for the first time in decades on my trip to Iceland and Ireland. The building in my image is the the Evangelical-Lutheran church Hallgrimskirkja in the center of Reykjavík.

During a recent BYOB (Be Your Own Bestie) meditation, the image of a temple—very similar to the one I saw in Reykjavik— appeared with a big X over it, clear as a bell. Interesting, I thought, how resistance, guilt, and who knows how many other negative asso- ciations with religion and religious buildings had apparently bled over into my own caring concern for my body. There was an instant acceptance: my body is not a temple. Another shortsighted, cultur- ally acceptable dictum bites the dust!

A temple is man-made, it has absolutely nothing to do with my 100% natural physical being. A temple is built according to a blue- print, designed with structure and rules. But my body? My body wasn’t designed by a committee. It wasn’t planned with symmetry and stone, laws and liturgy. My body grows, shifts, regenerates, breaks down, and rebuilds. It is genius, organic, unpredictable, fluid —nothing like a fixed, sacred structure built by men to be admired but not truly lived in.

It struck me how deeply this resistance had embedded itself. Had I, without realizing it, internalized the idea that caring for my body came with so much baggage? That if I wasn’t treating it a certain way, I was somehow sinful? The guilt of religious obligation had shape-shifted into a quiet, nagging, “should spouting” voice about my health, my choices, my physical self. No wonder the image of the temple with an X appeared—my subconscious had been waiting for permission to reject the comparison outright. My body is not a temple.

My body is my home. A temple is a place people visit, a destina- tion, something separate from daily life. My body is my home. I don’t visit it—I live in it. It holds me, moves me, teaches me. It has been with me through thick and thin, unselfishly carrying me forward. Always giving 1000%. I have never been truly alone—my body has been here, steady, present, enduring. Like any home, it needs tending, repair, rest. It is both a mystery and something deeply familiar, cozy and safe, even as it shifts and changes with time. It’s not here to be worshiped or placed on a pedestal—it’s here to be appreciated, inhabited, fully and enjoyed freely.

My body is my playground, full of adventure and experiences of all sorts. A playground made for exploration, for running, jumping, feeling the rush of motion and sensation. My body gives me access to experiences—the smell of earth, the sensation of the sun and wind on my skin, the stretch of muscles waking up in the morning. It lets me move, dance, taste, feel. Why would I not delight in all the joy this planet has to offer? Why would I not partake with enthu- siasm in living this precious life to it’s fullest potential.

My body is my garden, alive and growing, shifting with the seasons of my life. Some days, it is lush and thriving, full of energy, and everything is in bloom. Other times, it needs careful pruning, weeding, observing. It doesn’t follow a strict, rigid plan—it responds to the seasons of life, sun, wind, rain, attention, and nourishment. If I abandon it, it overgrows in chaos or withers in neglect. But when I tend to it, even in small ways, something beautiful always finds a way to bloom.

My body is my instrument, built for creativity, movement and expression. Some days, it hums effortlessly, attuned and resonant. Other days, it creaks and groans, needing tuning and patience. But no matter what state it’s in, it holds music, waiting to be played. I do not worship it—I listen to it, work with it, and allow it to move in harmony with my life.

My body is my ocean, vast and untamed, shifting with the tides of the moon, vibrations, energy, emotion, and experience. Some days, it is calm and glassy, effortlessly flowing. Other days, it is stormy and unpredictable, demanding attention, reminding me of its depth and power. It carries me, whether I fight against it or allow myself to float. And like the ocean, it holds mysteries beyond what my conscious mind will ever fully understand.

My body is my mountain, raw and alive, untouched by rigid definitions of what it “should” be. It does not follow a linear path; it is full of twists, turns, and surprises. Some days, it is vibrant, wild, and free. Other days, it is quiet, reserved, conserving its energy. It cannot be conquered, only respected, explored, and understood.

My body is my story, written moment by moment. It is a collection of experiences, a living, breathing narrative that evolves with time. Some pages are filled with strength, others with rest. Some chapters hold struggle, while others overflow with joy. It is not meant to be perfect, only true.

I have come to know my own body as nothing short of miracu- lous in all its workings and abilities and functions. And I don’t have to go anywhere or construct anything or consult anyone to witness this miracle. My body is a mystery beyond explanation, even if you gathered every doctor, yogi, and mystic from the beginning of time until now. Even though I am presently at peace with religion and most things religious, my body is still nothing like any temple ever built by any human or group of humans anywhere on this planet.

So no, my body is not a temple. It is not built just for worship, for quiet reverence, for rules and rituals. My body is my home, my playground, my garden, my instrument, my ocean, my wilderness, my story. It does not need holiness—it needs love, attention, move- ment, and trust. And that is more sacred than any temple ever built.