Our bodies are temples, grounds of worship in which we
dedicate our lives to many things. Exercise, sustenance, alcohol and cigarette
smoke; sharp cuts and medication. We are told from a young age to care for this
temple, for it is how all people will perceive us.
My temple is war torn, scarred pillars drenched in amber
liquid that catches a flame the moment smoke pours from the inside out. A place
where vines would grow if only I could plant them in my body, but what cakes
the cracked walls instead are crystalline blades of salt and sweet things. A grimy layer resides over it all, thick and coarse with
regrets and missed chances, but these are the only things keeping my walls from
caving in and letting in the light.
I see the temples of others -- fractured and aflame -- and I
understand why we hide the smoke and desecration of ourselves; of the holy land
we gathered our congregation upon. We want people to see us and be able to say
we survived the worst of what the world offered to us, not the worst of what we offered to ourselves.