The Temple of Your Body

If your body is a temple, whom do you welcome inside? Do you keep the doors open, or is there an iron padlock, a bar across your doors, a moat with drawbridge and alligators? Is your temple guarded by fire-breathing dragon or yipping chihuahuas or cooing doves?

If your body is a temple, what hymns are sung inside? Is the hymn book from your childhood? If not hymns, what music or rhythms move your body—jazz, pop, waltz, dirge? What instruments play inside you? Pipe organ, piano, harp, trombone, flute, bagpipe? Or is all the music of your body percussion—the beating of drums and the clanging of cymbals? Or is the only sound inside that of a small fountain or the surrounding waves?


If your body is a temple, what incense is burned? Frankincense and myrrh, sandalwood, lavender, patchouli? Or do you burn sage to drive out negative spirits? Why do you need to? Or do you fill yourself with the scents of vanilla and cinnamon to make yourself a sweet warmth for your congregation? Or do you spray Febreze to cover the odors you cannot drive out? If so, describe those odors. What creatures do they attract?

Who are your temple’s worshipers? How many? Are all your pews filled? Standing room only or barren?

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Is your temple domed or turreted or simply a covered courtyard? Is a breeze allowed in? Does sun shine through stained-glass windows? If so, what colors? Red only through your panes? Or is your temple in darkness, shrouded? Can your worshippers see cracks in the walls, crumbling tile, debris on the floor? Or is your temple draped in velvet, lit with crystal chandeliers, and gilded to welcome only the worthy? Is the pulpit polished mahoghany or stainless steel or tarnished brass? Who stands there? Who speaks your message? What are the words?