A previous prompt asked you to describe the temple of your body, but what if is your body if not a temple? Perhaps it is a part of the temple—the bell clanging for a congregation’s attention. Or, sadly, perhaps your body has become another’s bell ever waiting to be struck. Or maybe your body is the hum displacing the air and vibrating in the eardrums after the bell has ceased clamoring. Unseen but present. At times in my life I believed my body to be only the equivalent of its size—the space and very air stolen from another more deserving than I. During those moments I felt as if I were nothing more than a void of grace.
So what is the metaphor of your body? Is it a building? A home with windows shining a welcoming light, an abandoned barn left in barren fields, a sparkling skyscraper thrusting its importance into the skyline? If not a building, what then? A wallet left in a diner’s booth, an hourglass, a flower blooming? Whatever your body is now, what will it become? What transformation will you make? Read the beautiful poem “Homecoming Cistern Alien Vessel” by Gabrielle Calvorcoressi.
