a letter to my body
Peace be upon you, my dear Temple.
I apologize. It should not have taken an eight-week Rites of Passage program for me to sit down and write these words that you so desperately needed to hear so many moons ago. To be fair to us though, I did not know that I needed to say this, or that you needed to hear it, until now. For so long, I have ignored you, dismissed your rights, harmed you, allowed others to degrade you, pushed you to your limits, given you crappy food, denied you hydration, and loaded you down with burdens. I have given you excessive amounts of alcohol, clouded your brilliant mind with marijuana smoke, and would not allow you rest when you were exhausted. I have shared you with men who did not deserve you. I have carried the weight of other people’s opinions on your shoulders. I have compared you to the temples of others. Instead of looking deeply into the windows of the soul you cradled inside, I looked at my feet in shame. I didn’t treat those glorious stretch marks on your thighs like the story-telling heiroglyphs that they are, but I wished them away. I complained that your boobs were small, and I complained again when they began to sag after breastfeeding. I wasn’t grateful that God made your legs long and slender. I ridiculed them instead and called them twigs (as if being compared to a tree could ever be a negative). I carried you into harmful, dangerous situations a couple times. I cowered and silenced you instead of standing up for you. I’ve enslaved you to ego and desires on more occasions than I can count. When you needed water internally as well as externally, physically, emotionally and spiritually, I crawled into bed and surrendered to stagnation instead. I apologize. I apologize for not choosing to love and honor you, for putting the many roles I was living in ahead of you. I apologize for allowing you to live outside of your fitrah for so long. There were some traumas that were not self-inflicted, but inherited, and I apologize for those too. I knew I needed help, but I didn’t seek it out even though you screamed for it. I chose complacency over love. I didn’t feed you well, but gave you the fast food of this life. I treated you like a machine.
You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you? You’ve had two babies removed by the abortion doctor’s tools. The tears you’ve shed over the course of 42 years could fill Lake Mead. You’ve screamed so loud for so long that you’ve repeatedly lost your voice. Your poor heart has been broken by people who didn’t even deserve to possess it.
But you know what, sis? I am so proud of how far you’ve come from heartache. You have given birth to six beautiful, strong, and healthy babies. The experience and honor of pregnancy and childbirth gave you a curvy, gorgeous, grown-ass woman shape! You’ve permitted yourself to be covered in goosebumps when you were experiencing anything pleasurable or profound. By this you knew you were allowed to feel. You’ve learned how to use your mouth, voice and words to communicate your needs, and your spine and feet backed it up by not wavering in your boundaries and in your will. You’ve laughed loud and long and often, and found more joy, really, than sorrow. You’ve created amazing art with those hands and you’ve sat down with closed eyes and listened to beautiful poetry and music that moved you. You’ve planted things and they’ve grown and flourished before your patient, watchful eyes. You’ve spent time alone because that was a right you knew you had, and time with yourself was exactly what you needed. You tried twerking and failed, and you were cool with that failure. You let your mind and feet wander and wonder. You’ve raised your hands and bent knees and bowed head in prayer to the One who gave you your shape. You swung open the door of guidance when you were invited to do so, and accepted Islam. You’ve chosen to hydrate and buy and eat organic even with food stamps. You’ve learned how to make time for rest. You’ve internalized the power and freedom in saying both “no” and “yes.” When someone touched you without asking, you removed their hand and told their uncouth selves to get their hands off and away. You found your voice. You’re intentional now about keeping promises to yourself. You choose courage and vulnerability, and you choose to take risks. It took some time and some experience, but you came to realize exactly whose you were, why you were, and what you were.
A temple. A sacred vessel. A sanctuary. A home. A seat of honor. A nurturer. A comforter. A willing heart. A gardener. A mother. A daughter. A wife. A sister. A friend. A lover. A seeker. A knower. A submitter. A force. One who was chosen. One who is worthy. One who is seen and valued.
I want you to know that I understand now. I know what I did wrong and what I’ll do right in the future, God willing. This is a journey that we’re on together. And I know better now how to love you and how to keep you safe. I know what you need and deserve, both from me and from other temples. I’m learning how to cultivate you into a good, fruit-bearing tree. I’m learning how to nourish you so that you’ll be a guiding star and a light for others. I have lofty dreams for you. I’m intentional about learning the answers to the questions in the grave so you won’t be harmed in the Hereafter. I strive to be honest with you. I ask you hard questions and push you to search for clear answers. Because you deserve good. You deserve trust. You deserve love.
Since I recognize that these are the things you deserve, the soul food you need to thrive, I want to make a few commitments to you. 1) I vow to keep the promises that I make to you. I’m never happy when I compromise my beliefs, my values or my boundaries for the pleasure or comfort of other people. 2) I vow to nourish you in the most holistic way possible. That means I’ll choose good, whole, balanced, nutrient-dense food for you; I’ll keep you hydrated; I’ll commit to a fitness routine and stop complaining about my lady lumps; I’ll make sure your spiritual self is consistently nourished. The love you have for your Lord and His Messenger needs nourishment to grow and bear fruit; I’ll continue to attend all of my therapy sessions even if I have to switch insurances or pay out-of-pocket to make that happen inshaAllah; I’ll finish that Dave Ramsay book and get your financial game up so you can stop having this love-hate relationship with money; I’ll choose better partners for you so your home is not always a battleground (of course, this will require some patience and self-examination and self-accountability from us, dear Temple); and Lord knows, I’ll choose orgasms for you. No more settling and compromising on your sacred water, sis. 3) I vow to keep your hair and face looking beautiful. You deserve to love how you look. I will choose beauty for you, in all its manifestations. And speaking of beauty, 4) I vow to allow you time to watch that movie, listen to that song, taste that cake, travel to that country, read that book, laugh, cry, yell, or even just be still and silent because your emotions and your desires and your needs are valid. You get resentful when you aren’t allowed to just BE. 5) I vow to touch you in a sacred way. By this, I don’t mean masturbation. I mean, massage. Touch with intention. Touch that heals. Your scars need tracing, not hiding. You need gentleness and attention, not harshness and neglect. God willing, this will set the standard for how others touch you in the future. 6) I vow to listen to you. When there are places that you don’t want to go, I won’t take you there. When there are situations that you don’t want to be in, I’ll steer you out and away. And for balance, when you are comfortable in a place, I’ll let you linger a little bit longer. With God’s Help, 7) I vow to strive to make sure your brief sojourn in this world is spent in worship. You see, you’re not just a vessel for storing a precious soul; you also have rights that are recognized by the One that created you. I will recognize and honor those rights, as well. When it’s time to bow down, I’ll be sure you do so, with a complete bowing’ and a complete prostration. When it’s time for remembrance and recitation, I’ll make sure your ablution is complete and the environment in which you learn best is prepared.
These are the vows I make to you, Temple, as we continue on this journey together. I love you. There is only one you. May God keep you safe from every kind of harm, whether at my hand or someone else’s. Ameen.
Wishing you love, elevation and liberation,
You, On A Journey
Tenille Fatimah