Her & her

It Is My Temple

Men have said it is wrong. But men have said a lot of things before, men say lots of things without thinking of their weight, and men will continue to speak into existence things that have no right to exist.

But I do not understand. Why is this case so special? What was the context of the original meaning? In Hebrew. In Israel. At that point in time. Was it pedophile and boy or man and man? You cannot ignore literal translations to soothe your own hatred. What is it about us that gives you the right to dictate the peace of our lives to your draconian wishes?

I don't want to respond to hate with hate- but I cannot understand.

-I want to understand-

And I've yet to meet anyone who can give me a reasonable answer.

Don't transfer your own loss of self and identity onto our children. Don't turn your own incapabilities into hatred at the cost of our next generation's lives. Don't continue to swallow the pills you have been given since your First Communion without first questioning what is in them and what the side effects are. Every anxious teenager knows the side effects of every pill they will place on their tongue, so why don't you?

What's the problem with thinking for yourself? Where's the line between religion and cult if you don't ask questions? What's the difference between wine and kool-aid if there is no individual behind the cup? If it is a hive-mind why do you hate us so much? The queens of the ants and the bees take every god-given hand to help carry the load of their precious colony, so why won't you?

Because we are god-given too.

I've always heard that hatred sounds like fire and brimstone, but I've only ever heard it in the silence that follows the question, "Why don't you have a boyfriend yet?"

I've always thought fear was supposed to look like catatonic bodies and bloodied fingernails, but to me fear is the vision of a yellow building with blue shutters and the scowl of the man who once banged his fist upon the table as he roared in hatred.

I've always been taught hatred is the feeling of a red-hot pitchfork in your heart, the feeling of flame licking at your skin oiled in sins, not perfectly uniform red bricks with new mortar, not smooth, stone-white statues of dead men, not the minuscule heat put forth by 6 foot tall candles, not the way the incense drags at your heart.

I want to direct this hatred indoctrinated into my heart at the demons who crept under my skin before my first bleed and who continue to lay siege to the last bastion of peace and love within my mind, not the supposed temple I have been provided by such a generous god. A bare temple with an altar I have not been taught how to decorate in anything other than sterile white cloth trimmed in starched lace and clumps of daisies and the belly fluff of baby rabbits and dried palms and the holy water of yet another man who attempts to rule me. Portraits of gold flecked faces hide the cracks in the walls of my temple where the outstretched fingers of life are hacked away and turned into firewood. Shame slept with by the ancestors of my faith, who worshiped at the first temple and force their heritage upon my own.

-It is my temple. Not yours.-

I've never liked the colour white, unless it was snow, and even then it was only passive, and I've never chosen lace over leather or denim. Daisies do not call to my heart the way wildflowers do, constantly pushing pushing against the limits of all I have ever been told to abide by, thriving beside forgotten highways and in the cracks of graffitied asphalt. Kettle ponds are the source of my holy water, not the blessing of an old man's hand. Kettle ponds, where bass and sand and kayakers can live without fear of the sharks who are steadily taking their territory back. Kettle ponds, where deep waters with pond weeds that grasp at your legs and shallow banks with waterlogged tree trunks you can't wait to explore can co-exist in harmony and perfect balance. Kettle ponds, where bathers can swallow the sweet waters of history without the sting of the brackish water stealing their voices as waves steal their balance. Kettle ponds, where I feel at peace.

Except for the neighbourhood bunnies and Dexter and George who we buried in the backyard of our old California home, I have never been fond of rabbits. I would never choose their fur to decorate my altar. Let alone the youth of one. I would choose the scales of a coelacanth, who even evolution cannot kill. I would choose the claw of a peacock mantis shrimp as an ode to all the colours I cannot see, as a prayer to the universe of possibilities. I would choose the shock of lightning, the first fear I conquered. I would tear down the dusty old portraits glittering with stolen gold. I would brush the dust in patterns of the dead, of the missing, of those who were never seen again, and never thought of again. I would expose the cracks in my foundation and encourage those ancient trees to grow within my walls and cast their evergreen leaves into the sky above my own altar, rejoicing together in the cascade of Mother Earth's confetti.

I would decorate my temple in everything that has been forbidden to me. Because it is mine. And I will choose how to worship there.

If you despise me for who my heart chooses, then don't be surprised when I throw away your lace and your dead palms and replace it with rainbows made of life. Don't be afraid when I make holy water from my history and not yours. Don't live in fear of something you refuse to understand. I only want peace. And love. And life.

Everything you promised me but refused to give.