Honouring Your Body as a Temple: A Sacred Scan - Abhisshek Om Chakravarty | Holistic Life Coach & Mindfulness Mentor

Honouring Your Body - Sacred Self Practices

There was a moment I thought I was getting it all right—having normal meals, taking the occasional stroll, pushing myself to run when conscience inevitably crept up on me. I confused the lack of damage with piety. But really, respecting the body? Treating it like a temple? That demands a more profound commitment, I came to realize only after being present, really present, not just in heart, but in muscle, bone, breath, and blood.

I talk repeatedly about breath, pause, inner silence. But this sacred vessel—our body—is the holy ground upon which rests all silence. We lose sight of this fact. We lose sight of the fact that this body, this magnificent imperfect body with its scars and stories untold, holds us through each beat of our existence.

My client Lakshay reminded me of this lesson again. I've grown to love him intensely, not for sweeping successes, but for the revolution he's brought about quietly in himself. At the first meeting, restlessness gripped him. Not hostilely, but as if a soul trapped in the flesh. Thoughts galloped ahead while the body trailed behind. Stillness did not find him. In our early sessions, he would constantly change—tapping fingers, stretching neck, changing position—as if something fundamental within him refused to rest.

"When did you ever really sit with your body?" I asked him one afternoon. "Not to judge it, or to prod it—merely to sit with it, as you'd sit with a dear friend in need of your presence?"

His look changed. "I. I don't believe that I ever did."

The question resonated for us both. Even as I asked it, I couldn't help but look for the last time I'd treated my own body in this manner. Not with fleeting pleasures like spa days or herbal teas, but with total, unalloyed attention—the holy regard we're more likely to give to temples, shrines, and moments of deep prayer.

Thus began our practice of the Sacred Scan. Not a medical procedure or diagnostic tool, but a devotional journey. A slow, gentle inward pilgrimage through the body—beginning at the toes and ascending to the crown. No fixing. No changing. Only witnessing. Only loving.

Once Lakshay had tried, he sent: "Bhaiya, I did not realize my ankles were that angry." I chuckled at his phrasing but understood its deep veracity. The body keeps all the records—stress we brush away, sorrow we repress, tension we soak up just to make it through the day. His ankles held years of forcing ahead, never stopping, never really settling.

Slowly, Lakshay's relationship with his body shifted. He started listening—really listening—not just for hunger or tiredness, but for the faintest murmurs. He said he sensed a strange constriction in his chest one day and, rather than pushing it away, rested his hand there and breathed with it. "It felt like my heart just wanted to be held," he said. Something deeply holy happened in that instant.

Seeing Lakshay brought back to mind my own physical disconnection. In the early days of my corporate career in 2015, I lived on deadlines, caffeine, and the deception of productivity. Back ached perpetually, eyes tired, breath thin—but I kept going because the world had conditioned me to: hustle, push, succeed. Mind over. Silence body.

But the body, finally, will not be silenced. Mine would not. One typical morning, I stooped to pick something up from the ground, and my back just gave up. I stiffened, paralyzed. My body had at last said: "Enough." That moment compelled me to rest. To think. And, ultimately, to reverence.

This was the start of my own practice of Sacred Scan. Not some "exotic" yoga pose or "transplanted" mindfulness fad—merely me on my bed or floor, breathing into every area of my body, greeting as I would a dearly loved one. How are you, knees? How do you feel today, shoulders? Are you carrying too much once more?

A strong realization was born: they speak when we listen to our bodies fully. Sometimes, they say in sighs, in heat, sometimes in a clenched jaw or tight abdomen. Every part holds a chapter in the story of our lives. But we skip out on hundreds of chapters because we're too busy or out of touch to read them.

Lakshay began noticing old injuries anew—not because they had returned, but because he was finally attending to them. His right wrist, injured years ago during a football match, felt tight during his scan.

"It's odd, bhaiya," he admitted. "I haven't experienced this pain in years, but now it's here." Instead of fretting, he embraced it. He breathed into it. He even apologized to that area of his body for the extended neglect. And in that forgiveness, something changed—not only in the wrist, but in his very being.

I've come to understand that our body is our very first Guru. Before books, philosophies, and scriptures, the body shows limitations, presence, and truth. And like any great teacher, it shares its wisdom only if one comes with humility.

During my scans, I sometimes find myself touching my chest and finding waiting tears. Not sobbing, dramatic ones, but quiet, inexplicable wetness—as if something inside has finally been seen. Other times, I find numbness. Total lack of feeling. This, too, speaks: a part of me has withdrawn and requires gentle coaxing to feel once more.

"I always thought the body was something to fix," Lakshay once confided. "I never knew I could love it like this." So do many of us. We use our bodies as machines—refuel them, work them out, fix them when they break. Seldom do we honor them as living altars—present, lovable, even sacred.

This is a practice beyond physical ideals—six-pack abs, glowing skin, ideal flexibility. It is about holy presence. It is about putting your hand on your belly when fear arises instead of muscling through. It is about asking your legs, "Are you tired, my friend?" before requiring another mile. It is about letting your spine unfold like a prayer. It is about honoring your heartbeat as the basic rhythm of life.

Something primordial lives in this practice. Our ancestors lacked fitness trackers and wellness applications, but they understood listening. They knew to rest when the body demanded rest. They learned to dance when their bodies needed release. They understood the sacredness of touch, not just for others, but for oneself.

One night, while I was scanning, as my consciousness extended to my feet, a tremendous surge of thanks came over me. These feet had gotten me through it all—heartbreak, joy, confusion, discovery. They'd taken me into temples and through airports, down mucky village roads and across sun-drenched meadows. And I had hardly noticed them.

So I murmured just, "Thank you." Those two words became my prayer.

Having read these words, I invite you to make room for your own Sacred Scan. Here's where to start:

• Get a quiet space: Select somewhere you will not be interrupted for 15-20 minutes. Make an intention: Maybe, "Today, I listen with love."

• Start at your feet: Attend to sensations without criticism. Is there tension? Tingle? Numbness?

• Breathe into each region: Send breath mentally to each spot as you scan upwards. Ask soft questions: "What do you need? What are you holding?"

• Show appreciation: Thank each piece for its service, even the pieces that hurt. Slowly move upward: From feet to ankles, calves, knees, thighs, hips, abdomen, chest, back, shoulders, arms, hands, neck, face, and finally, the crown of your head.

• Close with presence: Put both hands over your heart and breathe deeply for three breaths.

Lakshay now practices this every week—his "Sacred Sundays." Though restlessness still comes his way, he no longer feels trapped in his body. He's learning to occupy it entirely. To embrace it. This is change at its most sacred.

We generally imagine enlightenment as transcendent—a shaft of heavenly light, a spark of mental clarity. But perhaps enlightenment also resides in the soles of our feet. In breathing into a tight hip. In apologizing to our spine after hours of bad posture. Maybe it resides in the simple gesture of laying a hand over our heart and saying, "I am here. I see you. I honour you."

Remember this truth:

Your body is not a project. It's a temple. And you're both worshipper and god. Not sometimes, but all the time.

When you lose it, just go back. Sit. Breathe. Scan. Listen. That's all enlightenment takes to start anew.

Om poornamadah Poornamidam |

Poornaat Poornamudachyate |

Poornasya Poornamaadaya |

Poornamevaavashishyate |

Om shanti, shanti, shanti hi ||

Hari Om Tatsat!

Warm regards,

Abhisshek Om Chakravarty, (Coach Abhisshek)

Holistic Life Coach | Mindfulness Mentor | Family Mindset Coach 

"Within each soul lies infinite wisdom; I simply help others uncover their light."

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