The Body as Sacred Ground

by Jessica Girija Jewell

Each of us is born into a particular patch of cultural soil. It shapes how we see ourselves, what we value, and even what we imagine is possible. Every culture holds an idea of what a body should look like. In the United States, the ideal has shifted many times—from soft and rounded, to thin and angular, to today’s visibly muscular and athletic form.

All of these ideals share one thing in common: they judge the body from the outside. Yet a truly healthy body might be better measured by how easily it digests what it takes in, how fluidly it moves through daily life, and how comfortably it can sit upright to breathe and meditate. Health is not an image; it is the body’s capacity to support a meaningful life.

Yoga philosophy teaches that the physical body (annamaya kosha) is the manifestation of subtler layers, especially the mental body (manomaya kosha). Our thoughts, emotions, and habits leave visible traces in the way we carry ourselves, in our posture, in our breath. Recognizing this is not about blame—it’s about empowerment. The body listens to the mind; it reflects our inner dialogue.

And that inner dialogue has been deeply conditioned by the world around us—by what we’ve been told is worthy, beautiful, or strong.

 

Often, we've been conditioned to see the body as an ornament—something to fix, tone, display, or apologize for. We learn early to treat the body as an object, judged by standards that have little to do with true vitality. In our culture, the pressure to have a visually appealing body is relentless, driven as much by marketing as by aesthetics. Entire industries profit from convincing us that something is wrong with us—and that we can buy the solution.

Years ago, at a women’s retreat, I heard a story that has stayed with me. One of the leaders became gravely ill, and during her treatment she lost a significant amount of weight. People who didn’t know about her illness kept telling her how “great” she looked—at the very moment when she was the sickest and weakest she had ever been. That was when I began to understand how confused our culture is about what health really looks like.

The body is not a billboard. It is a finely tuned instrument, capable of perception, intuition, and communion with life itself. When we reduce it to ornament, we strip it of its sacred function: to feel our humanity and to awaken consciousness through that feeling.

Yoga practice doesn’t seek to escape the body but to awaken through it. The body is not a distraction from spiritual life; it is the field where spiritual life unfolds. In the Vedic imagination, the human form was considered the rarest opportunity in the cycle of birth — the one vessel capable of recognizing its own divinity.

Over time, different traditions have told different stories about what to do with the body. Some ascetic paths saw it as an obstacle, something to discipline or deny in order to reach the spirit. But other lineages, especially the Tantric and later yogic streams, recognized the body as a temple of awareness — the meeting point of heaven and earth, breath and consciousness, form and formlessness.

When we practice yoga with this understanding, the body becomes a place of genuine practice — where we can learn presence, compassion, and steadiness in the midst of daily life. Over time, ordinary actions such as breathing, moving, or resting begin to feel more intentional, even sacred. It’s a slow, human process of learning to live in the body with respect instead of resistance.

 

When I first began practicing yoga, I was proud of what my body could do. I had spent years testing it in the mountains and on long runs, and I carried that same ambition onto the mat. For a while, I wanted the “yoga body.”

Over time—and with the steady influence of patient teachers and regular practice—the focus shifted. I began to notice the difference between moving through poses and truly being in them. Holding a posture asked for a different kind of strength: organization, breath, and honesty.

These days, my practice is slow and mindful. I find wonder in simple, grounded poses like Parivrtta Trikonasana (Revolved Triangle Pose), where a slow twist reveals how the breath and spine negotiate space together. When I move slowly, presence becomes possible, and that presence changes everything. It softens the harshness of my inner voice, tempers striving, and makes daily life feel a little more humane.

🕉 Divinizing the Body: Workshop Invitation

 

About twenty years ago, I attended a Sanskrit workshop where I learned a short chant that captured my heart. I didn’t know its name then or that it belonged to a much older tradition; I just loved the sound and began chanting it often—sometimes in classes, often alone.

Years later I discovered that this short chorus was part of a much larger Vedic hymn called the Laghunyāsa—a preparatory chant for invoking the divine presence into one’s own body.

That discovery was thrilling. I began learning the full text, syllable by syllable, listening to the rhythm of each sound, studying its meaning, and feeling how it resonated in the body. Over time, the chanting became a teacher in itself: it showed me that the body can be made sacred through awareness.

This November, I’ll share this practice in a three-hour workshop called Divinizing the Body. Together we’ll explore how mantra, breath, and subtle awareness can shift the way we inhabit ourselves—how sound and attention can help us sense the sacred woven through the body. There will be time for reflection, connection, and simple symbolic actions to embody what we chant.