Little Altars Everywhere
An altar is defined as “an elevated place or structure, such as a mound or platform, at which religious rites are performed or on which sacrifices are offered.”
That very formal definition brings to mind magnificent ancient structures. The Pergamon Altar from Asia Minor was 116 feet wide. The Neolithic Monte d’Accoddi is 4,000 years old. The Biblical Temple in Jerusalem contained five distinct altars. And the Gothic Chartres Cathedral features its High Altar with a large marble sculpture of the Assumption.
This is not about such grand structures or about official houses of worship. This is about small, intimate tableaus we create – sometimes even unintentionally – which become the centers of inspiration, memory, and grounded-ness.
My first altar was my seasonal table when my children were in elementary school, and we lived outside Atlanta. I cannot find the article now, but I remember reading that in Victorian times, homes might contain a table that showed off objects pertaining to a season or holiday. We had a sideboard next to our dining table that never held anything but mail. So, we got straight to covering it with scarves and fabric and populating it with all sorts of flowers and knick-knacks (mostly purchased at the thrift shop).
The day we changed the table - the first day of the new season - was always a celebration. We would take down each item, wrap it in tissue paper and place it in its box – winter, spring, summer, or autumn. There was a moment of melancholy, as we said goodbye to, say, a ceramic snowman. But it was momentary because then we opened the next box and unwrapped all the flower fairies that heralded spring.
I never really thought of it as religious, just fun. Of course, those two things are not mutually exclusive. But there was something deeply spiritual about joining together with loved ones to note the passage of the seasons.
When we left Georgia for Pennsylvania, the seasonal table was not resurrected. But over the years I became more intentional about my altars.
Right now, I have a tiny one in my home office with a glass bell that I use in ceremonies, an old Peter Rabbit music box which belonged to one of my kids, a retablo box from Mexico, a Scherenschnitte Paper Cutting of a tree, my 2022 birthday crown (more about that in a future post), and a piece of my great grandmother’s necklace from the 1920s. These objects tell a story about my personal history and love for learning about world cultures. I have a cushion on the floor before this altar for meditation, prayer, and just thinking.
My home office altar. The inscription on the retablo translates to “It’s a small luxury, but I think it’s worth it.”
It's a small place I have created in which I feel grounded.
I am also reconstructing my work altar now that I am settled into my new job. I tend to take work VERY seriously. Sometimes too seriously. I have a group of small toys that live in a spot under a desk lamp. I did not buy any of them. They were gifts or literally found on the street. They remind me that life is more than labor.
Instead of grounding me, this altar insists that I also fly.
All my “altar toys” before being packed to come to my new work office.
But there is another kind of altar that is dear to me. The holder of memories of those who have passed. Think of all those piles of flowers and stuffed animals we have seen at news stories of crime scenes or just on the side of the road where a fatal car accident has occurred.
Think also of the Mexican holiday Dia De Muertos (Day of the Dead) which falls at Halloween but is not Halloween. Families create elaborate temporary altars and ofrendas (a collection of food, photographs, and objects) to honor their deceased loved ones.
When my best friend Maria died in the spring of 2020, I decided that I would make one too, to honor her at this holiday which falls very close to her birthday. She had been gone for six months when Dia de Muertos arrived. Those had been some of the hardest months of my life mourning her death during the extreme isolation of Covid. But something shifted as I prepared the altar. I covered a table with a bright cloth and set up photos of Maria and other loved ones who had passed. I lit candles, arranged paper marigolds and baked pan dulce bread. Carl and I ate a special meal in Maria’s honor.
It wasn’t that I was any less sad. I was just that I was ALSO joyous, remembering Maria and knowing how much she would have enjoyed this kind of memorial.
Ofrenda 2021
A big part of sacred rituals and ceremonies is that they provide a place to honor and experience multiple emotions. My life with Maria was full, full of everything. We helped each other through terrible times. We partied through achievements. We spoke almost every day, so we knew each other’s daily routines. Lighting the candles on that first Ofrenda, I cried, and I laughed.
Part of that definition of altar talks about sacrifice which is kind of a scary word. Technically it is “the offering of animal, plant, or human life or of some material possession to a deity, as in propitiation or homage. To surrender or give something up, for the sake of something else.”
Happily, we are WAY past the days of sacrificing living beings. But I do believe we bring a very precious offering to our personal altars. The thing we bring is priceless and can never be replicated. We bring time.
Time to create it. Time to appreciate it. Time to let it inspire our contemplations. It is a magnet to our souls to linger and remember what is sacred.
Remember to create, celebrate, and gather.
(P.S. “Little Altars Everywhere” is also the title of a wonderful collection of short stories by Rebecca Wells)
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