Little altars. I always have at least one in my creative space. Sometimes there’s one in my kitchen. My mother stayed with us for three weeks in June. Her daily visits to the shoreline fronting the property yielded sea glass, shells, and rocks which she arranged on the windowsill above the sink. Yesterday, I moved the objects for the first and felt a pang of guilt.
My writing cabin altar contains a mirror I’ve had since I was a child, a statue of Ganesh my sister gave me when I opened my first yoga studio, a mandala of the female reproductive system I drew (drawing mandalas is a form of meditation for me), and a carving of an elephant I’ve carted with me since I was five or six.
There is a papery section of a wasp’s nest I found in Tikal, Guatemala. The two empty chairs–one from Oaxaca, Mexico and the other from a vintage dollhouse–signify I welcome and make space for visitors from other realms. The red chair is especially important: I added it to my altar after my father died because I felt our relationship was so…unfinished, that so much had been left unsaid. I invite him to sit with me and I talk to him.
Huh. This is the first time I’ve ever told that story.
Do you create altars? What objects, mementos, hold importance for you?
