Spontaneous Altars

And Small Rituals

A couple of decades ago, Rebecca Wells wrote a book titled Little Altars Everywhere. While the details of the story have faded from my memory, the title has stayed with me—the spark that awakened my awareness of the spontaneous altars in my life.

Take, for instance, the small stone Buddha I bought for my garden. It was cold and raining the day I brought it home, so I placed it at one end of the long countertop in my kitchen, intending to move it outdoors when the weather improved. But as the weeks went by, the Buddha stayed put, and I began to notice other items gathering around it: a pitcher of flowers, a candle, a bundle of cinnamon sticks, a pair of tiny whisk brooms, and a shell from a California beach cradling a small crystal. I hadn’t set out to create an altar—but there it was, a quiet constellation of objects, each with its own significance, each contributing to an unexpected harmony.

An altar to what? For many, the word “altar” evokes biblical images of sacrifice or offerings. Its Latin root, altare, means "high place"—a platform for lifting something up. In the Western tradition, altars have evolved into ceremonial backdrops for weddings, baptisms, and other religious rites. In other cultures, however, an altar is often a way to honor ancestors, celebrate nature, or center oneself. The altar on my kitchen countertop falls into this latter category: a quiet homage to serenity, a collection of objects that reflects back to me a sense of peace. It offers a gentle reminder, like a nod from the universe, that beauty and stillness can be found in the most ordinary moments.

I’m not alone in this experience. Friends have shared stories of their own spontaneous altars: a desk adorned with a glitter-filled paperweight, next to a framed photograph of a first dollar earned; a credenza laden with pictures of grandchildren and their artwork. These altars often begin with a single object—something symbolic of an event, a passage, a love, or a loss. Over time, other items appear, and together they form a small tableau that reflects deeper longings: to keep loved ones safe, to nurture success, to preserve memories. Once I began to notice these altars in my own home and in the homes of others, I realized they are more than just collections of things; they are bridges, connecting the outer world of daily life to the inner world of meaning and intention.

And it’s not just the altars themselves but also the rituals surrounding them—rituals that often arise as unexpectedly as the altars. When I was seventeen, I met a woman from India who told me that her mother began each day by whispering “thank you” before getting out of bed. I was so moved by the idea that I adopted it for myself. Decades later, it remains my first thought every morning: Thank you. It’s a ritual born of youthful idealism, that has endured, anchoring my days with gratitude and purpose.

My mornings have long followed a predictable rhythm: thank you for this day, fill the tea kettle, feed the dog, let the dog out, prepare and drink tea. In their simplicity, these small acts are a kind of ceremony, affirming that life—despite its complexities—is fundamentally good. As the Sufi poet Rumi wrote, “Let the beauty we love be what we do, there are a hundred ways to kneel and touch the ground.” In the gentle rituals of boiling kettles and brewing tea, of letting the dog out and greeting the day, I’ve found a hundred ways to kiss the ground.

Rituals, in their grandest sense, are meant to be transformative—psychologically, spiritually, or both. But even the simplest tasks, when approached with intention, carry a quiet transformative power. By honoring the ordinary with thoughtfulness, we often uncover the extraordinary.

All around me, little altars quietly emerge. They take shape on countertops and in gardens, on kitchen tables and end tables. They are filled with the gratitude of my life: acorns and candles, sprigs of lavender, collected thimbles, carved Buddhas. Whether deliberate or spontaneous, these altars—and the rituals that grow around them—become a way of grounding myself in the miraculous. Like vines weaving through the trellis of existence, they form joyful connections to life’s abundant, everyday wonders.