Sacred spaces are like the chrysalis a caterpillar spins around herself for gestating. They are protective spaces where creativity and future plans bear fruit. The caterpillar dangles from a branch in her sacred space until she is ready to bust, move, and fly, butterfly, fly. You will, too.
It helps to have a corner of your home that feels sacred and is just for you. For the first year after my diagnosis, I spent about ten minutes every day in front of my little makeshift altar: just being there, feeling my butt on the pillow, taking deep breaths, and talking to myself. I was learning who I was, meeting my inner voice.
My mom has the grooviest altar. It is creative and mystical and always changes; like mini magic villages, each beckons you to explore. She has a gazillion gnomes, angels, feathers, rocks, talismans, and lordy knows what else. I do not snoop. The table is wired with big energy. Be respectful or poof you are a toad. Part mother, part priestess, the lady who birthed moi is a holy roller. As I thought about altars for this book, I knew I needed to go to the source of my education. If I left something out, I’d be in red-hot water. Take it away, Mom . . .
A tall order to “take it away,” missy! You’re asking for a personal invitation to my inner sanctum where I have private secrets nobody knows about, not even you! But hey, for you, I would do just about anything . . . so here you go.
My altar makes me happy. It is my favorite thing in the whole world. If there were a fire in my home, I would single-handedly drag it out of harm’s way, right after my husband and pets. It holds what is near and dear to me, the important, meaningful, and precious treasures that represent what I believe to be true and sacred in this world. I use it to voyage into my soul and find gold. I use it to prepare myself to receive the gifts of each day.
All the objects that grace my altar have been carefully chosen from my lifetime, and each one holds its own powerful energetic imprint. They inspire me, guide me, remind me of where I came from, and direct me to where I need to go to find happiness and fulfillment. Since it is my own creation, I can change it at any time. There are no mistakes on my altar, no judgments to hold me back. It is accessible and inviting. It comforts me and heals my wounds. It is my art and my refuge.
Daily visitations begin between 5:30 and 7:00 a.m. I start by lighting candles and burning incense. Then I settle down on my meditation cushion and write in my journal for about fifteen minutes. Next, I set an intention for the day and I decide what I will do just for me.
Following this ritual is meditation time. I ring my little bell or sound a Tibetan singing bowl to bring myself into the present moment. Sometimes my husband joins me and takes charge of the bowl, but most times I am alone. Occasionally I cast the I Ching or Celtic Runes to entice my unconscious to send up some good advice. My meditation lasts about fifteen minutes and ranges from excruciatingly difficult to gloriously quick and easy—and I have no way of tracking how it will go. I trust that it has unseen, unquantifiable pluses, so I just keep doing it.
My altar
I love this time of day. Nothing important has to happen. I can just press PAUSE on the outside world and connect to the invisible realm where lots of wonderful things are waiting to blossom. Somehow the veil between the worlds slowly lifts to allow space for my own imagination to be present. Nothing is ridiculous or outrageous; everything is enough, nothing is too much.
Sometimes I neglect my altar, as I do myself. Sometimes I court it with beautiful fresh flowers and new aromatic candles. Some days are cleaning days, when I dust and move things around to get the energy flowing again. Other times, when I am feeling blue, I just sit there and look at the sacred objects and ask them to work their magic. On any given day, they have the power to rekindle warm and cozy feelings confirming, without a doubt, that I am loved, valued, and appreciated. At any given time, there are serious and funny cards on my altar that carry loving words and sentiments, reminding me that I am here for many reasons and have special work to do.
Mom’s altar
On my altar there are photographs of those near and dear to me. Some of my ancestors who have passed are mixed in with my beautiful daughters, my loving husband, and my top informants, Thich Nhat Hanh and Padre Pio. They all remind me that I am part of a long lineage, a much bigger picture. There are also a couple of pictures of me on display. One from when I was eight years old, to remind me to keep the child within me alive and well, and another picture of myself from my most glamorous years, to keep me on my toes!
Statues of the big guns, C, B, and G (Christ, Buddha, and Ganesh), along with angels and fairies, also grace my altar at different times. There is a silver mirror, which I use to periodically take a close look at myself (and I don’t mean the wrinkles here). I have a Shiva Lingham stone from the sacred Narmada River, one of India’s seven holy sites. Kristin giggles and says it’s a phallic symbol, but to me it is a beautiful stone that traveled from the other side of the world to rest on my altar. I have holy water from the Sanctuario de Chimayo in New Mexico and my very special sock monkey witch, Lorenza, and bobbing Buddha (really meant for the dashboard of a car); both make me laugh out loud and not take life too seriously.
And then there are my most treasured possessions, the ones that sit in my power bowl, lovingly handcrafted by a childhood friend, Carmen. A gold locket engraved with my nickname, given to me by my mother the Christmas before she died. In it live her picture and the thin gold wedding band that she wore for fifty years. A little silver tooth fairy bell that holds just a pinch of her ashes, a powerful reminder that death is the other side of life. A lighter imprinted with the name of my father-in-law’s company, uncovered by my husband at a flea market a couple of weeks after his dad’s death, surely a final gift that was sent with a father’s love.
And then there is my most cherished possession of all, a “diamond” ring given to me by Kristin when she was seven years old. She had saved five dollars that year to buy me this extravagance for Christmas. I can clearly remember the excitement that only a child can show trying so hard to keep such a surprise a secret. It is priceless to me, forever holding the powerful energy of my daughter’s love. Lastly, over the bowl rests a single feather, meticulously carved from a moose antler by a Sioux Indian I never met, but whose strength has graced my life through his beautiful art. I placed the feather on my mother’s abdomen as she passed on to her next great adventure. For me it holds the imprint of her last breath.
Lots of stories, lots of feelings and connections, all spread before me on my altar in the stillness of morning time. Each sacred object carries its own unique and precious energy. Combined they hold the memories that are the fabric of my life. My altar lives and breathes. It expands and contracts. Sometimes I am receiving and sometimes I am giving. At my altar my heart opens and comes to rest in peace. It is my table—where I go to receive nourishment, to celebrate, to mourn, to be with myself. It teaches me to be mindful, to pause and wait with confidence for the answers will come in their own time. I remember my strengths at my altar and when I come to a crossroad, I pray for guidance.
My wish for you is that you give yourself the powerful gift of your own altar and wait patiently for the epiphanies to come. They always do.
Your altar can be as humble or as grand as you wish to make it. It is a personal creation, a work of art. Let it be a reflection of you. Large or small, it will be a place that you have designed to hold power for yourself. Just start building it, one meaningful object at a time. Then let your precious treasures simmer together and become even more powerful and sacred as you honor them. Here are a few thoughts and suggestions to get you started:
• Altar. My altars have been many things over the years—shelves, windowsills, breakfast trays, stools, benches . . . use your imagination. If you spend a lot of time in your car, altar your dashboard. If you travel a lot, make it compact and portable. Currently my altar is an antique Chinese sofa converted to a coffee table.
• Altar cloth. Your altar can be left simply as it is or covered with a special fabric, perhaps a doily made by your grandmother’s hands. I have draped my mother’s silk embroidered shawl over mine. You can use place mats or table runners. I like to use something that is handmade and holds ancestral energy.
• Power bowl. You might want a special bowl to hold the most precious treasures on your altar.
• Photographs of ancestors, family, deities, and gurus add inspiration and support to your altar.
• Cards received from special people in your life act as reminders of how special you are.
• Statues of your favorite deities, saints, angels, fairies, power animals—whoever or whatever resonates for you, let them grace your altar. They will come when you call them. On my altar I have a small wooden Buddha, a white porcelain angel that belonged to my mother-in-law, a little ceramic skunk, and a white swan (two of my power animals).
• Incense or sage.
• Candles.
• Crystals.
• A bell or Tibetan singing bowl to signal the beginning and end of your meditation.
• Beads of any kind. They can be rosary beads or perhaps sandalwood prayer beads.
• Offerings in the form of flowers, or anything collected from nature such as stones, shells, or beautiful leaves.
• A meditation cushion or pillow to sit on.
• A shawl handy to keep you warm (the one I use belonged to my mother).
• A storage place for the precious things you may want to rotate. To one side of my altar, I place a little chest with different-size drawers to hold the many cards and special things I use to grace my space.
• A clock so you know how long all this is taking!
