Earth Altars: A Practice of Listening, Beauty, & Belonging
Lately, I’ve been immersing myself in the book Morning Altars by Day Schildkret, and it’s opened a whole new realm of connection for me—one that’s rooted in reverence, curiosity, and devotion to the Earth. The practice he shares, called “Earth Altars,” is about creating art with nature. Not for the sake of performance or permanence, but as a form of ritual.
At its core, it’s a 7-step process of wandering slowly, gathering natural materials—pinecones, stones, moss, bones, flowers, bark—and arranging them into a symmetrical, colorful, grounded piece of art. These altars are made on the forest floor, at the edge of a beach, in a backyard—anywhere you find yourself invited to co-create with the land. It’s a practice that calls you into presence. Into awe. Into gratitude.
As Schildkret teaches:
Wander & Wonder – Walk slowly, gaze down, and let your curiosity guide you.
Place – Choose a sacred spot that feels resonant.
Clear – Prepare your canvas by brushing away debris, making space.
Create – Build from the center outward, letting your hands and heart guide the design.
Gift – Offer your altar as a devotion—to a season, a loved one, a dream, or the land itself.
Share – If it feels right, photograph and share it with others to inspire.
Let Go – Walk away. Let the wind, rain, and time return the pieces. Practicing non-attachment.
These steps aren’t just instructions for making something beautiful—they’re invitations to relate to the world differently. To look at a leaf and not just see a leaf, but ask, “Wow, what are you?” To pick up a bone and wonder what lived, what died, and what remains. To notice that awe deepens as we grow in understanding, as Anagarika Govinda once said:
“The feeling of awe and wonder arises from the recognition of the deep mystery that surrounds us everywhere, and this feeling deepens as our knowledge grows.”
This practice, though simple and accessible, invites deep connection—no matter your age, background, or where you are in the world. It’s a ritual of relationship with the Earth, with your inner artist, and with spirit.
Our Rainy Day Earth altar
One wet afternoon in Colorado, Michael and I found ourselves drawn outside. We’d spent the morning indoors, cozy and warm, but the rain had passed and left behind that delicious, earthy scent. So we ventured out into the misty horse pastures and made our way to the back woods behind our home—tall ponderosa pines towering above, birds calling through the trees, and deer meandering in the distance.
I didn’t bring my phone. I often feel torn between wanting to capture beauty and wanting to be fully immersed in it, and today I chose presence.
As we wandered, our boots sinking into the soft pine-needled forest floor, we stumbled upon scattered bones from what Michael identified as a coyote. I had been telling him about the book and how I wanted to create an earth altar, but we hadn’t set out with that intention. Still, there we were—already moving through the first stage: wandering and wondering.
It felt natural. We chose a place between four pine trees and cleared a small circle of needles to expose the dark soil, which served as our canvas. We agreed to work in silence, honoring each other’s contributions without editing or rearranging. What one person placed would stay, symbolizing each of us making our own unique mark on the land. In the center, we laid the coyote’s skull. Around it, seafoam green moss, bark, vertebrae, rib bones, pine cones. Each layer added depth. Each step through the forest brought new gifts from the land. It felt magical.
I found myself full of questions: How did this coyote die? How long has this moss been here? What stories do these woods hold? I felt the pull to ask Michael—he knows so much as an ecologist—but instead I stayed with the mystery. I let myself wonder. To marvel. To not know and still feel connected.
Eventually, the altar felt complete. We broke the silence and spoke our gratitude. We thanked the coyote for his life and wisdom. The moss for its color and softness. The land for hosting us and calling out to us on a wet day. Then, together, we devoted the altar to our dream: a future home tucked in the forest, a life of stewardship, presence, and purpose, on this 75-acre ranch. It became an offering for that vision. A prayer with our hands.
We wondered how others might receive the altar—it wasn’t floral or colorful like those in the book. It looked wild. Pagan. A little witchy. But it was real. It reflected the forest we walked in and what it offered us that day. And that, we decided, was enough. Michael took pictures with his phone, and later shared them on instagram and explained “Walking, gathering, deeply listening. Creating art with the land.”
Before leaving, we covered it gently with pine needles, hoping it would stay undisturbed. We already looked forward to creating another one—maybe on the summer solstice, Michael’s birthday, when the land would offer new colors and textures. We realized this practice could become a seasonal rhythm, a way to give thanks for all we’ve been given.
I will definitely be including Earth altars in my spiritual practice, of how I express gratitude, connect with the land, and enter a deeper state of presence. I want to thank Day Schildkret for sharing this powerful practice. I share it now in hopes that it inspires you, too. Whether you’re grieving, celebrating, transitioning, or simply walking through your own forest—know that the Earth is offering herself to you.
All you have to do is slow down, look closely, and begin.
“Not all who wander are lost.”
Wandering is not aimless. It is attentive.
