I realized last evening, as I was extinguishing candles, that I’ve always had an altar. Not intentionally, it just started as the spot for my tart burner and a couple of candles. Over time, I kept adding little things that made me happy, favorite things I wanted nearby, without giving any of it a grand meaning. But when I finally looked at it with fresh eyes, the whole space felt like a quiet hearth humming inside my home. It had that “I’ve been here all along, you’re just now seeing me” energy.
People often think an altar has to be ceremonial or overtly spiritual, but most of them begin the same simple way: as a place where light gathers and where you set down things that feel like yourself. What I’ve created without realizing it is closer to the old Appalachian idea of an altar – not a shrine, but a warm corner that holds everyday magic and gives your senses a place to rest.
My tart burner has become the house flame, softening the air and signaling safety. The candles have become rhythm keepers; I light them October through March because something in me still marks time with fire. The objects I place there, the pens, the little bowls, the handmade pieces, are tiny pieces of my story, arranged the way you’d arrange the things you love on a windowsill. Nothing is symbolic on purpose… which somehow makes all of it symbolic.
Those small glass vessels aren’t just decorations, either. They’re tea-light holders, tiny lanterns waiting for their moment. I save those for special occasions, they aren’t lit daily. When I lit everything this morning to take better photos, the whole setup shifted from “pretty corner” to something with a pulse. The table revealed itself in three distinct stations: practical creativity on the left with my pens, tools, and glowing salt bowl; illumination in the center; and warmth and comfort on the right with red candles and cozy scents. It felt like mind, spirit, and heart arranged across the table by instinct rather than design.
And underneath, tucked into the shelves, are oranges and kindling nestled in an old pottery bowl, essential oils, a blue Ball jar, more candles, headphones, a handmade pottery piece and a handmade wooden bowl from local artists. None of it was placed there with any ritual intention, but now that I’m paying attention, it all fits the same pattern. It’s a “daily living altar”, not something I perform rituals at, but something that lives alongside me. I write here, think here, work here, burn scents, make lists, and drop off little things I love. I light it at night without even thinking about it.
The whole thing feels creative but calm, luminous but grounded, a little witchy without trying to be. And the strangest part is that none of this means I’m changing. It means I’m realizing who I’ve been all along and finally embracing it.
I lit every candle this morning and finally saw it clearly: I’ve always kept an altar. It just started as the place where I set the things that make me feel more like myself.
Salt Latch 