An Altar of Eccentricities

Note: In this piece, the person who spends their days amplifying the stories of others takes a moment to share something deeply personal. One of our volunteers, who has long supported Sesotunawa’s artists and their work, offers a glimpse into a small, meaningful space they’ve built—an altar filled with brass, books, broken things, and gifts. It’s a story about choosing what to keep, about the beauty of objects both sacred and imperfect, and about how the things we hold onto reflect who we are.

What I Choose to Celebrate

I didn’t mean to build an altar. It started with a single object—a brass nativity scene that fit perfectly on my small table, cast by the Tboli brass casters of Sesotunawa. I’d held their work in photos, stories, captions I’d written over the years, but it was different to hold it in real life: weighty, imperfect, and alive with the care of its making. I have been volunteering for Sesotunawa since 2017—managing social media, writing stories, taking photographs, and creating designs. My role is digital, but the work they do is anything but.

I suppose that’s what drew me to it—something handmade, something that lasts.

From there, things began to gather. Not in a curated way, not like the neat altars I’d seen in other people's homes. This space grew slowly, over time, as objects appeared in my life and refused to leave. Gifts. Books. Broken things. Small absurdities. A collection of contradictions that somehow belong together. And now it’s here, this table full of brass, books, frogs, and film—a little microcosm of the person I am.

An altar for what I’ve chosen to keep.

The Brass That Grounds It All

At the centre of it all are the Sesotunawa brassworks—a nativity scene and a Tboli bell. I place them in the middle not out of obligation, but because they hold everything together. There’s a reverence to these pieces, not because they’re sacred in a traditional sense, but because they carry the weight of something older and slower than the world we live in now.

I’ve been part of Sesotunawa’s story for years—telling their stories online, where the world scrolls past too quickly. But here, in this altar, their work takes its time. It sits solidly, at the centre, surrounded by the things that feel closest to me.

The bell is my favourite. I like to touch its surface, feel the grooves of its patterns under my fingers. It’s grounding, like it holds its own small gravity.

The Gifts I Keep

Some things here were chosen for me:

• A Japanese stone frog with its unreadable expression—given to me like a joke, though it has become something much quieter and more still.
• A pair of chopstick holders and a digital clock that glows faint blue in the dark. Both were gifts, practical at first glance, but here they become something else—reminders of care, of thoughtfulness.
• A hand-carved bamboo tumbler etched with indigenous Filipino patterns, tall and proud in its simplicity.

I think gifts are strange. Someone else makes a choice for you, but in keeping the gift, you choose it back. You give it a place, even if that place is on an altar you never meant to build.

And the candle—I’ve never lit it. I don’t know why. Maybe because its presence feels enough.

Unfinished Things Still Belong

Not everything here is whole. Some things are broken; some are unfinished.

The film canister, a bright yellow Kodak 400, is used but never developed. It’s strange, isn’t it? A roll of film holds captured moments, but until it’s developed, they’re invisible. They exist, but they’re hidden. I keep it because it feels like a metaphor for something I can’t quite name—something about potential, about memory, about things unseen that are still real.

Then there’s the broken wine glass, now a makeshift display for my Sony earbuds that no longer work. Most people would throw these things away, but I couldn’t. There’s dignity in keeping something that no longer serves its purpose. Maybe it’s a refusal to let go. Maybe it’s just stubbornness. Either way, it’s here.

And then there are the plants, their leaves yellowing, curling inward. They are dying, I know, but I haven’t moved them. Life doesn’t always thrive, but that doesn’t mean you abandon it.

The Books I Brought Here

If the brass anchors this altar physically, then the books anchor it mentally. I chose them, I carried them, and I set them here with purpose:

• Some People Need Killing by Patricia Evangelista and Regarding the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag—books that don’t let me look away from the hard truths of the world.
• One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez, a novel that feels like a conversation about family, memory, and the way time loops back on itself.
• Queer: A Collection of LGBTQ Writing, voices that insist on being heard, loud and unapologetic.

And then there are the softer ones:

• The Joy of Watercolor and The Pocketbook of Complete Color Harmony. Books that remind me that creativity is just as important as truth—that beauty doesn’t have to be grand to matter.

On top of this stack, the Library of Esoterica volumes on Tarot and Astrology sit like quiet secrets. I bought them because I’ve always been drawn to the idea that meaning can be found in patterns—cards laid out in a spread, planets spinning across the sky. The unknown doesn’t scare me as much as it fascinates me.

These books tell you what I think about when I’m alone. They’re not here to show off. They’re here because I come back to them, again and again.

The Things I’ve Chosen

When I look at this altar, I see my choices. I didn’t choose these objects to impress anyone; I chose them because they hold something—stories, memories, contradictions that I want to keep close.

The brass at the centre reminds me of what matters: craft, community, and care. The gifts remind me that I am thought of. The broken things remind me that nothing has to be perfect to belong. The unfinished things remind me that not everything needs to be complete to have meaning.

And the dying plants? They remind me to try.

What This Altar Has Taught Me

If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: we decide what matters.

Every object on this altar has a reason for being here, even if the reason isn’t always obvious. A stone frog, a candle, a roll of undeveloped film—they all mean something because I decided they do.

In a world that moves too quickly, this altar reminds me to slow down. To pay attention. To see the beauty in brokenness, the humour in absurdity, and the meaning in the things most people would overlook.

I didn’t mean to build an altar. But now that it’s here, I think I’ll keep it.

Because this is what I’ve chosen to celebrate.

And what we celebrate—what we hold onto—is who we are.