Day Schildkret-Morning Alters
By exercising our capacity for wonder, internationally renowned author, artist and teacher behind the Morning Altars movement helps awakens our imagination.
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What inspired you to write about death and dying?
I’ve always been drawn to life’s transitions—the messy, beautiful, and inevitable moments that define us. Death, in particular, is one of the most profound transitions we face, yet it’s often hidden, feared, or ignored. Writing Hello, Goodbye was my way of shining a light on the power of ritual to help us navigate grief, loss, and the unknown.
I’ve seen how acknowledging death with care can deepen our connection to life, and I felt called to offer tools for others to do the same.
What does death literacy mean to you?
To me, death literacy is about cultivating a relationship with death, rather than treating it as a distant, taboo topic. It means understanding the natural cycles of endings and beginnings in life and recognizing death as a teacher. Death literacy empowers us to prepare—not just practically, but emotionally and spiritually—for the inevitable. It’s a way of living more fully by embracing mortality with honesty and grace.
What is your Most Treasured Possession?
My most treasured possession is my mother’s raccoon fur coat, which I wrote about in a recent newsletter. It’s more than just a garment; it’s a piece of her history, carrying her scent, her stories, and even an old button tucked in the pocket. When I hold it, I feel connected to her in a way that transcends her dementia and the distance between us. It’s a reminder of the love we share and the importance of honoring the tangible remnants of those we cherish.
What Do You Hope For?
I hope for a world where transitions—births, deaths, beginnings, and endings—are met with reverence rather than fear. I hope for communities that come together to hold one another in times of joy and sorrow, weaving rituals that give life meaning. On a personal level, I hope to keep creating, connecting, and helping others find beauty even in brokenness. Ultimately, I hope for a life lived fully and a legacy that inspires others to embrace impermanence.
What do you believe is life’s most essential lesson?
Life’s most essential lesson is that everything is impermanent, and this impermanence makes each moment sacred. We are constantly navigating change, whether it’s a season, a relationship, or even our own identity. Learning to meet these transitions with presence and an open heart is the key to living fully. It’s about letting go of control and finding meaning in both the joy and the heartbreak of being alive.
Do you have a favorite quote?
Yes, one of my favorite quotes is by John O’Donohue: “When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.” It speaks to the mystery and interconnectedness of existence, a space where words fall short but the spirit understands. This quote reminds me of the power of being present in the moment, surrendering to what is beyond comprehension. It’s a sentiment I try to carry into my work and my rituals.
What are you reading, what’s on your bedside table?
I’m currently reading Wintering by Katherine May, which feels like a warm companion during this season of reflection. It explores the cycles of rest and renewal, themes that resonate deeply with my work. Alongside it, I have a notebook where I jot down ideas for rituals or reflections that come to me late at night. My bedside table always holds a mix of books that nourish my creativity and my spirit.
Do you have a favorite writer or book?
I deeply admire Mary Oliver for her ability to capture the sacred in the everyday and Robin Wall Kimmerer for her lyrical blending of science, nature, and wisdom in Braiding Sweetgrass. John O’Donohue’s writings on beauty and soul have profoundly shaped my understanding of grief and transitions. These writers remind me to stay curious, humble, and in awe of the world. Their words are like rituals in themselves, offering guidance and grace.
What book would you like to be buried with?
If I were to be buried with a book, it would be Morning Altars. It feels fitting to take with me something I created that celebrates the impermanence of life and the art of letting go. The book holds not just my ideas but the energy of all the natural mandalas I’ve built, each one a moment of connection with the earth. It’s a way of carrying creativity and nature with me into whatever comes next.
What is your exit plan? How would you like to die?
I hope to die in a way that feels connected and intentional, surrounded by the people I love and immersed in nature. I imagine music playing, perhaps a sunset, and the gentle hum of life carrying on around me with a lot of laughter. I’d like there to be a an altar making ritual afterward, something that honors both my life and the grief of those I leave behind. More than anything, I want my death to feel like a continuation of the way I lived—with meaning and care.
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what would it be?
I’d want to come back as a tree. Trees embody rootedness, connection, and quiet wisdom, offering shelter and sustenance while standing witness to life’s changes. They don’t resist the seasons but embrace them, letting their leaves fall and grow anew. I can’t think of a better way to exist than as something so grounded and essential.
If heaven exists, what would you like to hear when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
If heaven exists, I’d love to hear, “You made life more beautiful, and your work brought people together in love and meaning. Welcome home.” It would mean that the effort I’ve put into helping others honor transitions and find connection truly mattered. And then maybe, “There’s a circle waiting for you—come sit, share, and rest, rest, rest.”
