Honoring Tengri often begins at the ovoo, a cairn of stones or wood perched atop a hill. Pilgrims circle it three times clockwise, adding a small rock, a ribbon or a handful of milk. Each gesture feels as old as the hills—offering a pinch of purity back to the sky.

Fire holds a special place in these ceremonies. Flames flicker at the center of yurt gatherings, where smoke carries prayers upward. Incense made from juniper and pine resin crackles on hot coals, and shamans tap their drums in rhythmic pulses that seem to echo the heartbeat of the earth itself. Through this dance of smoke and sound, boundaries between worlds blur, inviting ancestors to join the celebration.

Animal offerings, most often sheep or horses, remain central at major festivals like Naadam. After the sacrificial rite, every part of the animal is used: meat for feasts, bones for divination, hide for crafting ritual objects. Nothing goes to waste—a vivid reminder of natural harmony that resonates with today’s eco-conscious movements.

Seasonal festivals mark the turning of the wheel. At the spring equinox, “White Month,” families brew fermented mare’s milk, or airag, spilling tiny streams at riverbanks as a libation for Tengri. Come harvest time, golden sheaves of millet are tied into bundles and laid at the base of sacred mountains, thanking the sky for rain and sun.

In recent years, a cultural revival has sparked gatherings across Mongolia and Tuva. Urban youth don traditional deels for rooftop ceremonies, while international eco-retreats incorporate Tengriist rituals to foster environmental stewardship. In Ulaanbaatar, a 2023 festival blended electronic music with shamanic chants, showing that even ancient worship can find fresh rhythms.

All these rites share a common thread: gratitude. Whether standing beneath a boundless blue dome or beside a crackling fire, each gesture circles back to the belief that humanity and nature are woven from the same sky-born cloth—an unbroken tapestry held together by the ever-present hand of Tengri.