Everything is Holy Now

by Karen Havill Bingham

That morning, as I began my walk, I listened briefly to Peter Mayer’s “Holy Now.” As the refrain—everything

is holy now—echoed in my mind, more deer than I’d seen in years appeared near and far in the fields around

me. Holy, indeed.

Tree shadows stretched the length of the fields, their bones etched against the sky. The woods shone green and

gold. The tall grasses lay flattened, slain by ice and snow.

I entered the woods, treading on shadows and glass. The trail crunched. Leaves shattered beneath my boots.

Frost flowers glittered along the trail. A covey of birds burst upward, startling my heart into flight with them.

Old trees, brought down by winter, lay across the forest floor feeding life beneath.

The cold deepened in the dim woods, so I turned toward the road and sunshine. The cobalt sky filled with birds

and piercing song.

“Everything, everything. Everything is holy now.”

A man approached down the hill. I could tell he was seeing the same holy things. He spoke four simple words:

“It’s a beautiful day.” He might as well have said, everything is holy now.

At a familiar curve in the park road, I paused, unsure which way to turn. After thousands of walks here—at least

4,000 by my reckoning—there is always more to see, to startle and amaze me.

As I returned to my car, a cardinal flashed red through the trees—a greeting from my mother, I’ve come to

believe. Moments later, a great blue heron lifted toward the river. Okay, Dad. I hear you too.

The trail crunched. Leaves shattered. Birds sang. Deer ran. Shadows and spirits appeared and dissolved.

“Everything is a miracle. Everything is holy now.”

It is, in this place.