Even now, Douglas Fir is filtering smoke from word, Kingfisher flies ahead, finds a perch, looks back and waits for you, guiding you in. As you paddle, pedal, saunter, sit Rain, Brook, Sapphire Sea sink you into deep silence within, where you can breathe again– breathe in God breathing in you breathing in God– where you know, without a doubt, you are held, where you know, without a doubt, you are always held, where you can look at what’s true and know you are safe, know, without a doubt, you’ll be okay.
But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you… –Job 12:7 (NIV)
Credits and References: Douglas fir by harum.koh. Used with permission. Even Now by Esther Hizsa, 2026 Belted Kingfisher by Andy Morffew. Used with permission.
The word for this new year that came to you –of all the words, this one and of all people, you– what if it isn’t what you should be but what you already are? What if it isn’t what you should do but what God is already doing in you? What if it’s both what you seek and what you already have? –Esther Hizsa, You Know Enough
Whole was the word on the back of the star I picked from the church bulletin board– a yellow star like all the others, each hiding a different word for the year. The one in my hand read whole.
I put it in my pocket, walked around with it, wrote about it and lost it.
A week later, our contemplative group made mandalas with our word-for-the-year. I perused the magazine cuttings, spread out on tables and counters, let images and words draw me and arrange themselves on a circle of green. It had to be green, something in me said. I cut out letters, spelled Whole and glued them on the dark space in the middle.
Afterwards, I propped the mandala on my spiritual direction chair so I could see it when I was writing or working, and it could see me.
Whole: something I already am, something God is doing, something I’m seeking, and, my mandala-spiritual-director added, something that’s seeking you.
The koan accompanied me on my hillside hikes or rides through the valley, but the mandala got in the way whenever I needed to sit where it was. I temporarily placed it in the closet and forgot about it until I found myself falling in love with the land, making friends with lilies and birds, saving gray water for the silver birch in our yard when stage three water restrictions were announced. I realized: just as separation from God is an illusion, so is our separation from all living things. I am connected to creation, whole in relationship with the forest, the mountains, lakes, oceans and stars.
I pull out my mandala again and know why it had to be green. I begin to see how each word describes my budding relationship with creation:
Open Awake Burial Honest Pilgrimage Connection Desert Finding
I know why each image I chose was of wilderness– welcoming the ocean, walking in a forest, sitting in the mountains, finding myself face to face with a tree, floating in a clear blue lake, painting the stars–
this is me whole.
“Uh-huh,” my mandala-spiritual-director nods.
I look out my window, at the hill where I say hello to purple and make eye contact with deer. I see my friends: the dry sage, the tall fir, the endless blue sky. “Uh-huh,” they say.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting – over and over announcing your place in the family of things. –Mary Oliver, Wild Geese
Credits and References: Photos by Esther Hizsa. This Is Me Whole by Esther Hizsa, 2026.
Three mountain passes (Sunwapta, Bow, Kicking Horse)
Three national parks (Jasper, Banff and Yoho)
Three hundred kilometres (301.5 to be exact): Snaring River Campground, north of Jasper, to Hoodoo Creek Campground in Yoho by way of Lake Louise in Banff NP
Five days (Six overall)
One rider: me
My ride: Penelope, Liv Avail XS road bike. Gracie (Trek road bike) and I rode the Icefield Parkway in 2008 and 2017 with Fred and my siblings. Now, it was Penelope’s turn.
Highest speed: 69 km/hour (coming down Sunwapta from the Columbia Icefields)
Lowest speed: 3.9 km per hour (Going up Sunwapta, I walked for a km)
Flat tires, avalanches, fires, bears, near accidents: 0
Collective number of hours of solitude in the saddle: 22 hours
Number of hours with cell reception: less than one.
Campgrounds and Route: Thursday July 2:Snaring River Campground to Honeymoon Lake Campground (68.5 km) Friday: to Wilcox Campground at Sunwapta Pass (55.5 km) Saturday: to Waterfowl Campground (67 km) Sunday: to Mosquito Creek Campground over Bow Summit (32.5 km), Monday: a rest day Tuesday: to Hoodoo Creek Campground via Lake Louise and Kicking Horse Pass (78 km)
Support: (finding campsites and setting up tent and tarps, bike maintenance, cheering me on): The Fantastic Fred
Beautiful views: Unlimited
How did it feel? At times a push, at times a breeze. Most of the time as if I were submerged in God, embodied in creation. As I rode down each mountain pass, I let out the loudest “Woohoo!” I could muster and felt tears in my eyes. My body in God’s body overjoyed.
Tangled Falls, Jasper NP on my way up to the Columbia Icefields (Sunwapta Pass El 2035 m)
Friends rooting for me.
Fred and the Athabasca Glacier at the Columbia Icefields, Jasper NP
On my way up Bow Pass, Banff NP
The tiny sign in the photo says Bow Summit Elev. 2,115 m, Banff NP
Peyto Lake at Bow Summit, Banff NP
A rest day at Mosquito Creek Campground (Bow Mountain), Banff NP
The longest eisw (78 km with headwinds) and third mountain pass
Wapta Falls, Yoho NP
When Jesus commands us to love our neighbours, he does not only mean our human neighbours; he means all the animals and birds, insects and plants, amongst whom we live. –John Philip Newell, Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul
Credits and References: Photos by Esther & Fred Hizsa and a kind tourist at the Goats and Glaciers Lookout Penelope Bikes the Icefield Parkway by Esther Hizsa, 2026
Fred and I are camping in Jasper National Park. I love being outside and recall what Victoria Loorz said about “relationship-ing” with Creation: we are in relationship with creation, and she with us. With this in mind, I notice what I notice.
A vibrant orange Wood Lily says, “Hello.” I see more of them as I ride on and stop for a closer look. The petals form the flower unlike any lily I’ve seen. Daisies flank the trail, welcoming everyday pilgrims to notice the beauty all around.
A very large raven watches us cook dinner in a picnic shelter at Lake Annette. He paces back and forth a few feet away, eyeing us. I get the feeling he wants us to know he’s willing to share this space as long as we understand it belongs to him.
Back at the campground, we’ve just missed meeting a grizzly with two cubs.
Black spindles fill the southern landscape, evidence of the 2024 fire. I pray Tonglen for the forest, breathing in the death and loss, and breathing out a blessing for new seeds sprouting, new homes under construction.
Every day, jagged, snow-capped peaks catch the clouds. Rain comes and goes, making any firm plans to hike or bike impossible. I sense them saying, Let this moment unfold and see what happens. Trust that all is well, and you will be given what you need.
Another dinner in another shelter, another bird eyes us, chirping until we choose the table away from the nests the swallow guards. She never leaves her post or takes her eyes off us, and never asks us to leave.
I listen to the silence, the wind, the birds, the raindrops on the tent, and feel connected to the deep peace of the trees, mountains, clouds and sky. I feel an ease within.
Deep peace of the running wave to you Deep peace of the flowing air to you Deep peace of the quiet earth to you Deep peace of the shining stars to you Deep peace of the gentle night to you
Moon and stars pour their healing light on you Deep peace of Christ the light of the world to you. —A Gaelic Blessing
Credits and References: Wood Lily by Esther Hizsa. Used with permission. Making Friends in Jasper by Esther Hizsa, 2026 Raven by Fred Hizsa. Used with permission.
Nothing is more practical than finding God, than falling in Love in a quite absolute, final way … Fall in Love, stay in love, and it will decide everything. –Joseph Whelan, SJ
I need to find and fall in love with God in an absolute, final way. That would bring me peace and direction.
I hear I need to love God more. I hear I don’t love God enough; that’s my problem.
I feel my heart sink, my back get up.
I go outside in the cool of the morning, ascend the switchbacks and walk along the Grey Canal Trail. I rub sage through my fingers and bring its wild fragrance to my nose. A chipmunk scampers over rocks leading me to vistas of mountains, orchards and lakes. I don’t notice the colour purple until I turn around to come home– first a few flowers, then more. Purple alfalfa covers the hillside.
You can’t make yourself fall in love, they seem to say. You just do.
I pause and realize I’m falling in love with this land and its creatures, and they’re falling in love with me. I am falling in love with God in a practical, absolute way.
I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it. ― Alice Walker, The Color Purple
This week’s poem was inspired by a Living from the Heart podcast interview with Victoria Loorz, author of Church of the Wild. You can listen to that conversation here.
Credits and References: Medicago sativa subsp. sativa (alfalfa). Waite Institute. Adelaide, South Australia. Photo: Michael Major for Crop Trust Falling in Love by Esther Hizsa, 2026 Alfalfa field from Time Health
I forget that I’m sort of on the autism spectrum until I walk into a room full of activity with a job to do, and I’m overwhelmed.
It’s my turn to make dinner: pizza and salad for twenty family members in a foreign kitchen.
I take in only half of what’s being said, put my veggies in someone’s workspace causing my sous-chef some angst.
All the centering prayer, retreats and spiritual direction don’t save me. And I call myself a contemplative. Sheesh!
After three or four long minutes, I ask an eager helper to set the table, give another some peppers to chop and begin slicing mushrooms.
We work, cutting boards, bodies, side by side. I say the wrong thing, can’t really listen but I know that and so does she, I hope.
An innocent, complicated question perplexes me. I don’t know. Then another followed by another I don’t know And then…wait… I do and give direction.
Waves of anxiety rise and fall until six pizzas are baking. Soon their aroma draws attention. Young dads hover. Wine and accolades flow. Once our master pieces are sliced and served, I give my relieved sous-chef a high-five.
Despite one burnt but still edible crust, the meal is delicious.
I take a sip of my wine, a Syrah from the Naramata Bench, let my senses return, and along comes a thought.
Although I couldn’t stop from being stressed, I was kind to myself. That’s something a contemplative would do.
Be compassionate to yourself just as your Father is compassionate to you. –Luke 6:36 (CEB), adapted
Credits and References: Pizza by Robert. Used with permission A Contemplative in the Kitchen by E. Hizsa, 2026. Pile of dirty dishes by Petr Kratochvil. Used with permission.
We gathered and celebrated, blessed the Earth with Mom’s ashes, blessed each other with who she was woven in our words, (“Okay”, “Oh, come on!” and “Oh well”) baked in the bread, the Tia Maria squares, the Linzer Torte, savoured in the Pinot, grateful for her generosity, uplifted by her wisdom, courage and faith.
Every morning of her life, she looked to You, went into her day with You, and loved.
Every day of her life, You met her and loved her.
Even though it was cloudy and cold, it was “Another beautiful day in the Okanagan.”
Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul. –Psalm 143: 8
Credits and References: Heidi Frehner (May 19, 1933-January 28, 2026) and me at the Jammery, November 2025 Unfailing Love by Esther Hizsa, 2026 Kalamalka Lake, Vernon, BC by Bryan Hughes. Used with permission.
Fir trees bear green branches year-round. But take a look, and you’ll notice some dead limbs. One tree, nestled in community, is only green near the top with clusters of vibrant new growth lower down where sunlight found them.
The tree says, Here I am as I am.
I want to cut off my dead branches and move into the light, away from those who crowd my space.
But the tree can’t move. Maybe she doesn’t want to, doesn’t mind shadow and decay, never gives a thought to what a perfect tree should look like.
Here I am as I am, she says.
I think about it for days until one arm branches out Here I am and then the other as I am, welcoming the sun to find what’s greening in me.
Here I am, as I am Holy, Human In this world, as it is Sacred, Profane Ever connected, in this wondrous luminous web Ever abiding, in the Heart of God. —Heather Ruce (Body Prayer)
Credits and References: Boardwalk, Northern Section, Cathedral Grove, MacMillian Provincial Park, Vancouver Island, BC by Jim Hoffman. Used with permission The Tree Speaks, by Esther Hizsa, 2026. Dec 2011 (Trees by water) by Alex Cameron. Used with permission
Father James Martin asks, “What happens when you pray?” Cardinal Timothy Radcliffe, O.P. replies, “I wish I knew.“ —The Spiritual Life Podcast
You’re here, all the time. everywhere–
in birdsong and silence, budding leaves and dead branches, a fist pump from a random teen, the chilli that didn’t turn out, unmended hearts and Fred’s broken ribs, the Wailin’ Jennys and blue, blue skies.
I don’t know what You’re saying half the time, most of the time, actually. Perhaps it’s because I’m looking for answers when You’re looking for me. Perhaps it’s because I don’t speak the language of deer and grass. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s enough to breathe You in and out, grateful to be a lily in Your field.
Consider the lilies of the field and how they grow. They do not work or weave or sew, and yet their garments are stunning. –Matthew 6:28 (Voice)
Credits and References: Beukenblad by Sylvia Sassen. Used with permission. Maybe It’s Enough by Esther Hizsa, 2026 Golden Day Lily by Sam Weng. Used with permission.
What did I hear in that note that stunned me and sent me into the sock drawer, consumed with anger and hate?
I heard: You are not enough, just as I had begun to skip along trusting that I was.
As I walked with myself, I could separate the other’s disappointment from mine. I could name what was missing and discern what I could change and what I wanted to. I could deepen my understanding of what it means to be enough.
But You didn’t explain anything.
You lifted the little girl me onto your lap and read her a story, playing the game of finding us on every page.
Of one thing I am certain: my soul has become calm, quiet, and contented in You. Like a weaned child resting upon his mother, I am quiet. My soul is like this weaned child. –Psalm 131:2 (Voice)
Credits and References: Raggylug Illustration by Doris Pailthorpe for Ernest Thompson Seton’s ‘Raggylug, the Story of a Cottontail Rabbit’ from The Westminster Readers (First Series, Book Four): Realms of Adventure (1933). Photo by Ban Galbasi. Used with permission. Finding Us by Esther Hizsa, 2026 Mother reading to Child by Jessie Willcox Smith – ABC’s 1921 Good Housekeeping cover 10-1921 by Plum leaves. Used with permission.
An Everyday Pilgrim 