Ordinary Miracles
By Heather E. Daly, Ph.D.
This past weekend, I visited the Lamberton Conservatory in Rochester with some friends. We moved through the warm, leafy rooms together—talking, laughing, pointing out the things that caught our eyes. It was nourishing in the way shared beauty often is. Being surrounded by people and plants at the same time was lovely.
And yet.
When my friends left, something inside me whispered, stay a little longer.
So I walked through again—alone this time.
The second walk was different. I slowed down. Not just in pace, but in presence. I lingered where I hadn’t before. I noticed the small curve of a leaf, the way light filtered through moisture in the air, the improbable detail in something I had passed without a second glance moments earlier. Things that had been invisible to me the first time suddenly felt luminous.
It made me think about how rarely we truly see what’s right in front of us.
There’s a phrase I often return to: slowing down to the speed of life. It’s a reminder that life isn’t actually moving too fast—we are. In our hurry, our productivity, our constant mental tracking of what comes next, we skim the surface of moments that might otherwise feed us deeply.
As I moved more slowly through the conservatory, I was reminded of Sarah McLachlan’s song Ordinary Miracle—that gentle insistence that the wonder we seek isn’t some rare occurrence reserved for peak moments. It’s happening quietly, constantly, asking only to be noticed.
And noticing, I’m learning, is a practice.
Ordinary miracles don’t announce themselves. They don’t demand attention. They exist in the background of our lives: breath moving in and out, green things growing without instruction, light shifting across a room, the steady rhythm of simply being alive. When we aren’t paying attention, we miss them—not because they aren’t there, but because we are elsewhere.
The irony is that so many of us are yearning for fulfillment, peace, or clarity, while racing past the very moments that offer them.
Standing there among cacti and ferns, I felt a quiet gratitude—not because life is perfect (it isn’t), but because it’s alive. Messy, unpredictable, beautiful, challenging, tender. All of it. The ups and downs. The chaos and the calm. The grief, the joy, and the ordinary in-between moments that hold us more than we realize.
That second walk through didn’t give me anything new.
It gave me eyes to see what was already there.
This feels especially important right now, in a world that is loud and fast and often overwhelming. Slowing down isn’t a luxury; it’s an act of remembrance. A way of reconnecting with what matters. A way of grounding ourselves in the simple truth that being alive—right here, right now—is itself an ordinary miracle.
My hope is that we might all find small ways to pause. To walk through our days a second time, metaphorically speaking. To notice the quiet beauty tucked into the corners of our lives.
Because when we do, fulfillment has a way of meeting us where we already are.
This way of moving through the world—slowing down, noticing, remembering what truly matters—is something I feel deeply called to tend and share. It’s also the heart of what we’ll be exploring together at the upcoming Rooted Wisdom Winter Retreat.
Winter invites us to pause, to strip away the unnecessary, and to return to what is essential. Together, we’ll create space to slow down to the speed of life, to reconnect with what nourishes us, and to gently reorient toward what truly matters beneath all the noise.
If you’re feeling the pull to step out of the rush and into something more grounded, reflective, and meaningful, I’d love to share more. Feel free to reach out to me directly for details.
Sometimes all it takes is one intentional pause to remember that the ordinary moments are where miracles live.
Heather E. Daly, Ph.D.
