Delight

Amy Oledzki on May 5, 2025

Every part of the spring season can be a delightful scene dancing in front of us. The new growth is there for the taking, everywhere, watching the results of the softened earth from the melting snow and spring rains. The season beckons a positive emotional response, but when sadness or grief is present, finding the space to bloom can feel like the remaining late frost of the winter, stunting any sign of delight.

Our focus for the month is delight. Delight is defined as “a high degree of pleasure, satisfaction, or joy.” Pleasure or joy when caring for a child with a terminal illness or a medically complex condition can feel like the remaining chilly winter air rushing in from time to time. Finding any delight with this much heaviness are unwanted and unpleasant feelings that intertwine with every moment of care given. The idea of delight may feel distant, even impossible, when exhaustion, sorrow, and worry take up so much space.

While I may not know or understand your pain, I can find lessons in nature that may help. The beauty of spring can resemble grand delight, especially after the baren winter season. The flowering magnolia, the pink of the quince flowers, and the white blossoms of the cherry trees at Hope Grows feel welcoming. However, when we focus on any delight in this space of grief and sadness, it may feel a bit too grand, so we push it aside and continue with the heaviness, feeling cheated out of any delight it can bring.

Where can we nourish and savor moments of delight? At Hope Grows, we have been blessed to be a part of many caregiver stories, sometimes receiving more than we give. In addition to providing support, we engage in the message of the mission, inspiring hope through nature while empowering wellness of mind, body, and spirit. The nature part of the mission teaches about the reciprocal benefits: while nature gives, we receive. This is where true connection, not just in nature, but in our relationships with our care receivers occur. We must be open to not just the giving of care, but the receiving of it as well.

Gardening in spring is challenging. As we pay attention to the changing weather, we find a need to protect the new growth and the blossoms as best we can. We may consider covering the flowering trees as best we can when the night air may be too cold. Our instinct is to protect. I remember a few years ago covering the viburnum tree in the Garden of Hope during a cold snap. The effort and the time it took helped a little to protect the blossoms, but in the end, the decision moving forward was “not to bother again” and let nature takes its course. The message here is that we tried and we can look at our own well-being in this way. Now tending to our own self-care is a bit different than covering a small tree; however, the difficulty of finding the time, protecting, and placing value is real. Cultivating wellness of self may feel like a grand plan that defeats us before we begin, but the key here is to start small.

Spring is so special, and so are you. As the season pulls us out of the deepness of winter, we begin to find small moments of new growth finding the sun and protecting itself during fragile moments. We too can find space in the heaviness of caring for a child with a terminal illness or medically complex condition. One caregiver comes to mind, standing out as someone who looks at the cold rush of winter’s air, and instead of hindering any delight, experiences delightful moments in small ways. Noticing how her child’s eyes light up from a familiar voice, the comfort received from a shared touch, and the quiet presence of love that exists beyond words. I find the spirituality and faith of this caregiver worthy of delight. She was able to engage little by little with Hope Grows services and then eventually an overnight stay at the Iris Respite House. She found quiet space where beauty, love, and presence exist, despite the rush of chilly air in her changing climate.

In this experience, I believe the message for delight is to capture the good, not the bad. Moments of grace do not remove the sorrow, but they offer a breath within it. Try to find grace in the way your child’s hand feels in yours, in the rhythm of their breathing as they rest, in the way light filters through the window onto their face. Or it might be in the kindness of a nurse who truly sees you, in a deep inhale of fresh air when you step outside, in the way a favorite scent or texture momentarily eases the tension in your body. Another small moment is allowing yourself time to breath, leaning into support, or acknowledging the depth of what you carry.

Capturing the good does not mean pretending the bad is not there. It means allowing the small, good moments to matter—to be noticed, to be felt, even if just for a few seconds. Maybe write them down in a notebook, whisper them in gratitude before bed, or simply let yourself linger in them when they happen. Just as in nature, capture the spring blossoms in small moments of delight. While the chilly air is real, I suggest choosing to notice the beauty in front of you. As fleeting as it might be, “nature is one place we can surrender all control.”

Tending to your own well-being in this space might look different than it does for others. It is not about forcing joy but recognizing that even in sorrow, there can be moments of grace. Those moments, however small, can feel like life is whispering to you. Start with “just 10 minutes” at a time – such an honest, raw way to frame pleasant moments – because when life is this heavy, sometimes that is all you can hold, “just 10 minutes.” Grace makes room for delight—not as something forced or artificial, but as something quiet and real.

Connect in the delight of the reciprocal relationship!

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director

Tranquility

Amy Oledzki on April 2, 2025

Confidence in bloom is the vibe in the Healing Gardens of the Iris Respite House. The vibrant yellow of the daffodil flowers catch my attention as I contemplate how much I struggle this time of year with the transition between winter and spring. Just the other day, I had a burst of energy from the lingering of winter when a bit of snow flurries hovered over us. Opposite of what springing forth is about, I know, but the lightly falling snow, as it may, left me intrigued. It was definitely competing with the new growth of the changing season and that was exactly what my soul was doing.

The unrest of the soul is somewhat frustrating, as the weather flip flops during this time of year, wanting to stay a bit recluse still, but the change of season tells me a different story. I woke to a soft rain today as I began to write this blog. The temperature was a bit warmer than my body can handle. I am sure it is from the collide of the warmer temps with the rain, creating humidity. I’m not a fan of humidity, probably why I like Arizona so much. Humidity seems to drain my energy, but none the less, I persevered. I focused back to the sound and sight of outside, listening to the harmonious birdsong from the open window. The birds gave an uncaring impression regarding the unrest of my soul.

Spring is a beautiful example of nature’s resilience. The plants continue to be in full harmony with the season of equinox, bursting with hidden beauty from the dormancy of winter’s cold. Dormancy, a time of rest and conservation, ensuring the plant has the strength to flourish again, winter is akin to the concept of restoration that I value. My soul does what the month of April represents, a combination of tranquility and vibrant energy.

On the surface, the gardens feel calm, with gentle rain, soft blossoms, and the tender green of emerging leaves. Yet, beneath the calmness is a tremendous surge of life. Its almost as if one can feel the earth moving below, with this tug and pull of transition echoing my human experience. After the winter’s period of stillness and reflection, there is often an instinctual push to grow and reach. But growth doesn’t always feel graceful – it can be chaotic, raw, and powerful. The plants, though, seem to embrace this contradiction, thriving in both the calm and the intensity.

It makes perfect sense, winter’s stillness; it can feel like a sanctuary. Offering a kind of peace that’s hard to let go of when the change of season begins to rush forward again. The contrast between my inner rhythm and the outward surge of spring creates a desire to stay hidden, to linger in the restorative embrace of winter.

That feeling is deeply valid and if you recognize a similarity, you just might find comfort in seeking small ways to extend the sense of winter’s calm, even as nature’s landscape bursts around you. Try mindful moments in shaded spaces, connecting with the lingering coolness of early mornings, or simply honoring the slower pace your body craves. I have been finding peace and tranquility with the sounds that April brings in the mornings. The birds and the early morning chill in the air creates a special, calming atmosphere for me. When everything feels still, there is a unique kind of tranquility. As I retreat to nature in the morning, I’m surrounded by the calm, activating my senses and inviting a bit of serenity.

A little help from nature can promote calm; however, true tranquility comes from a deep sense of inner stability—one that isn’t dependent on external circumstances but is cultivated through presence, acceptance, and connection. For a caregiver, this might mean acknowledging the weight of responsibility while also allowing moments of stillness, no matter how brief, to replenish the spirit. It comes from embracing the ebb and flow of life rather than resisting it, finding meaning in both the challenges and the quiet spaces in between.

Spiritual connection can indeed foster peace. At least, that is what nature does for me; it speaks to my soul. Tranquility is often rooted in surrender—letting go of what cannot be controlled, breathing deeply into the moment, and finding solace in simple things, like the warmth of sunlight, the rhythm of breath, or the quiet companionship of nature, especially during moments of resistance.

You may also want to consider where you are placing the control. Is it external or internal? In reference to psychology terms, we can either have an External or Internal Locus of Control. It is about recognizing the balance between what you can influence and what is beyond your control. Each plays a role in shaping resilience. In caregiving, where the emotional and physical demands can be overwhelming, fostering an Internal Locus of Control is about empowerment and ownership. An Internal Locus of Control means believing that your actions, choices, and mindset shape your experience. It cultivates a sense of agency even in difficult circumstances.

Use this time of year, the confidence in bloom, to foster tranquility. If you are feeling a bit unsettled, like I am right now, remember that letting go is a practice, not a destination—one that is nurtured through appreciation, reflection, and compassionate care for both others and oneself. It is the reciprocal relationship that occurs between self and nature.

Happy Spring!

Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director

Held in the In-Between: Life, Death, and the Spring Equinox

Amy Oledzki on March 17, 2025

In early spring, each sunbreak graces our shoulders like an unexpected gift—a warm hug from Mother Nature, thawing our wintered hearts. The first warmth of spring is startling, isn’t it? It’s surprising to feel sun-kissed when we’ve grown accustomed to being chilled.

The Spring equinox teeters between almost and not yet. It is the beginning of spring, but the evidence of season’s change can be elusive. Over the last 30 years, the daily temperature in the Pittsburgh area during the month of March averaged 40 degrees – not a temperature that evokes springtime feelings for me. The equinox is positioned directly between the icy cold of winter and the thawing warmth of spring. This seems right to me. Real life exists and grows in the tension of “and.”

Recently, as I watched my little Hunt Terrier, Basil, doze in a warm sunspot, I was reminded of another moment when the sun’s warmth took me by surprise. It was my mom’s birthday, 5 years ago. I was visiting her grave nearly six years after my season of caregiving for her had transitioned to the grief of losing her. I brought some trash bags to protect the blankets I would sit on from the wet ground so I could sit and stay a while, even in the rain. As soon as I laid them out and sat down to arrange her birthday flowers, the solid gray sky broke directly above her headstone and warm sun lingered on my back for a minute or two. Pure gift. I remain convinced that it was my mom somehow greeting me there, hugging me hello.

That day in the cemetery was neither cold nor warm, dark nor light, happy or sad. Everything coexisted. This is part of the Equinox—a day when light and darkness are perfectly balanced, offering us a glimpse of both/and in place of either/or.

The sprawling clouds moved quickly that day in the cemetery; their formations and layers made a kaleidoscope of the sky. The thin places between them stretched into wide expanses of blue.

I wished a thin place would open where I could meet with my mom in the light of day…

In that space, sitting beside the headstone that bears her name, I felt closer to her, though her essence does not reside there. I think when I am there, I am more astutely aware of the part of her that lives in me. The life she lived is part of me, as is the death she died. Her life is interlaced with mine in inextricable ways, and maybe I simply feel that more tangibly there. It’s a liminal space, and the between-seasons day made it feel even more so.

The birds sang and flitted about without ceasing, and I recall thinking: This holding space for the dead is so full of life. The branches on hundreds of trees were waking to spring’s rousing. Blossoms popped out of winter-soaked soil. Lush blades of green pushed through the brown ground. Soil is alive, you know, teeming with organisms. It’s like the skin of the earth, in a constant process of regeneration. Life and death happen beneath the ground we walk on, in a cyclical process, in every moment. So much life springs from death…

I am deeply grateful that new life grows as a byproduct of death. The grief I felt that day in the cemetery, that I still feel when the missing hits me afresh, is evidence of great love. And where there is love, there can always be new life and beauty and wonder. That is the mystery of Love–it is regenerative even in the places that seem exempt from the promise of new life…

The sunbreak in the cemetery didn’t last long. The sky was quickly hidden again behind a wall of gray. A storm was moving in quickly… yet almost imperceptibly. The sky changed in mere minutes.

Grief moves like the shifting sky—arriving and receding without warning.

But so does a sunbreak…

So does love. It can cause new life to spring up in a moment and forever change the landscape of a soul.

A mix of sun and clouds, showers and hail, light and dark, calm and chaos. Yeah. That day felt a little like me. And a little like my mom. It felt real.

Winter can lull us into a muted reality. As we huddle and hide indoors to escape the colder, darker days, we can become accustomed to living our lives in a state of perpetual winter. Cold, lonely, protected, insulated… Our pace of life allows most of us to get away with it, too. We play nice and live hidden amid community. Because it is terribly vulnerable to bloom. It’s so much easier to flash-freeze our feelings and store them away, far from the surface. So much easier to hold our souls as prisoners in a forced hibernation, rarely letting them up for air.

But the equinox arrives with an invitation to move toward the light, to venture out beyond ourselves, so we might embrace all that coexists within and around us.

Here at Hope Grows, we are immersed in the constant cycle of growth, death, and regeneration in our gardens. We bear witness to the quiet wisdom of the seasons—how they teach us to embrace both the light and the dark, the fullness and the loss. The equinox stands in perfect balance, reminding us that transition is a natural and necessary part of life.

As we step into spring, may we allow ourselves to stand in that in-between space, honoring both grief and growth, sorrow and renewal. May we welcome the light as we remember the lessons we’ve learned in the dark, knowing that both have their place in the story of our lives. And as the days stretch longer, may we, too, stretch toward the warmth, allowing love and gratitude to take root and bloom in and around us.

May hope grow wildly in your hearts this spring.

Written by Laura Gamble
Clinical Administrative Coordinator

Appreciation

Amy Oledzki on March 3, 2025

I woke the other day to a beautiful heavy snow. It happened to be on a Saturday, so my morning was a bit more relaxed. The picture from the sunroom window, here at the Iris Respite House & Healing Gardens, was breathtaking. I stood there, looking out the window, mesmerized by the beauty. I felt gratitude and appreciation for what nature was providing. Quickly, the feeling left me as I moved my focus back to the long task list that I put together for the weekend of hopeful accomplishments. I expressed (out loud, I might add), “Why does my day have to be so full of ‘to-dos’?” The tasks on my list were important and needed to be done, but how can I slow down this weekend and appreciate something as soothing as this snowy morning? I wanted to just continue to stare, but thought, how unproductive.

Appreciation is the focus for the month of March. When stress and to-dos happen, self-sabotaging tendencies appear. While nature is one constant in our lives, it can help with appreciation and all the little things in life, but the busy-ness of the day seems to always get in the way. How can we appreciate the surprise of what is below an overturned rock, the transformation of a deciduous tree in the autumn season, the continuous flow of water from a rain storm, or the plant showing its beauty after a long cold winter season?

In this scenario, the moment of surprise was the snow. I know that nature’s rhythm is a reminder of resilience and renewal. We share and shout this message from Hope Grows quite often…blah, blah, blah! But how, even in the midst of stress and many to-do’s can these small moments of wonder anchor you in appreciation?

While the morning went on and I kept busy with the to-do’s, I noticed the snow turned to rain. I found myself drawn to the process of this particular element of nature, in the moment, as it switched from snow to rain. Something happened that I haven’t felt in a while. I was inspired, almost awe-struck at the grounding this change in weather created. I took a moment and just watched, even opened the door to breathe in the scent it was bringing. I watched it move across the window. Even in those few seconds of noticing, I felt a small act of appreciation amidst the busyness of my morning.

As the day continued to unfold, the weather changed several times from rain to snow, back to rain, and then snow again. In fact, the entire weekend’s weather did this; it kept flip-flopping, as if it switched to the rhythm of my endless list. I found myself noticing small acts of appreciation throughout the weekend, gently shifting my awareness from the busy weekend to what was happening outside my window and then back again. I was super excited at the end of the weekend, as it had been one of the most productive weekends in task completion that I have had in a long time. Was it the small acts of appreciation of nature I kept engaging with or was it just pure coincidence? I don’t know, but what I do know is the way I chose to engage perhaps made the difference. Consider trying the following:

  • I Paused – for just a few seconds, I took a break from the rush of my to-do’s. It wasn’t a long break; it was just enough to acknowledge the moment.
  • I Observed – I tuned into my surroundings. I noticed what was happening in the here and now of nature, in my environment, and even within myself. I took mind of the way the snow looked, how the rain sounded, the scent from the door, and in the filling of my lungs with the air.
  • I Acknowledged – Internally, I took notice. I even made comments out loud. “Look how large those snowflakes are!” “Oh wow, it now turned to rain.” “The scent of the air outside is intriguing.” “It’s snowing again, this is beautiful.” I expressed gratitude for the beauty before returning to my tasks.
  • I Felt – I allowed myself to experience a sense of gratitude, wonder, and connection, even if it was for a brief moment. It seemed to reinforce the habit of appreciation as I kept looking out the window between tasks.
  • I Returned – I went back to my tasks, but continued to carry out the moment of noticing and appreciating. I kept setting an intention to notice one more “smaller” thing out the window as the day went on. I was excited to wake the next day of the weekend and continue with my tasks; I found I didn’t dread the remaining to-do’s and ended up feeling so accomplished.

As the weekend came to a close, I realized that appreciation doesn’t need to be grand. It can be woven into the smallest of moments. I think the process became more intuitive as I kept noticing what was happening to me and outside. Despite the many tasks on my list, I felt rested, relaxed and restored, and accomplished.

With a mission to inspire hope through nature while empowering family caregivers to seek wellness of mind, body, and spirit, we focus on resting, relaxing and restoring as a way to appreciate life. This acknowledges both the challenges caregivers face and the power of nature in fostering well-being. Rest, relaxation, and restoration are not just luxuries but essential parts of sustaining appreciation and resilience.

By taking mindful moments, such as the above, becomes a way to embrace and encourage one to “take a break.” This process instills appreciation. At Hope Grows, we incorporate and encourage others by gratitude practice, mindful techniques, use of healing gardens, the language of flowers, bird watching, connecting to nature, aromatherapy, and labyrinths…to name a few. This beautiful holistic approach weaves together mindfulness, nature, and sensory experiences. Each of these practices offers a unique way to slow down and connect—whether through the symbolism of a labyrinth, the stillness of bird watching, or the grounding presence of a healing garden.

The next time your list has many to-do’s on it, try to appreciate the beauty outside the window in small moments of time throughout your day. You just might feel rested, relaxed, and restored in your busy-ness and have a new found sense of appreciation.

In appreciation of all of you!

Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director