What the Light Reveals: A Summer Solstice Reflection

Amy Oledzki on June 16, 2025

The rain is falling in sheets as I glance up from my computer screen—a scene that’s become a bit repetitive this spring. This has been the wettest season I’ve seen since we moved here, and the clouds just keep coming. I find myself thinking about the upcoming summer solstice—the longest day of the year, when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky—and wondering: how are we already here? It feels like the spring equinox was just a few weeks ago. Time is rushing, and I’m struggling to catch my breath.

There’s a part of me that’s irritated by the rain—how it traps us indoors, delays garden work, thwarts the ever-growing to-do list. But there’s another part that’s oddly grateful. The rain has made the list a little shorter today. Nature, in all its wild unpredictability, can disorient us—but also reorient us. A heavy downpour might feel like an intrusion, but sometimes it’s exactly what we need to pause, to breathe, to recalibrate.

That reorientation happened to me once during a family camping trip, in the form of a summer thunderstorm. Fifteen or twenty of us, from babies to grandparents, set up camp in the beautiful Bighorn mountains near Buffalo, Wyoming. We were enjoying riding four-wheelers, fishing, and fort-building one afternoon, until the summer sky unleashed its fury. Thunder, lightning, whipping wind, and torrential rain halted our afternoon activities. We rushed to the campers to get out of the weather. The sky became so dark we lit lanterns in the campers, and we played cards, ate snacks, and engaged in deep conversations for a few hours while rain pelted the windows. The things we talked about might never have come up had we not been forced into tight quarters all together. We learned things about each other, felt seen and heard by our closest people, and learned a few new card games, too.

That storm taught me that sometimes, when we’re forced to slow down, something else—connection, insight, healing—can emerge. I’ve seen that truth mirrored again and again in caregiving. During seasons of caregiving, days don’t often pause unless they’re interrupted. But when they are, we might find—like I did in that camper—that there’s more waiting inside us than we realized.

Caregivers often live by lists. We plan, prepare, move forward, check the next thing off. That rhythm gives us structure, and sometimes, a sense of control. But there are things in life that don’t fit neatly on a list—emotions too complex, griefs too heavy, questions too big. So, we tuck them away into what I’ve come to think of as the black holes of the soul: tiny internal spaces that seem to hold everything we don’t have the capacity to process.

NASA describes a black hole as a place in space where gravity pulls so strongly that even light can’t escape. It’s a collapse of matter into a small, dense point—so dense, in fact, that it becomes invisible. I wonder if we carry these places inside us—emotional singularities, where the important things we don’t want to feel are crammed into hidden corners, packed tightly until their gravity becomes impossible to ignore.

On the busiest days, when we’re rushing from one responsibility to the next, those inner black holes stay sealed. But what happens when life pauses us—when we’re metaphorically forced indoors by a storm? When that stillness comes, so too can the reckoning.

Unlike in space, the black holes within us are not inescapable. Sometimes all it takes is a breath, a moment of quiet, for what’s been buried in darkness to rise to the surface and ask for our attention.

The summer solstice is its own kind of paradox. It marks the height of light, but also the turning point—the day after which each one grows a little shorter. On this peak day, we are reminded that expansion and retreat coexist. That growth is always followed by rest. That the arc of light, like the arc of our own lives, is cyclical.

In many spiritual traditions, the solstice isn’t just about the outer sun—it’s also about the inner fire. That vital, creative, truth-telling spark within us. This is a time for illumination—when what’s been hidden or unconscious is invited into full light, when we are called to reveal, the theme we’ve been exploring this month. Maybe this summer solstice is the invitation we’ve been waiting for to pull all that matters out of the black holes of our souls, to let the light of longer days penetrate the parts of us we’ve shoved into the dark.

When we’re caregiving, our inner fire often gets buried beneath the weight of responsibility, and over time, our creativity and vitality can begin to dim. It’s easy to believe we’ve lost ourselves entirely. When a season of caregiving ends—whether suddenly or slowly—it can feel disorienting. In those tender moments, retreating into the black holes of the soul may feel like safety, a place to hide while we figure out who we are now. But just like the gardens bursting into bloom after months of rain and shadow, we aren’t made to live in perpetual darkness. Something within us always reaches for the light, even as our roots continue to grow in the unseen soil.

Perhaps this summer solstice offers us an invitation: to come into the sun’s warmth and let it touch the places within us that have gone cold. At first, that light might feel harsh—we may instinctively shield our eyes, unaccustomed to its brightness. But it is as much a gift as the quiet dark of winter, which offers us retreat, rest, and reprieve. We were made for both. To thrive, we must allow ourselves the full cycle—the rooting and the rising, the dark and the light.

At Hope Grows, the gardens are responding to this season with wild generosity. The annuals and perennials are blooming, the greenery is lush, and the scent of fresh soil greets us at every turn. We’re in full swing with programming—support groups, children’s camps, events, and longer days in the garden. This is a season of fullness, of joy, of activity.

And still, the rain falls.

Stillness interrupts the pace. The storms give us space to tend not just the land, but our inner landscapes—to acknowledge what’s been stored away and allow the warmth and light of the season to touch even the parts we’ve hidden from ourselves.

This solstice, may we take a cue from nature—boldly blooming, even while surrendering to cycles beyond our control. May we notice what’s asking to be revealed. May we pause long enough to let the light in.

Written by Laura Gamble
Clinical Administrative Coordinator

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

Gifts of the Winter Solstice

Amy Oledzki on December 17, 2024

I am out of the gardens for the season. The plants are all tucked in for the winter, the horticultural off-season is here, and I am ready to start my “wintering.” What better way to begin than by celebrating the solstice. This Saturday, December 21, at 4:20am, the earth will come about once again and the light will start reclaiming its power. For those of us in the northern hemisphere who have been plunged into darkness, it’s a time to rejoice, celebrate the return of the sun and, ultimately, the victory of life over death.

From ages past right up until today, people all over the earth have indulged in a myriad of ways to welcome the returning light, including burning Yule logs to celebrate the 12-day Yuletide Festival, staying up all night at the ancient Persian festival of Yalda in Iran, feasting at the Dongzhi Festival in China, stringing lanterns at the Winter Solstice Lantern Festival in Vancouver, and welcoming the sun back to its summer path at the Hopi Indian Soyal Solstice Ceremony. In fact, many of the pagan solstice celebration traditions of yore, like decorating with the symbolic holly, ivy, mistletoe, and evergreen boughs, have found their way into our modern-day Christmas celebrations.

So, as we prepare to herald the sun’s rebirth, what are the gifts this winter solstice might allow us? Solitude, for one. Take it from me, time alone is hard to come by once the growing season starts. Take advantage of the silence and quietude outside. Rest, relax, and recharge a little. The land does not require your labor right now, so follow suit. Patience, I would say, is another. Mother Nature is NOT big on instant gratification. Being that the seasons are governed by the gravitational pull between the earth and sun – which is completely out of our hands – we are forced to sit out trying to control the elements and wait for spring to arrive in its own due time. Trust me, if there was any way to get less winter, my Southern mother would’ve figured it out long ago.

Mother Nature is, however, big on transformation, which, I contend, is one of the more profound gifts of the dark. What better time than now to go within? Yes, darkness can provoke fear, anxiety, sadness, the usual suspects. But, it’s also in the gentle dark that the sparks of new beginnings ignite. Even in the barren winter, the garden is still at work. After a long winter’s nap, our perennials often return bigger and stronger than they were the previous year.

Some keys to transformation, in fact, are found only in the dark. It’s here we learn to trust. And trust, especially in something bigger than ourselves, can be wholly transformative. Hope, especially the kind found in moments of darkness, also falls into that category. Think on this: the earth’s landscape goes through such dramatic transformations every year, and yet the light we depend completely upon to sustain life is celestially programmed to return, every year, no matter how long the night (and the arctic circle endures a whopping 24 hours of darkness!).

This winter, let the natural rhythms of the earth give you strength. Sometimes, that’s as easy as taking a walk outside, resting and retreating a little more, or looking up on a clear night and enjoying the winter constellations, like Orion and Taurus. Surrender to the season’s dark hours, but know the light gains a little more ground each day and stay anchored in that. As we collectively experience the rebirth of the sun, allow yourself to enjoy at least some of the blessings of the solstice and who knows, you may just find some freedom in the dark.

Written by Jessica Giannotta
Hope Grows Horticulturist