Risking Delight in the Furnace of the World
April brings soft awakenings — cherry blossoms blooming in quiet bursts, the return of hummingbirds, and longer light that gently coaxes us back outdoors. This season of transition invites us to breathe a little deeper. To soften. To begin again.
And yet, for many of us — especially those in caregiving and healing roles — it’s not always that simple.
As clinicians, healthcare providers, and helpers, we often carry what’s unseen. The grief. The trauma. The steady, quiet burn of showing up for others. Many of us hold that responsibility as part of our integrity — it’s how we express our care, our commitment, and our values. But over time, that commitment can become a quiet burden. One that slowly wears away at our well-being.
Nature offers us something different.
In nature, our only responsibility is to open our senses. To notice. To breathe. Our only “doing” is simply being with what is here. And that alone can be deeply restorative.
There’s a line I return to again and again from poet Jack Gilbert:
“We must risk delight.
We can do without pleasure, but not delight...
We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness
in the ruthless furnace of this world.”
Delight, especially for those of us surrounded by suffering, can feel like a radical act. But nature teaches us about regeneration. About resilience. About how beauty persists, even in the wake of loss.
Spring, too, feels like an expansion. A gentle opening to possibility. A reminder that we, too, can begin again.
Recently, I’ve found myself at a quiet turning point. The full-time grind that once felt necessary began to feel misaligned. I’ve chosen to follow the thread of what feels energizing and meaningful — to shift toward work that nourishes my soul, not just sustains it. It’s a risk, yes. But also, a return. A remembering.
As a therapist, clinical supervisor, and mindfulness facilitator, I’ve become more and more drawn to the healing wisdom of the natural world. Mindfulness in nature is more than a practice — it is a way of remembering who we are. It’s a path to what some call "wise mind" — that clear, compassionate awareness that lives beyond the noise.
This month, I invite you to:
Pause daily for a moment of stillness outdoors. Notice what is blooming, returning, or awakening.
Let that noticing be enough. Your only task is to be present with what is.
Reflect: What does delight feel like in my body? When was the last time I allowed myself to notice it?
These practices aren’t just for your clients — they’re for you, too. You, who holds so much. You, who deserves restoration. You, who is allowed to be nourished.
Here’s to delight.
To cherry blossoms.
To the return of the hummingbirds.
To remembering — gently, courageously — how to come back to life.
Be well,
Kristin
