A New Month, A New Rhythm

This morning opened with a stillness that felt like the land itself was holding its breath. June has a different tone than May. The urgency is quieter, deeper. Less about breaking new ground and more about nurturing what’s already been started. It’s the shift from planting to protecting, from building to sustaining.

The sun peeked over the ridge just after 6 a.m., and the light was already golden and warm—none of that gentle spring hesitance anymore. It was bold, confident, and strong. Just like the season ahead.

Morning Routines and Early Heat

I got an earlier start than usual. The animals appreciate it, especially now that the heat is coming on fast. I let the chickens out first, scattering their morning feed and topping off the cool water in the shaded part of the run. Then I made my way to the goat pen where Willow and Fern met me at the gate with their usual chorus of impatient bleats. They’re good girls—stubborn as anything, but good.

The pasture grass is still holding strong, so I let them graze longer before rotating them over to the next paddock. We’ve had just enough rain to keep it from turning brittle, but I can feel that creeping edge of drought coming. It’s Oklahoma—we live on the edge of extremes.

I walked the fence line while the girls grazed, checking for weak spots and signs of burrowing. Predators don’t wait for convenience. And now that we’ve had a few hot days in a row, the snakes and coyotes are on the move. I found fresh scat by the south fenceline yesterday—likely coyote. I’ll have to double check the trail cam footage tonight.

First Day in the Outdoor Kitchen

Today was the first full test run of the outdoor kitchen, and let me just say—what a game changer.

I set a big pot of water on the propane cooktop and sterilized jars while prepping a basket of green beans I picked yesterday evening. Canning outside meant no steamy windows, no heat trapped inside the cabin, and the breeze carried away that vinegary brine smell instead of it settling into the walls.

I sat at the butcher block counter Ryan helped me build last month and strung beans while listening to the chickens scratch and the wind hum through the trees. The dogs dozed in the shade, and it struck me how right this setup feels. Like I’m finally aligning my systems with the rhythms of the land.

The first few jars pinged their seals by mid-morning. It never gets old—that sound. It’s the sound of preparedness. The sound of provision. The sound of peace.

June Goals and Gratitude

With the turn of the calendar, I jotted down a few June intentions in my homestead notebook while the canner cooled:

  • Finish canning spring beans and early squash

  • Shade the brooder better before heat intensifies

  • Watch for signs of early blight or rust

  • Butcher round one of meat birds mid-month

  • Continue pantry reorganization and bulk dry storage rotation

  • Set aside Saturdays for soap making and herbal salves

That last one feels particularly important. It’s easy to get caught up in the food production side of things—and rightfully so—but personal care and medicine from the land are just as vital. I've got calendula blooming like crazy and mint that’s threatening to take over. I think the Lord’s trying to nudge me in that direction.

Speaking of which—thank You, Lord, for a good day. For a new month. For the strength in my hands, the calluses that prove the work is real, and the stillness that anchors my heart. The cabin may be simple, the chores constant, but this life is full—rich in ways I never expected when I first planted roots here.

Evening Reflections

As evening settled in, I sat on the porch swing, barefoot, with a cold glass of tea sweating on the armrest. Fireflies blinked in the pasture. The crickets started their chorus. And I let myself exhale fully for the first time all day.

The goats had bedded down, the chickens were roosting, and the stars began to bloom above the mountain ridge in that slow, holy way they always do out here.

June is here. The heavy work is coming. But so is the harvest.

And I am ready.

From Wister Creek, with a grateful heart and dirt under my fingernails,
Amanda

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