Clearing Space, Making Room, and Letting the Land Speak First
This morning started with birdsong so loud it felt like it had something urgent to say.
I cracked the kitchen window while the coffee brewed, and the air that poured in smelled like wet clover and dew-warmed fence posts. The robins were practically shouting from the tops of the hackberry trees, and even the usually grumpy guineas next door were keeping rhythm.
Spring, it seems, is in full voice.
And I’m listening.
Clearing a Corner of the Pasture
After yesterday’s soul-searching about protein planning, I woke up with a sense of purpose. Not pressure—just direction. Sometimes, all you need is a quiet yes inside your chest and the rest starts lining up.
So I spent the better part of the morning clearing out the west pasture corner, where the brush has been creeping in for the last year. It’s shaded most of the day, tucked behind the barn, and already halfway fenced from the old goat rotation setup.
With a pair of gloves and some good loppers, I tackled the saplings first—mostly sweetgum and scraggly privet—then raked the debris into a burn pile. Beneath the mess, the soil looked rich and dark, covered in last year’s leaf mulch. Earthworms wriggled with every turn of the rake.
This space has been waiting for something. And maybe that something is pigs.
I still haven’t fully decided, but I’m preparing like I have. That’s how homesteading goes sometimes—you move forward even when you’re not sure. Because waiting on certainty often means waiting forever.
Chick Brooder Setup Begins
With the meat chicks potentially arriving by next week, I spent the afternoon reorganizing the feed shed to make space for the brooder. Last year, I used the main coop as a makeshift setup, but it was cramped and chaotic. This time, I’m doing it right.
I dusted off the galvanized stock tank, scrubbed it with vinegar, and laid it out to dry in the sun. I also dug out the heat lamp, an old chick waterer, and a feed tray. Everything looks usable—though I made a note to pick up fresh bedding and a backup bulb this weekend.
As I worked, I could feel that familiar mix of nerves and excitement building in my chest. There’s something about starting chicks—the sound of soft peeping, the smell of warm pine shavings, the way life feels tangible and fragile in your palms.
It’s a rhythm that never gets old.
A Conversation with the Soil
After I’d finished the chores, I wandered back toward the lower garden beds with no real plan except to check the soil again. The tomato plots I prepped last week are almost ready—just a little more drying needed before transplanting.
But what stopped me in my tracks was the asparagus bed.
Three spears, tall and straight, had emerged overnight—clean, green fingers pointing to the sky like they had something to declare. I crouched down and touched one gently. Firm, thick, ready.
I whispered thanks. Out loud.
Because when something you planted years ago suddenly rises, unbidden and bold, it reminds you that the land remembers. Even when you forget. Even when you're tired.
Supper, Simple and Earned
Tonight’s dinner came together from scraps and blessings:
- Two asparagus spears, lightly steamed and topped with a poached egg
- Leftover fried potatoes from yesterday
- A slice of crusty bread slathered in goat cheese and cracked pepper
I ate it standing at the sink, still in my chore clothes, dirt on my forearms. I meant to shower first, sit down properly—but there was something about the warm plate and the open window and the smell of rain on the horizon that made it all too good to wait.
Sometimes, supper is a moment, not just a meal.
Final Thoughts
Today wasn’t flashy.
No new animals. No harvest to brag about. No major fence built. Just the quiet kind of progress that builds foundations—clearing space, preparing trays, checking soil, and letting the land whisper its yes.
I still don’t know for sure if pigs will come this spring. But the gate is open. The corner is cleared. The heart is listening.
That’s all you can do sometimes—make room. For animals. For possibilities. For growth.
Tomorrow, I’ll pick up brooder supplies. Maybe call Daniel to see when his next piglet litter is expected. And I’ll watch for that fourth asparagus spear. Because something tells me this garden isn’t done surprising me yet.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek