Compost Steam, Rainy Memories, and the Rhythm of Enough
It rained today.
Not the wild, slanting kind that turns the chicken run into a mud pit—but a steady, soaking April rain that darkens the soil and makes the cedar trunks shine like polished mahogany. It started just before dawn, a whispering rhythm on the tin roof that lulled the whole homestead into a gentler pace.
Even the goats, usually up and yelling at first light, stayed curled beneath their shelter, chewing and blinking at the gray light like they were waiting for someone else to make the first move.
It was, in every sense, a slow day. And it was exactly what I needed.
Turning the Compost in the Mist
After morning chores and two cups of coffee (because rain calls for a second), I slipped on my muck boots and headed to the compost pile. The steam rising from it in the cool air made it look like a sleeping dragon—slow, alive, and powerful in its quiet way.
Turning compost in the rain is something sacred.
I forked through the layers—goat bedding, vegetable trimmings, last week’s broken egg shells—and the smell was sweet and earthy, the kind that makes you stop and just breathe. The center was warm and working, full of life I couldn’t see but knew was there.
I added a new layer of chopped-up weeds, turned it again, and smiled at the sight of the steam curling up through the drizzle. That’s progress. Not flashy. Not fast. But faithful.
Isn’t that the theme of homesteading?
The Chickens, The Rain, and the Rooftop Show
The chickens weren’t thrilled about the weather. Most stayed huddled under the awning of the coop, picking at scraps and muttering like old ladies on a porch.
Hazel, ever the bold one, led her brood out into the mist for a few brave minutes, then retreated quickly when the wind shifted. One of the chicks stood under a broad dock leaf like a little forest goblin, chirping loud enough for all of LeFlore County to hear.
I dried them off with an old towel and reinforced the brooder area with another panel of scrap plywood. The rain finds its way into everything eventually—especially chicken coops.
A Story from a Rainy Day Years Ago
Rain always brings out the stories. Maybe it’s the stillness. Maybe it’s just that we finally sit still long enough to remember.
Today I thought about a spring several years ago, back when I was still figuring out what this land needed from me—and what I needed from it.
It had rained for three days straight, and the lower pasture had turned into a swamp. I was convinced I needed to trench it, drain it, fix it. I dug ditches until my hands blistered, worked myself raw. And still, the water stood.
I sat in the barn that third night, soaking wet and fuming, and I remember saying out loud: “What more do you want from me?”
And just then—no joke—a frog leapt into my lap. Fat, wet, utterly content.
I looked at that ridiculous frog and I laughed so hard I cried.
That’s when I realized: this land doesn’t always need fixing. Sometimes, it just needs understanding. The low spot wants to hold water. The clay wants to be sticky. The frogs need a place to sing.
Ever since then, I’ve left that pasture mostly alone. It floods every spring. The ducks love it when they’re around. The frogs always come back. And I let it be what it is.
A Day for Catching Up Indoors
With the rain keeping me close to home, I used the afternoon to catch up on some things I’ve been avoiding:
- Checked the inventory of feed, bedding, and grit
- Sketched out next week’s garden schedule in my planner
- Took stock of my freezer (note to self: use more shredded zucchini from last year!)
- Wrote thank-you notes to two neighbors who dropped off canning jars and seed packets recently
It felt good to sit down with a cup of tea and handle the quiet, necessary work—the kind of things that pile up when the days are too full of sun and fence repairs to slow down.
Supper Slow and Simple
I made a warm lentil stew tonight with garden kale, carrots from storage, and a bit of smoked ham from the freezer. I tore up a slice of sourdough and dunked it right in the bowl, no shame.
It tasted like the kind of food that’s been earned—not in a flashy way, but in the daily, faithful way of a life lived in rhythm with dirt and rain and chores that come around again and again.
I ate at the table by the window, watching the last of the light drain behind the hills, the pasture shining silver and green in the dim.
Final Thoughts
Today didn’t give me a new animal, or a finished fence, or rows planted. But it gave me something else: a pause.
A reminder that progress doesn’t always look like motion. That sometimes the compost does more work when we step back. That stories and frogs and mud and memories matter too.
This life isn’t just about what I do—it’s about how I show up for it. Even on the quiet days. Especially on the quiet days.
Tomorrow the sun’s supposed to return, and with it, more chores, more noise, more sweat. I’ll be ready.
But for now, I’ll let the rain write the lullaby and thank the land for letting me rest awhile.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek