Gray Skies, Green Promises, and Seeds for What’s to Come
I woke to the soft hush of a cloud-covered sky—that even, pearly kind of light that doesn’t cast shadows but makes the world feel a little closer, like it’s leaning in to whisper something important.
There was no wind this morning. No sun either. Just that still kind of quiet that settles into your bones and invites you to pause.
So I did.
A Morning for Watching
Instead of rushing into chores, I sat on the porch with my coffee, wrapped in an old flannel blanket and watched the pasture slowly come to life.
The chickens were the first to stir—Margie still firmly planted in the broody box, Hazel’s chicks peeping from under her wings, and the rest of the girls tumbling out of the coop with their usual squabbling and fluff-shaking. The goats took their time, stretching long and yawning big, with Maple giving me a pointed look like, “We’re not built for Mondays.”
The trees along the back ridge were misty, just the tops visible through the light fog, and I let my mind wander the way it does on the edge of a new month.
Garden Reflections and April Planning
I walked the garden paths slowly, not to work, just to look. The lettuce has doubled in size since last week. The peas are clinging tight to the first rung of their trellis. The garlic, which I swear was two inches shorter three days ago, is now standing like soldiers in perfect formation.
There’s something deeply satisfying about this in-between space—when winter’s work has taken root, but the real explosion of growth is still just ahead.
Today I didn’t sow anything outside. The ground felt too damp, the air too cool. But I did take time to prep trays for April sowing, which I’ll start tomorrow:
- Cucumber (both pickling and slicing varieties)
- Zucchini and yellow squash
- Basil and dill
- A second wave of zinnias, because there’s no such thing as too many
- And a little tray of nasturtiums, which always make me smile
I filled the trays with moistened seed starting mix, labeled each row with little popsicle sticks, and arranged them by the south window inside. Hazel’s chicks chirped in rhythm as I worked. It was nice to have their music in the background.
A Quick Fix and a Lesson in Letting Go
While checking the tool shed, I found the old trellis netting I thought I’d lost last season—rolled up in a cracked bucket under a pile of broken stakes. It’s frayed and sun-bleached, but still usable.
I almost tossed it out.
But then I thought about how often this homestead has taught me to make use of what I’ve got. To stitch things together. To work with imperfections. I untangled the netting, patched the torn sections with twine, and folded it neatly. It’ll hold peas this spring and maybe beans this summer. It doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to hold.
And honestly? That’s a lesson I needed more than I realized.
A Visit from Mrs. Harper (Again)
Around 2 p.m., I heard that familiar tap at the gate and smiled before I even saw her—Mrs. Evelyn Harper, same rosewater perfume, same dusty green Ford.
This time she brought me a bundle of daffodils, tied with a faded yellow ribbon and wrapped in a bit of newspaper.
“Didn’t want them to get swallowed up in the mow,” she said, handing them over like they were gold.
We sat on the porch again for a spell, sipping iced tea and watching the clouds stack high over the eastern ridge. She told me about her own garden—just a few containers now—and the way she misses having enough land to grow more.
“I still plant like I’m feeding ten people,” she laughed. “Old habits.”
Before she left, she tucked a folded piece of paper in my hand. “Just a list,” she said. “Things I wish someone had told me when I was your age.”
I haven’t opened it yet. I want to wait until I can sit quietly and really read it. I have a feeling it’ll matter.
Supper and Stillness
Dinner tonight was gentle:
- A bowl of lentil soup with carrots and thyme
- A slice of cornbread, buttered and warm
- A few sprigs of chickweed added in from the garden—because why not?
I ate with the windows cracked open, letting in the cool evening breeze and the first peeps of tree frogs. The chicks rustled softly. The goats settled down. The hens muttered themselves to sleep on the roost.
There wasn’t much to do today. But somehow, everything felt full.
Final Thoughts
March is closing its door gently this year.
No storm. No frost. No frantic last-minute surprises. Just soft air, a daffodil offering, a list from a neighbor, and trays of promise by the window.
I used to think I had to do more to feel productive—to mark every box, build every row, chase every minute.
But today reminded me that showing up is enough. That planning is a kind of planting. That the pause before the work is not wasted—it’s necessary.
Tomorrow, I’ll sow new seeds. Start fresh rows. Welcome a new month.
But tonight, I’ll sit here a little longer, listening to the stillness and letting gratitude root itself deep.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek