Herb Beds, Happy Chicks, and the Gentle Return to Center
It’s amazing what can change in just twenty-four hours.
The chicks have already grown—not visibly bigger, but louder, braver, more coordinated. They’re chasing each other around the brooder like they own the place. I found one perched on the edge of the feeder this morning, puffed up like a miniature hawk. Day two, and they’re already dreaming of flight.
It made me laugh out loud. Loud enough to startle Hazel in the coop next door.
Brooder Check and Morning Rhythm
The morning started as they all do: a walk out to the barn with a bucket in one hand and coffee in the other. The air was cool but soft—like the land was still stretching and yawning beneath the sun.
Inside the barn, I did my usual check:
- Fresh water
- Refilled chick feed
- Heat lamp temperature (holding steady at 92°F)
- Bedding fluffed and dry
The chicks are thriving. I sat with them for a while, watching their tiny social dynamics play out. The bold ones dart for food, then run back to the corners like bandits. The quiet ones nap with their heads tucked under wings too small to do much covering. They’re alive, aware, and completely dependent on this setup working.
It reminds me just how much of this life is about being prepared before you’re needed.
That’s the real difference between homesteading and hobby farming, I think. With homesteading, there’s always a weight of stewardship tucked under the joy.
Digging Into the Herb Beds
After the barn check, I grabbed my gloves and shovel and made my way to the herb bed by the porch. The sun had fully crested the ridge, and the soil felt warm and ready.
I spent most of the late morning prepping and planting:
- Chamomile and lemon balm along the front row, soft and frilly and already giving off scent
- Sage, oregano, and parsley down the center
- Lavender and echinacea along the back row, where they’ll get the most sun
- Left space for basil and holy basil (still waiting for the nights to warm up a bit more)
As I worked, I found earthworms in nearly every shovel of soil. That’s how I know the compost I added over the winter did its job. The earth is ready.
There’s something deeply grounding about planting herbs. They’re not flashy like tomatoes or heavy like squash. But they carry weight in a different way. They heal. They flavor. They soothe. They remind me of my mother’s tea drawer and the way she used to whisper, “Let the land be your medicine.”
A Midday Pause (and a Surprise Bouquet)
Around noon, I took a break and walked the pasture fence to check for any new goat-induced damage (so far, so good). Near the eastern edge, right below the blackberry thicket, I spotted the first true flush of wild violets and henbit in bloom.
I couldn’t resist.
I gathered a small bouquet—violets, dandelions, henbit, and a few wispy sprigs of clover—and brought it back to the kitchen. It’s sitting now in a mason jar by the sink, a little reminder that beauty doesn’t need to be planted on purpose to have a place.
The wild things still teach me.
Afternoon Chores and Quiet Thoughts
I kept the rest of the day simple:
- Cleaned the coop waterers
- Raked out a section of the goat shelter
- Laid out the new row covers for the upcoming carrot bed
- Sorted my seed packets again (a never-ending task)
While I worked, I let my thoughts drift to the weeks ahead: piglets, planting out the tomatoes, building shade for the chicks once they move out of the brooder, fencing the upper pasture, maybe getting serious about that bee setup I keep putting off.
It’s easy to feel overwhelmed.
But today, I didn’t.
Maybe it was the flowers. Maybe it was the slow rhythm. Maybe it was just the quiet after a stretch of noisy, demanding days.
But I felt… centered. Not behind. Not scrambling. Just present.
Supper and Soft Light
Tonight’s dinner was garden-inspired:
- Pan-seared carrots and green onions from last fall’s late harvest, stored in the cellar
- A soft-boiled egg, sliced over greens with a sprinkle of cracked pepper and sea salt
- A piece of sourdough toast, buttered and topped with lemon balm and goat cheese
I ate with the windows open, letting in the sound of evening birds and the smell of turned earth. The chicks chirped behind the barn wall. The goats shifted in the pasture. And I sat in the stillness, thankful for a life that lets me work with my hands and rest with my heart.
Final Thoughts
This day wasn’t flashy. But it was rich.
A day of small wins: thriving chicks, planted herbs, soil under my fingernails, and a bouquet of weeds that made me smile every time I walked past it.
I used to think I had to hustle every second to make this life “work.” But I’m learning—slowly—that there’s wisdom in pacing yourself. In stepping back before you burn out. In choosing to dig one bed instead of five, if it means you’ll enjoy the work.
This land doesn’t need perfection from me. It just needs presence.
Tomorrow, I’ll move compost to the back beds, check the root cellar for soft spots in the potatoes, and maybe, if the weather holds, begin laying out the new pig pen near the creek bend.
But tonight, I’ll go to sleep with the sound of chicks, the smell of sage on my fingers, and a heart full of quiet joy.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek