Sabbath Soil, a Sunday Walk, and the Beauty of Being Still
Sundays feel different out here.
It’s not just the absence of heavy labor or the quieter rhythm of the animals. It’s something deeper. Like the land itself knows to pause, to stretch, to exhale.
I try to honor that rhythm.
I don’t always rest perfectly—but I do rest intentionally.
Today, I let the stillness in. Let the unfinished things stay undone. Let the loud parts of my mind settle somewhere between the chickens and the wind.
And I found peace in the simplest places.
Morning: Coffee, Psalms, and Porchlight Prayers
I woke just after six. Not because of an alarm, but because the birds outside were carrying on like a symphony warming up.
The air was cool—just enough to call for a flannel over my nightgown—and the kitchen floor felt good beneath bare feet.
Coffee brewed slowly. Strong and quiet.
I opened my Bible to Psalm 103 and read it out loud, voice still gravelly from sleep:
“Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and all that is within me, bless His holy name…”
I sat on the porch with the sun just beginning to crest the trees. The steam from my mug curled like incense in the morning air. I prayed not with a list, but with thanks. For the fence that held. For the chicks that thrived. For the tomatoes that reached. For the breath in my chest.
Sometimes, that’s the only prayer that needs saying: thank You.
Midday: Light Chores and Even Lighter Plans
I don’t fully “take off” on Sundays—not in the way a city person might. Out here, the animals don’t know it’s a rest day. The water buckets still need filling. The feeders still need checking. The gates still need closing.
But I move slower. I let things take their time.
I gave the goats fresh hay and sat with them for a while instead of rushing off to the next thing. Rosemary nuzzled my shoulder. Thistle (the youngest) tried to eat the hem of my flannel. I laughed and let her.
The chickens got their scraps and a little extra cracked corn today. A treat. Hazel laid another green egg—her sixth this week. She’s earning her keep, that one.
I checked on the chicks briefly. Still rowdy. Still healthy. I topped off their water and didn’t bother sweeping. The brooder will wait.
Sometimes the best thing you can do on the Sabbath is let the mess be.
Afternoon: A Walk Without a Purpose
After lunch (leftover roasted veggies and a slice of sourdough toast), I took a walk.
Not for work. Not for chores. Just… to walk.
I followed the trail that runs behind the pond, where the wild plums bloom and the deer bed down. The ground was soft from last week’s rains, and the sky above was brushed with thin clouds like pulled cotton.
I spotted:
- A turtle sunning on a rock
- Two bluebirds flitting between fence posts
- A patch of yarrow already leafing up for the season
- And a cluster of morels I nearly missed near the roots of an old oak
I didn’t bring a basket, so I marked them with a ribbon of grass for tomorrow.
I sat for a while by the creek, listening to the water move over stones and watching the wind write invisible poems through the tops of the trees.
I didn’t check my phone. Didn’t make a list. Just let the stillness fill me back up.
Evening: Sabbath Supper and a Candle at the Table
Supper was quiet and simple:
- A boiled egg
- Sautéed spinach and garlic with thyme
- A slice of goat cheese and honey on toast
- And a mug of hot lemon balm tea
I lit a candle at the table, even though it was still light outside. Just something about the flame made the food taste better. Slower.
After eating, I wrote in my journal. Not the blog. Just private thoughts. Prayers. A few sentences of gratitude.
It’s easy to forget how sacred the ordinary is when we never slow down to see it.
Final Thoughts
Today wasn’t about production. It wasn’t about goals.
It was about presence.
And in that presence, I found something more nourishing than any harvest—peace.
I’ve learned that self-sufficiency isn’t just about what you can grow or build or butcher. It’s about the kind of inner steadiness that keeps you rooted when the wind blows hard.
And that steadiness comes, in part, from days like this.
From sitting with your goats.
From whispering psalms in the garden air.
From letting the fence sag a little longer and trusting the world won’t fall apart if you rest.
Tomorrow, the list will return. The weeds will grow. The chores will call.
But tonight, I am still.
And that is enough.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek