The Quiet Before the Rush

The final day of May arrived with the kind of softness that almost feels like a lullaby. A light breeze brushed through the pecan trees, the sun hung just a little lower in the sky than it did last week, and even the animals moved slower, as if they too were sensing the seasonal shift.

I stood on the porch with my coffee early this morning, letting the quiet settle around me. There was a kind of stillness in the air—not the eerie kind before a storm, but the peaceful, steady kind that feels like a pause between verses in an old hymn. I’ve learned to cherish those pauses.

Final May Garden Tasks

Even with the slower pace, the garden still had its demands. I spent most of the morning staking up the last of the tomato vines, which are already getting heavy with little green globes. I also did a bit of maintenance pruning on the squash and cukes. The heat hasn’t turned punishing just yet, so I’m trying to give everything the best head start possible before we hit that Southeast Oklahoma summer furnace.

I also sowed another succession of beans and some heat-hardy greens in the shaded north bed. I’m curious to see how they’ll do tucked into that corner—I’ve never had much luck with lettuce past early May, but it’s worth a try. You can read all the guides you want, but your land teaches you through trial and error. I’ve got the garden notebook half full of those lessons already.

Reflections and Readjustments

May was full. More full than I realized until I took a moment to flip back through the month’s pages in my journal. We built new fencing. We lost a few chickens to the heat. We celebrated birthdays, mourned memories, worked in the soil, and kept walking forward with faith even when it was hard. That’s the rhythm of this life—it’s all woven together.

Something about today made me reflective, maybe because we’re teetering on the edge of summer, or maybe because my body is tired in that good, honest way. I’m learning that rest isn’t just what you do on Sundays—it’s how you pace yourself through the week. It’s knowing when to step back, when to dig in, and when to let the goats just be noisy without trying to fix it.

A Look Ahead

With June knocking at the door, I know the real preservation season is just around the corner. The outdoor kitchen is almost done—just a few more finishing touches and she’ll be ready for canning tomatoes, jarring pickles, and boiling down blackberry syrup. I’ve never been so excited about a cooktop in my life.

I also made a quick checklist for June:

  • Clean and organize the pantry for summer canning.

  • Rotate the goats to the east paddock.

  • Install a shade cover over the brooder pen.

  • Start early prep for firewood storage before July heat sets in.

Little things, but each one builds toward the big picture of self-sufficiency. I’m not where I want to be yet—not completely off-grid, not perfectly prepared—but every week I see a little more progress. It’s slow, sometimes messy, but it’s ours.

Evening Stillness

As the sun dipped low this evening, I sat under the pergola and watched the sky go from gold to lavender. The air had that golden hour glow that makes everything look like a postcard—even the half-finished projects and feed buckets stacked by the barn door.

I thought of my dad, and how he used to say, “Nothing worth keeping ever came easy.” He’d have loved this place—maybe not the chaos, but definitely the conviction behind it.

Tomorrow starts a new month, and with it, a new rhythm. I’m grateful for May—for the blessings, the burdens, and the beautiful balance in between.

From Wister Creek, where the days are full and the faith runs deep,
Amanda

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