The Storm, the Goat, and the Grace to Let Go
There’s a saying around here: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.”
Today, it took about four.
The morning started like any other—mild, sunny, even cheerful. I had plans. Big ones. Finish mulching the lower beds. Tidy up the potting shed. Maybe even finally label the seed trays before I forget what’s what (again).
But by noon, I was standing barefoot in the mud, hair plastered to my face, chasing Rosemary through a sideways thunderstorm with nothing but a scoop of alfalfa and a prayer.
Morning: Calm Before the What-on-Earth
I woke early and stretched out the stiffness from yesterday’s planting. My hands were sore in that satisfying way—like they still remembered holding earth and hope in equal measure.
Made a cup of coffee, added a splash of goat milk, and sipped it slow on the porch. The light was soft and golden, and for a while, I let myself believe that the forecast was wrong. No rain today, I told myself.
I should’ve known better.
I did manage to lay down two rows of mulch—heavy with compost, layered with straw. The tomatoes looked proud in their new bed, like soldiers ready for parade. Even the carrots seemed to stand a little taller after yesterday’s thinning.
The chickens were out scratching under the trees, the chicks were napping in their brooder pile, and the goats were unusually quiet.
Too quiet.
Goat Trouble, Chapter… Who’s Counting?
I had just started hauling mulch toward the herb bed when I heard the clatter—metal on metal, the unmistakable “uh oh” of a gate being tested.
By the time I reached the pen, Rosemary was on the outside and the gate was swinging like a saloon door in an old western.
I have reinforced that latch three times.
She trotted past me, head high, tail flicking like she had errands to run and I was in her way. I managed to grab the scoop of alfalfa I’d left nearby and tried coaxing her back in like she hadn’t just shattered my illusion of control.
And then the clouds broke.
Storm Surge
I didn’t hear thunder first. I felt it.
The air dropped ten degrees in a breath. The wind rose like it had something to prove. The trees started hissing. And then the sky just… split.
Rain came sideways. The kind that soaks you in five seconds and steals your hat on the way out. Rosemary bolted—of course she did—right into the front garden and started dancing between tomato cages like she was on an obstacle course.
It would’ve been funny if I wasn’t already soaked and swearing softly under my breath.
Eventually—bless her ornery heart—she stopped just long enough for me to grab her collar and guide her (slipping, sliding, squinting) back through the gate.
I latched it with two carabiners, a piece of bailing twine, and the sheer force of will.
Then I stood in the rain, panting and laughing, because what else can you do?
Afternoon: Dripping and Drying Out
The storm lasted maybe twenty minutes. Just long enough to flood the coop path, uproot my seed tray labels, and scatter a pile of mulch halfway across the yard.
But once it passed, the air turned warm again. The kind of post-storm warmth that makes everything smell like cedar, earth, and electricity.
I changed into dry clothes, toweled off my boots, and made a cup of peppermint tea—strong, hot, grounding.
The chicks were unbothered. The goats acted like nothing had happened. And the chickens… well, they looked offended. Wet hens really do glare like they’re plotting your downfall.
Reclaiming a Bit of Beauty
I didn’t finish the mulch. I didn’t clean the shed. But I did wander back out to the tomato bed and re-straighten a few cages that had tipped in the wind.
And in doing so, I noticed something.
New growth.
Tiny leaves, barely unfolded, reaching just a little higher than yesterday.
That’s the lesson this place keeps teaching me.
Storms come. Plans unravel. Goats escape.
But still—things grow.
Sometimes it’s not about control or perfection. Sometimes it’s about showing up, fixing what you can, and letting the rest be grace.
Supper and Soft Light
Dinner tonight was humble and perfect:
- Polenta with sautéed spinach, a fresh egg on top, and a sprinkle of sharp cheddar
- A small dish of fermented carrots from last fall
- Mint tea with honey from my last jar
I ate by the window, watching the light return. The clouds parted just enough to cast gold across the pasture. The goats lay in a pile under the cedar. The chickens shook off the day like old coats.
The sky never stays angry for long here.
Final Thoughts
Today didn’t go as planned.
But maybe it went as it needed to.
I was reminded that this life isn’t about mastering nature. It’s about participating in it. Sometimes that means getting soaked and looking ridiculous and starting over when your day blows sideways.
But if I’ve learned anything out here, it’s this:
Resilience isn’t loud. It’s muddy. And often barefoot. And almost always held together with twine and laughter.
Tomorrow, I’ll relabel the trays, finish the mulch, and reinforce that latch—again.
But tonight, I’ll fall asleep knowing that I’m still learning how to bend without breaking.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek