Wildflowers, Wandering, and the Sweet Work of Nothing Urgent
The first thing I noticed this morning—before the coffee brewed, before I even made it to the sink to splash water on my face—was the light.
It poured through the kitchen window in ribbons, pale and golden, thick with promise. The kind of light that makes you pause with your hands still wet from washing the bowl, because for a second, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath in wonder.
That’s how today felt. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just quietly beautiful in a way that snuck up on me.
A Slow Start with the Littles
The chicks were already chirping when I made it to the coop—tiny peeps filtering through the open vent like morning bells. Hazel was calm, nestled in the straw like a feathery throne, her brood half under her wing and half tumbling out in every direction.
I brought her a warm mash with herbs and a few mashed oats. She took her time with it, pausing every few bites to nudge a chick back beneath her breast or gently correct one for getting too bold near the edge of the nesting box.
I stayed there longer than I meant to.
Just watching.
One of the chicks—a little striped one I’ve taken to calling Peep—crawled onto my hand while I was reaching for the feeder and promptly fell asleep, right there in my palm. My heart melted on the spot. I didn’t dare move until he woke up and hopped back down with a cheep of protest.
That kind of moment doesn’t make the chore list. But it makes the day.
Wildflowers Along the Fence Line
By midmorning, I was itching to move. The kind of energy that comes from sunshine and good sleep and a long winter finally loosening its grip.
So I took a slow walk along the back fence line, the section that runs along the edge of the pasture and disappears into the tree line.
And there they were.
Tiny bursts of wild violet, curled like ink drops in the grass. A few brave blue-eyed grass blooms. One bold Indian paintbrush, already stretching for height like it’s running late.
I crouched to get a better look, fingers brushing the petals, heart catching just a little.
This is why I don’t mow that part of the pasture early. Let the wildflowers have their moment. Let the bees wake up and the butterflies return.
Let beauty have its season.
Pasture Wandering and Goat Mischief
The goats, of course, took my wanderings as an invitation.
Maple trotted over with purpose, and Rosemary meandered behind, already chewing something she’d probably regret. I let them follow me as I walked the slope of the south ridge, checking for downed limbs or fresh signs of coyote. Found one chewed log and a few dug-up patches, but nothing serious.
Still, I’ll refresh the scent barriers along the fence tomorrow. Better safe than sorry.
Maple tried to jump on a fallen tree and slipped, then played it off like she meant to do it. I gave her a pat and a lecture. She ignored both and stole a nibble of my jacket.
Garden Tasks that Could Wait
I had planned to prep the second half of the tomato bed today, but the soil’s still a little heavy from last week’s rain. I poked at it with the trowel, decided it wasn’t quite ready, and moved on.
Instead, I:
- Topped off the mulch on the garlic row
- Moved the rain barrels slightly to improve drainage
- Sketched out a rough plan for the cucumber trellis layout on the back of an old feed bag
- Cut a small bouquet of thyme and oregano to hang and dry
It wasn’t the most productive garden day. But it was satisfying.
Sometimes the best thing you can do is not push. Just walk. Look. Tend lightly. Let the soil tell you when it’s ready.
Supper and Silence
Dinner tonight was made with minimal fuss:
- One of the last winter squashes roasted with olive oil and sage
- A soft-boiled egg
- Fresh greens from the early patch of kale
- A biscuit I made last week and reheated with a bit of honey
I ate with the windows open, letting in the spring breeze and the sound of frogs tuning up near the creek. They’ve been getting louder each night, a full chorus now.
No music. No screens. Just the company of peace.
Final Thoughts
Today didn’t bring anything dramatic.
No storm. No crisis. No huge breakthrough.
Just wildflowers. A chick asleep in my hand. A goat pretending to be graceful. Soil too wet to work and a breeze that smelled like growing things.
It’s these kinds of days—quietly abundant—that keep me rooted. The ones that don’t scream for attention but offer it freely if you’re willing to slow down and receive it.
Sometimes the most important work we do isn’t visible. It’s not the planting or the harvesting—it’s the noticing. The choosing to walk the fence line. The remembering that spring doesn’t arrive all at once, but in tiny steps.
And today, I took a few of those steps too.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek