When Mother Nature Says “Sit Down Somewhere”

There are a lot of things we can control on the homestead. We can plan garden layouts. We can start seeds. We can build beds, amend soil, clip chicken wings, harvest herbs, and convince ourselves we absolutely needed another plant (because obviously we did).

But one thing a homestead will do every single time is humble you.

And lately? That lesson has been coming from the sky.

There’s rain… and then there’s too much rain.

As homesteaders, we celebrate rain most days. Rain means life. Rain means less time dragging hoses around and pretending we enjoy hand watering in Louisiana heat. Rain means the garden gets a good drink, and everybody looks happier.

But then there are those stretches where you stand at the window looking outside and think, Okay Lord… I appreciate the blessing, but maybe cut the faucet off just a little?

Because too much rain can turn excitement into frustration real quick.

Beds get soggy. Plants start looking offended. Tomatoes split. Roots sit in water longer than they should. Chickens look annoyed. Paths become mud pits. You look outside at all the things you wanted to get done and realize… absolutely none of it is happening today.

And honestly? That’s hard for me.

Because I’m a fixer. If something goes wrong, I want to jump in and make it right. I want to solve the problem. I want to save every plant, rescue every plan, and somehow force productivity out of a day.

But homesteading keeps teaching me something I apparently need repeated over and over:

Not everything is ours to fix.

Some things simply require us to wait.

No amount of pacing around the house changes the weather. No amount of checking the radar every fifteen minutes makes the clouds move faster. No amount of staring dramatically out the window is going to dry out the garden beds.

Trust me. I checked.

So instead, we do what homesteaders do.

We pivot.

We harvest what we can. We plan. We clean seed trays. We organize. We dream up future projects. We drink tea. We watch the rain fall over the homestead and remind ourselves that seasons shift.

Because they always do.

The rain eventually stops.

The sun eventually comes back.

The garden dries.

The chickens stop side-eyeing everybody.

And life on the homestead starts moving again.

Sometimes the lesson isn’t about pushing harder.

Sometimes it’s about knowing when to pause.

And maybe that’s true beyond the garden too.

Because life has “too much rain” seasons. Seasons where things feel heavy, inconvenient, messy, and entirely outside of our control. Seasons where all we can do is stand still and wait.

And maybe that’s okay.

At 1737, we’re learning that cultivating community and harvesting home doesn’t always happen in sunshine.

Sometimes it happens in muddy boots, too.