A Quiet Reminder Beneath the Trees
Some moments on the homestead don’t announce themselves — they don’t arrive with newborn squeaks or a clatter at the gate or any kind of urgency. Instead, they slip in softly, usually when we’re rushing, and tap us lightly on the shoulder as if to say, slow down… look here.
We were only meant to be moving the sheep. A simple job, one of those quick errands you tuck between bigger tasks, especially in late spring when the days stretch long and the to-do list somehow stretches even longer. But as we cut through the bush, the world changed pace around us.
The light fell in warm, dappled patches — those golden pockets that only appear this time of year, when the sun sits just right and the undergrowth shakes off the last of winter’s heaviness. Moss draped from branches like soft green lace, the air smelled faintly sweet, and everything felt unhurried in a way I hadn’t realised I needed.
And then — tucked low in the grass, quiet but impossible to ignore — stood the biggest mushroom I’ve ever stumbled upon. A proper giant, its cap wide and weathered, as if it had been patiently growing while the rest of us hurried past. I held my hand out for scale and laughed; nature has a way of surprising you exactly when you think you’re simply ticking off a chore.
Standing there in the cool shade with sunlight threading through the branches, I felt that familiar nudge — the one that says don’t rush through your own life. Even the simplest farm tasks come with their own pockets of wonder if we let them.
We finished moving the sheep, eventually. But the real task that day wasn’t about gates or paddocks at all. It was a small reminder to breathe, to look up, and to notice the quiet magic settling itself gently around us.
Sometimes the homestead teaches lessons in big, memorable moments. And sometimes it’s a mushroom in the grass.
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