It all started with a vision and a cast iron cauldron. I wanted abundance, lush tomatoes, towering sunflowers, and a backyard Eden worthy of a Pinterest board. So I did what any modern homesteader with a crystal in her bra would do: I manifested.
I saged the perimeter. I whispered kind words to my seedlings. I even left a tiny offering of sunflower seeds under the lilac bush “for the nature spirits.” (Note to self: next time, clarify which spirits you’re inviting!)
Enter… the squirrels.
At first, it was cute. A fuzzy little guy darting across the fence, cheeks full, tail floofed. Adorable. But then came more. And more. By week three, I had a whole squirrel militia patrolling the yard, rearranging mulch, digging “secret acorn bunkers,” and, yes, chucking acorns at us like nature’s angry little trebuchets!
Evalynn and I were dodging incoming nut fire on the way to the car, and I swear one of them saluted me from the compost bin.
I asked the Universe for growth. I forgot to mention for the plants only!
I tried reasoning with them.
I left extra seed in a distant corner of the yard, like a peace treaty snack table. They laughed. They mocked me. One bold little punk sat on my porch, cracked a seed in half, and just… stared. No blinking. Just unbothered chaos in a fluffy-tailed package.
Then came the aerial attacks. They took to the trees. Acorns rained down like nutty little missiles every time I checked on the chickens. I tried to maintain a sense of harmony and gratitude, but it’s hard to keep your chakras aligned when you’re wearing a Home Depot bucket as a helmet!
Even the chickens were spooked. Hall & Oats started flinching at rustling leaves. Louise went rogue and refused to come out of the coop unless I personally escorted her.
At this point, my garden journal had turned into a war log:
“Day 12: They’ve breached the tiger lilies.”
“Day 15: Lost the sunflowers. No survivors.”
“Day 17: One of them took my glove. Just one. Power move.”
Eventually, I sat down on the porch, muddy, mildly concussed from a walnut drop, and clutching a half-grown carrot, and had a moment. A squirrel moment.
—
🌱 What the Squirrels Taught Me
Turns out, when you open your garden to the universe, sometimes the universe sends tiny chaotic helpers.
Here’s what I walked away with (aside from bite-sized PTSD and a habit of ducking under oak trees):
Abundance isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it shows up messy, wild, and full of sass.
You can’t control nature, but you can learn to dance with it. Even if that dance looks like bobbing and weaving through rodent crossfire.
Manifestation works. Be specific. So specific!
Laughter is compost for the soul. A little nut-chucking drama is fertilizer for stories, lessons, and humility.
Now, the squirrels and I have reached an understanding: they get the back corner of the yard and a ceremonial weekly suet block, and I get to grow my herbs in relative peace (until next season).
Yard 2 Yield! 