There comes a time in every cycle of awakening when the old titles crumble under the weight of their own misuse.  “Guru,” once a beacon of light, has become a shadow-cast word, dragged through scandal, ego, and patriarchal power plays.  So we rise, not in rebellion, but in remembrance.

Introducing: The Gura.

“The Gura does not demand worship.  She awakens remembrance.”

Where the guru asks you to follow, the Gura invites you to remember who you are.
Where the guru sits on a pedestal, the Gura kneels in the garden.
Where the guru wields control, the Gura holds presence.

Gura is not a role to be granted by an institution or earned through dogma.
It is a vibration, one of earth-rooted wisdom and sky-born clarity.
It lives in women who burn with quiet fire, who birth new realities with their words, who remember what the world forgot.

Why Gura?

The word came in a flash, unexpected and undeniable.  It felt ancient, yet unclaimed.
Yes, you’ll find it scattered across languages.  In Romanian, it means mouth.
In Swahili, to uproot.
In pop culture, it’s the name of a cartoon shark.
But in this moment, right here, Gura is reborn.

This is not a brand.

This is not a movement.
This is not a title to chase.

This is a remembrance.

A call back to the heart of womanhood, mysticism, and medicine.
It’s the archetype of the Divine Feminine uncloaked from hierarchy and re-rooted in sacred dirt, kitchen altars, and intuitive knowing.
It’s the wisdom passed through hands, not headlines.

So what happens now?

We speak her name.  We live as Gura, not by claiming superiority, but by radiating sovereignty!  We plant this seed so deep that even if our voices vanish, the roots will outlast empires.

Let it be known: The Gura was not discovered.
She was remembered.

Let me tell you something about messes: they don’t scare me.

You see, there’s a special kind of magic that happens when you stop chasing perfection and start building a life you actually want.  Not a Pinterest-perfect porch swing fantasy, but a home that smells like soup on the stove, soil under your nails, and sage smoke in the corners.  A life with dents in the floor and stories in the walls.  A life that lives back.

I didn’t stumble into this chaos, I chose it.
I planted it, pruned it, screamed at it, and danced with it.
We built this beautiful, holy mess with bare hands and bold decisions.

The truth is, grit is underrated.  Grit is what shows up when you’ve cried on the kitchen floor, wiped your face with a dish towel, and got up to finish dinner anyway.  Grit is what helps you face a to-do list longer than your grocery receipts and still find time to plant marigolds in the front yard because color matters, dammit!

Wisdom?  That’s been earned.
Not from textbooks or tidy little Instagram quotes, but from losing things I thought I couldn’t live without, and finding out I was the thing I needed all along.

And sass?  Oh honey, the sass is survival.  It’s the sparkle in my eye when someone tells me I’m “doing too much.”  It’s the raised eyebrow when the world tries to shrink me.  It’s the comeback (not like Will Smith though 🤦🏻‍♀️), I whisper to myself when no one’s clapping, but I keep going anyway.

So yeah.
Bless this mess.
I built it with intention, with fire, with love, and a little bit of spite.
And no, it’s not tidy.
But it’s mine.
And it’s damn beautiful!

They say the garden teaches, but sometimes it throws a tantrum first.  This season, we let parts of our garden go a little… feral.  And by “a little,” I mean American nightshade showed up with pigweed as its wingman and dayflowers spread like gossip in a small town.

You know what?  I learned more from the chaos than I ever did from tidy rows and Pinterest-perfect plans.

1. The Weeds Know Things

Pigweed doesn’t just show up for no reason.  It thrives in disturbed soil and nutrient-rich spaces, kind of like that friend who only crashes on your couch when the fridge is full.  Instead of instantly ripping it out, I took a beat and asked, Why here?  Why now?  Turns out, the weeds were telling me about soil compaction, where I’d overwatered, and where the mulch had broken down too thin.

2. Beauty is Not Always Organized

Dayflowers (those delicate, electric blue blossoms) showed up uninvited but gave the pollinators a reason to party.  It reminded me that nature doesn’t care about aesthetics the same way we do, she cares about balance, function, and abundance.  My messy spots were buzzing while my “well-managed” beds sat awkwardly quiet.

3. Every Plant Has a Story

American nightshade was the drama queen of the garden.  Toxic?  A little.  Medicinal?  Also yes.  Historically used in folk remedies, and also avoided like the plague in modern gardening circles.  It made me realize how much nuance we miss when we slap a “good” or “bad” label on a plant (or a person, for that matter).  Every weed has a lineage, and maybe even a use, if you’re curious enough to look.

4. Nature Will Always Reclaim What You Ignore

Letting things go wild wasn’t laziness, it was a life lesson.  You don’t get to control everything forever.  Soil wants to be covered.  Seeds will sprout.  Life wants to grow.  If you don’t guide it, it will guide you.

And sometimes, that’s the better route anyway.

A wild garden isn’t a failed one, it’s an honest one.  And if you look closely, you’ll find lessons poking through the pigweed, joy buzzing on the dayflowers, and wisdom rooted even in the nightshade!

Some garden visitors arrive with muddy feet and big appetites (lookin’ at you, chickens).  Others show up in a blur of color, sipping nectar like royalty and reminding you that the garden isn’t just yours, it’s part of a much bigger dance.

Enter: the hummingbird.

These pint-sized pollinators are nature’s glitter.  They flit, they flash, they hum, and somehow they manage to make even weeding feel enchanted.  If you’ve ever caught one hovering by a bloom, you know the feeling.  Pure joy.  Tiny winged joy.

🌸 Why Hummingbirds Love a Good Garden

Hummingbirds aren’t just looking for sugar water, they’re looking for real estate.  Your garden can be the luxury resort they return to every year if you’ve got the goods:

Bright blooms in red, orange, pink, and purple

Tubular flowers that fit their long beaks just right

Safe perches to rest between sips

A pesticide-free buffet (because yes, they love tiny bugs too)

🌺 Plant These to Say “Come on In!”

Think of these as your VIP guest list for hummingbird season:

Plant and Why They Love It

Bee Balm Tubular + spicy scent = hummingbird magnet

Salvia Blooms forever and ever (and ever) +
Zinnias Bright colors = easy nectar access

Trumpet Vine Literally shaped like a welcome mat

Columbine Wild = whimsical, and irresistible

Honeysuckle Sweet scent = sweeter nectar

Coral Bells = perfect sipping cups
Lantana Multi-colored blooms on tap all day

Bonus: many of these are native plants, which means the hummingbirds and your local ecosystem win.

🧪 DIY Nectar (No Red Dye Needed!)

You don’t need fancy store mixes or neon-colored feeders.  Here’s your magic formula:

1 part white sugar to 4 parts water.
Boil to dissolve.  Cool.  Pour into feeder.  Clean every 3–5 days.
(That’s it.  No food coloring, no fuss, just sweet sips.)

🌿 Garden Glow-Up Tips for More Hummingbird Visits

Stagger your blooms.  Something should always be flowering.

Add a mister or shallow bird bath.  Hummingbirds love a quick spritz!

Go vertical.  Hanging baskets, trellises, and shrubs give them room to play.

Skip the chemicals.  Pesticides kill the bugs they eat, and the vibe.

💫 Garden Journal Moment

This week, one zipped right up to my shoulder while I was deadheading flowers.  For one brief second, we just… looked at each other.  Like he knew I’d planted all of this with him in mind.  (I did, Philip.  I did.)

🌱 Final Thought

If bees are the gardeners, hummingbirds are the messengers.  They remind us that beauty and function can share the same space.  That speed and stillness aren’t opposites.  And that joy?  Sometimes it comes on wings the size of a paperclip.

Go plant something that hums.
You deserve a little magic! ✨

Every flock has a funny one, and in our little chicken sitcom, Laverne is the star of the show.

She struts with purpose, squawks with sass, and somehow always manages to photobomb everyone else’s glamour shots.  If there’s a suspicious rustling in the feed bag or a daring hop onto the roosting bar like it’s a Broadway stage, you can bet Laverne is behind it.

Where her sister Shirley is sweet and a little shy, Laverne is all big personality and bold feathers.  She’s the first to inspect your boots for treats, the last to go to bed (FOMO is real), and the reigning queen of side-eye. 👑

We love her for her curiosity, her confidence, and the way she seems to say, “I dare you not to love me.”

Stay tuned as we introduce the rest of the flock, and if you ever hear a ruckus from the coop, just assume Laverne’s putting on a show! 🎭🐓

When we picked her up from Bomgaars, little did we know we were bringing home a feathered legend.

Sacagawea is no ordinary chick.  While the others peeped and stumbled around like popcorn in a skillet, she stood tall, watching, learning, leading.  You can tell she’s got places to go and birds to guide.  She’s the type to figure out how the feeder works… and then show the rest of the flock like, “Here, dummies. Peck here.”

With feathers already hinting at earthy tones and eyes like she’s seen several lifetimes of migration routes, Sacagawea is our little pioneer.  She doesn’t fight for top spot in the pecking order, she earns it by being the one they all follow when the heat lamp flickers or the snacks drop.

We gave her the name Sacagawea not just because it rolls off the tongue like a summer breeze, but because she’s got that trailblazing, brave, calm-in-a-storm energy.  She’s already mapping out the coop-to-run escape routes and probably has a strategic alliance planned with the ladies outside.

So here’s to Sacagawea, the heart of our flock’s forward march.  May her path always be clear, her wings strong, and her sisters just smart enough to follow her lead!

Today, we proudly present the first feature in our “Meet the Flock” series, and we’re kicking things off with the little queen herself: Avril!

Avril isn’t just a chick.  She’s a vibe.  A feathered revolution.  A living embodiment of fluffy rebellion.

From the moment we brought her home, Avril made it crystal clear: she’s not here to be basic.  With her perfectly tousled head fluff (yes, that’s a natural mohawk), intense eyeliner eyes, and an air of mystery that could rival a brooding poet in a coffee shop, this girl clucks to the beat of her own drum!

Her hobbies include:

Perching on hands like she owns them (see exhibit A in the photo above).

Practicing tiny attitude struts.

Politely judging the other chicks from afar.


Despite her punk-rock exterior, Avril is a total softie once she settles in.  She’s already learning to enjoy wing scratches, respond to soft-spoken affirmations, and has shown a mild (but promising) interest in tap training.  We’re thinking therapy chicken in training?  Maybe.  Definitely chicken influencer material, though.

And let’s talk feathers: Avril’s subtle striping and cream tones give her that “woodland camouflage with flair” aesthetic that screams rustic couture.  She’s like if Mother Nature designed a handbag and it chirped!

Stay tuned for more chick introductions in the coming days, we’ve got a whole lineup of fluffy personalities, and each one has a story to tell.

But for now, give it up for Avril!
She’s bold.  She’s brilliant.  She’s floofy.
And she’s just getting started.

This morning, we said goodbye to Louise.

Not “just a chicken.”  Not just a silly bird.  Louise was a protector, a feathery little bodyguard who watched our yard like she paid the property taxes.  The kind of girl who gave side-eye to hawks and humans alike.  You felt safer knowing she was on patrol.

And then, like life often does, it didn’t ask permission.  It just… changed.

So what do you do when your coop feels quieter than it should?  When you instinctively count heads and come up one short?  When the sun still rises but a little spark of it feels like it’s missing?

You cry.  You remember.  You tell stories.

And, if you’re us, you drive to Bomgaars with your heart still cracked open and leaking, and find yourself surrounded by tiny chirps, warm heat lamps, and signs that say “Pullets – Straight Run – babies!”

There’s no replacing Louise.  But there is something beautifully full-circle about meeting new life in the wake of loss.  Chicks peep like tiny hope machines, flopping around with zero clue how healing they really are.

We picked up a few (😉) new fluffballs today.  They won’t know Louise, but they’ll grow up under her legacy.  We’ll teach them the same way we taught her, with treats, wing scratches, and a firm “no” to the great escapes!

Grief and joy, it turns out, can share a brooder and a coop.

So here’s to Louise.
And here’s to soft beginnings.
To the cycle of feathers and feelings.
And to everyone who’s ever cried in a farm store and still left with hope in a cardboard box. 🐥

Today we welcomed to the family: Phoenix, Raven, Mary Catherine, Sacagawea, Avril, Magdelin, Laverne, and Shirley.

Stay tuned for pictures!

Life on the homestead is never boring when you share it with a bunch of feathered philosophers.  My chickens may not speak English (though they definitely yell like they do), but this week, they delivered some serious wisdom wrapped in beaks and fluff.  Here’s what I learned from the girls, especially Louise.

—

1. “If You Don’t Feel Safe, Find Your Bucket.”

Meet Louise.  She’s our pint-sized powder keg with trust issues and the attitude of a bouncer at a speakeasy.  We’ve kept her inside due to a dog attack (not one of our boys!)  This week, Louise found safety inside an old five-gallon bucket, jumping right into it and nesting like it was her personal fortress of solitude.

Anytime chaos broke out in the house (which, let’s be real, is daily), Louise would make a beeline for that bucket like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.  Pecking order dispute (with the boys)?  Bucket.  Loud dog bark? Bucket.  Suspicious AC noise?  Bucket.

🧠 The Lesson:
We all need a “bucket.”  A safe space to duck into when life gets loud.  Boundaries aren’t weakness.  They’re wisdom in a world that clucks too much.

—

2. “The Dust Bath Is Sacred, Act Accordingly.”

Watching the flock flop around like possessed puppets in their dust patch is one of the greatest joys in life.  And don’t you dare interrupt the ritual!  One of the girls squawked at me like I’d insulted her entire lineage just for walking too close!

🧠 The Lesson:
Self-care looks weird to outsiders.  Do it anyway.  Don’t let anyone mess with your dust bath time.

—

3. “Yell Loud Enough, and Someone Will Bring Snacks.”

There’s always that one hen who starts the chorus every time she sees me near the garden.  It starts with a little “bok” and ends with full-blown barnyard opera until I cave and bring out the scraps (mostly dill and sweet Annie.)  They’ve learned that volume equals value.

🧠 The Lesson:
Advocate for yourself.  Be loud about what you need.  Bonus points if you’re charming while you do it!

—

4. “You Can’t Please Every Chicken.”

New fancy nesting straw?  Rejected.  Cleaned the coop?  Side-eye from half the flock.  Moved the water bowl?  Chaos.  Chickens have opinions, and most of them are rude.

🧠 The Lesson:
Do your best and move on.  Not everyone’s going to appreciate your effort, and that’s fine.  The egg still gets laid.

—

5. “The Ones You Least Expect Are Watching Closely.” (turtle 🐢 time)

While Louise was in her bucket and the drama kings were mid-squabble, I caught my perfect little box turtle, Professor X, quietly watching my every move from his enclosure.  It was subtle, sweet, and sobering.

🧠 The Lesson:
Someone’s learning from your calm.  You might be someone else’s role model, be the kind of human your turtle thinks you are.

—

🧺 Final Thought:

Life doesn’t always come with profound books or grand sermons.  Sometimes, it comes with feathers, clucks, and a hen named Louise hiding in a bucket.

Before the white coats.
Before the insurance codes.
Before you had to fill out five forms just to be told to take Tylenol and “come back if it gets worse”…
There was Grandma.

She didn’t have a certificate on the wall, but she had a pantry full of jars, a strong sense of smell, and eyes that had seen both miracles and misery.
She wasn’t a licensed practitioner, she was something far older: a keeper of knowing.

🫖 Healing Came from the Land, Not the Lab

Grandma didn’t ask you your symptoms like a script.  She looked at your face.
“Too pale,” she’d say, handing you some liver and onions.  “You’re running cold.”
Or, “You’ve got fire in the belly, we’ll calm that down with chamomile and licorice root.”

There was no “WebMD,” but there were books, stories, dreams, and instincts.
She learned from her mother.  Her mother learned from hers.  And so on, back before the land was paved and the garden became a lawn.

🌾 They Called It Witchcraft, Then Took Notes

Let’s be honest, a lot of our folk were burned, silenced, or laughed at.
And when the world needed real healing, guess whose medicine chest Big Pharma raided?

Willow bark became aspirin.
Foxglove became heart medicine.
Moldy bread turned into penicillin.

They scoffed at the remedies, until they could patent them.

🧅 Poultices, Pot Liquor, and Prayers

Grandma knew how to make an onion poultice for a chest cold.
She knew comfrey would knit that bone.
She knew chicken soup needed the bones and the vinegar, not just the broth.

She taught us to pray while we stirred.
To talk to the herbs.
To walk barefoot so the earth could pull the sickness right out of us.

She didn’t need a PhD to understand the body.
She lived through real sickness, not sanitized textbook versions.

🥄 Why We Need Her Wisdom Now (More Than Ever!)

Today, they tell us not to trust what isn’t FDA-approved.
Huh… you know what is FDA-approved?  Food dyes, seed oils, and ingredients we can’t pronounce.

Grandma taught us to trust what we could grow.
What we could make.
What we could feel.

And now, in a world flooded with pills, screens, and disconnected experts, we’re finding our way back.

Back to gardens.
Back to bone broth.
Back to her.

✨ Be the Grandma Now

You don’t need a license to care.
You don’t need a clinic to heal.
You just need your hands, your heart, and the courage to remember what we were told to forget.

Keep the tradition alive.
Grow the medicine.
Tell the stories.
Write the knowledge down.
Teach your kids how to pick plantain for a bee sting.
Let them hear the old songs while they shell peas.

Grandma didn’t need to go to school for this, because she WAS the school.