TWKN Network Presents Side Porch Stories: You Bring Me Joy!

This episode of Side Porch Stories is brought to you by Alexander Farm & Orchard. Fresh bread, handmade soaps, and the joy of slow nourishment. To learn more visit alexanderfarmorchard.com

Side Porch Stories: You Bring Me Joy

Hey everybody.
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Welcome to my proverbial side porch.
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I’m Lisa N. Alexander, founder of This Woman Knows— and today, I’m your side porch aunty, here to share a story or two.

This is where secrets and stories get told… in housecoats and bonnets.
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Where bras and shoes are optional— because there’s no company to impress here. That’s front porch energy.

This summer audio series invites you to slow down. To listen. To laugh a little. To maybe even learn a thing or two… from real-life stories.
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Like the time I looked at the clay that littered my soil and stymied many a growing season—and wondered if I could make something with it.

Or the morning the snow peas emerged after hoping and praying they’d produce even in the Texas heat. They did. For a week or two. Ate them straight from the vine.

Or how submitting to the sourdough bread-making process was a lesson in giving myself time, grace, patience.

This episode is about joy. The kind you grow. The kind you shape. The kind you return to—when the world is way too loud. It’s a love letter to art, soil, and sacred routines.

So pull up a chair. You snap the green beans—I’ll make the tea. (soft smile pause) You ready? Alright.

[Segment 1: Hands in the Soil]

Let me tell you what joy looks like lately:

It looks like okra that grows two feet overnight if you miss just one day of harvesting.

It looks like soil under your nails… and a bowl of peppers you didn’t know would actually grow.

It’s discovering volunteers of cilantro and Thai basil in your garden— seeds you didn’t plant, but nature gifted you anyway.

It looks like me tending the compost pile, and him harvesting mint and lemon balm.

It looks like pulling weeds—not because they’re gone for good, but because for a moment, your hands are doing something that makes sense.
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That small act of clearing space? It’s meditative. It’s grounding. It reminds me that even if the weeds come back—so can I. I am also resilient.

My garden hasn’t just fed me—it’s centered me. Because out there? It’s not about algorithms or deadlines. It’s about water. Sun. Compost tea.

It’s about building an ecosystem where your plants can thrive—and finding natural ways to ward off invaders like squash bugs and hornworms.

It’s a place where nothing asks you to perform—just to show up.
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And I need that. We need that.

I’m glad I heeded the call to put something in the ground— to see if I could grow something. There were lots of failed attempts. Like the time we installed a two-sided shade cloth that protected the crops but acted as a huge detour sign to the pollinators we needed. But now? We have a garden that sustains us— And all it took was a little patience. No, a whole lot of patience. A willingness to learn and listen And amend. It was the grounding we didn’t know we needed.

[Segment 2: Wild Clay + Creation]

You can’t talk about gardening in Texas without mentioning the clay.

It is wild. It is stubborn and the bane of every gardener who thought they could plant a seed and collect a harvest. We’ve overturned soil, we’ve added organic matter, we’ve chopped and dropped.

And finally, we had an established ecosystem with worms throughout the garden.

Until we decided to expand the garden.

That meant more clay to amend and this was back-breaking work. One day while cursing under my breath I looked at the newly expanded section and wondered… What if I stopped fighting it? What if I made something from it?

That question led me down hours of YouTube videos, coil pots and earthen kilns, and teachings from African and Mexican traditions.

And that journey? Taught me something unexpected.

I live at the bottom of an ancient sea. No, really—Texas was once underwater. The Western Interior Seaway.

So when I dig this clay, I’m not just scooping up soil— I’m touching a prehistoric seafloor. That still blows my mind.

I’ve been learning how to clean, wedge, and shape this wild clay. It’s messy. Humbling. And it demands you respect the process.

Sometimes that process means dragging buckets indoors to keep morning dew from undoing your work.

But the act of creating something—anything— with your hands? That’s holy.
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So even if my bowl leans. Even if the glaze cracks. Joy still lives in the making. Especially when you’re making with ancient matter.

[Segment 3: Bread, Rest, and Unplugging]

And listen… sometimes joy smells like a loaf of sourdough baking in the oven.

When I’m stretching and folding dough, I’m not thinking about the news… or bills… or who just posted what.

I’m thinking about the water-to-flour ratio. The stretch. The tuck. The crumb. Whether to add fresh rosemary from the garden.

One day in the kitchen— waiting the full two hours before slicing (which rarely happens, let’s be honest)— I paused and thought: This is the life I wanted. Quiet. Present. Rooted. Most days, anyway.

We can’t always live unplugged, but we can schedule it in. We can choose peace like we choose a bunch of bananas from the store. We can pick up our phones less— and pick up joy more.

[Segment 4: Sunday Mornings + Natural Joy]

And then there are Sunday morning walks.

Me and Elgin, under canopies of oak and pine. A swing for two. Birdsong. Breeze. That background hum of traffic.

We watch the sun rise over the water— light spilling slow like honey.

And in those moments? Nothing needs fixing. Nothing needs earning.
(beat) That’s joy too.

Being still. Being witnessed. Being together. Nature doesn’t rush. Sometimes we need to follow its lead.

[Segment 5: Unplug to Return to Self]

Joy isn’t always performative. It doesn’t need an audience.

Joy is the moment your shoulder releases from around your ears when you find your breath and your phone goes on do not disturb.

We scroll because it’s habit. We unplug because it’s necessary.

You don’t have to disappear to reset. You just have to choose your joy like it matters. Because it does.

[Closing Reflection]

So whether your joy comes in a pot of collards, a lump of clay, a freshly weeded row of tomatoes, or a walk beneath trees you didn’t plant— Don’t put it off.

Do the thing that brings you joy. Especially now. Because joy is not a luxury. It’s a lifeline.

🍵 TEA BLEND: “You Bring Me Joy”

For soft mornings, quiet hands, and screen-free afternoons.

• Lemon balm
• Lavender
• Orange peel
• Nettle
• Pinch of vanilla or cinnamon

Steep this blend when the world feels too loud, and you need to come home to yourself.

Thanks for sitting with me. Until next time— may the tea warm you, and time on the side porch soothe the soul.