A Mary Jane Day

I used to love reading Mary Jane’s Farm magazine. I’d pore over those stories of daily life on homesteads and farms- the smell of bread baking, clothes fluttering in the breeze on the line, wildflowers in jam jars, and hand-stitched linens on well-worn tables.

Sometimes it all felt a little too perfect, a little far-fetched- but that was part of the magic. I could almost feel the breeze on my face just reading it. I can still remember one particular article that stuck with me for years (I wish I’d saved it!). It was so perfectly perfect that I ended up calling my mom- 600 miles away- just so I could read it to her over the phone. We both giggled a little, wondering if it was possible to actually have a day that perfect.

It makes me laugh to think about it now. Even before I had social media to scroll through, I was being influenced. Inspired. Enchanted by this idea of the ideal day.

And I wanted one of my own.

I remember waking up early one morning, determined to have my own “Mary Jane Day.” I tied on my apron, turned on my beautiful 1950s oven in my old, outdated farmhouse kitchen, and got to work making gingerbread. The house was so quiet. My husband was still asleep as the first two loaves finished baking and cooled on the counter. I remember slipping back into the bedroom, snuggling in next to him, and asking, “Can you smell what I just made?”

It felt like everything that magazine promised- simple, slow, full of homemade charm.

And then I heard something from the kitchen.

Our cat, Marley, had jumped onto the counter and eaten the tops off both loaves.

I was frustrated but not ready to admit defeat. The ingredients were already out, so I cleaned up the disaster and started over. This time would be better, I told myself. I’d guard them carefully.

But when I went to pull the second batch from the oven, I bumped the rack. The loaves slipped from my grip and fell, shattering into a thousand steaming crumbs all over the oven door, into the crack, down to the bottom of the oven. I sat on the kitchen floor and cried.

Eventually, I dusted myself off. Cleaned up every crumb. And kept going. I was determined to have this elusive Mary Jane day.

The rest of the day followed suit.

I hung my freshly washed clothes on the line in the sun, only to come back later and find them crawling with ants.

My chickens broke out of their run and refused to be caught, leading me on a wild chase through brambles and mud.

I burned the dinner I had been simmering because I got distracted trying to wrangle those chickens.

I even managed to break one of my favorite old mixing bowls while trying to clean up in a hurry.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted, sticky, and covered in flour, dirt, and a faint sense of disappointment.

But here’s the thing.

This was real life.

Real life isn’t the dreamy magazine spread. It’s the cat on the counter, the dropped loaves, the ants on the clothesline, and the stubborn chickens. It’s tears on the floor and dusting yourself off to try again.

It took me a long time to see it, but that’s the beauty of it.

These days, I don’t strive so hard for a “Mary Jane Day” full of perfect moments lined up like polished jars on a pantry shelf. I’ve lowered my expectations- and raised my gratitude.

Now I aim for Mary Jane moments:

The smell of bread baking- even if it’s from a mix.

Hanging clothes in the sun- even if it means they’re just draped over my back deck railing because I haven’t put up a clothesline yet.

Sipping tea on deck, watching the chickens- even if they’re plotting their next great escape.

A jar of flowers on the table- even if the table is cluttered with bits and pieces from life with kids.

These moments are enough.

They’re real. They’re mine.

And I’d rather have a day full of messy, genuine Mary Jane moments than one perfect, unattainable Mary Jane day.

Here’s to embracing the real- the beautiful and the broken, the homemade and the half-finished, the mess and the magic.

Because that’s where life lives.