There is still cherry juice under my fingernails as I write this.
We went cherry picking today and I have been smiling about it ever since.
It is something we do every year. Same orchard. Same season. Same drive through roads that somehow make the world feel softer. And every single time, without fail, I remember why we keep coming back.
There is nothing quite like a cherry straight from the tree. Still warm from the sun. Sweet in a way supermarkets never quite manage. You taste one and immediately realise how much of modern life is slightly disconnected from what things are actually supposed to taste like.
We picked far too many.
We always do.
The orchard was full today in the best way. A few families. Children running between the rows with stained fingers and oversized buckets. And groups of older people from nearby nursing homes moving slowly through the trees together, which I found unexpectedly beautiful.
Everyone seemed slightly sunflushed and happy in a way no indoor activity has ever quite managed to replicate.
My family and I fell into our rhythm quickly. The way you do with people you know deeply. Comfortable. Easy. No performance required.
At some point we all became irrationally committed to finding the perfect tree. Every few minutes someone would call the rest of us over dramatically as though they had discovered something life-changing.
“This one is better.”
“No, over here.”
“These are sweeter.”
Meanwhile we were eating almost as many cherries as we were putting into the bag.
At one point somebody looked down at our basket and said, very seriously, “I do not think we are making a profit here.”
And honestly, they were right.
Later, someone pointed out a particularly beautiful tree and we all stopped for a second looking at it like it had personally accomplished something remarkable.
It had, I suppose.
It just grew.
Quietly. Faithfully. Every year.
The drive home was one of my favourite parts.
Windows down. Cherry stems in the cupholders. A bags of fruit rolling gently around the back seat every time we turned a corner.
And that good tired feeling settling in.
The tiredness that comes from sunlight and fresh air and hours spent outside with people you love. The sort that somehow makes you feel more alive.
We talked about what we were going to do with all the cherries.
Juice some of them.
Drop some off for family and friends.
Eat an unreasonable amount straight from the bowl standing in the kitchen.
I looked out the window at the passing landscape and thought: this is a really good day.
Not because anything extraordinary happened.
Because nothing needed to.
It was just a full, warm, uncomplicated Wednesday and I was completely inside it.
I think that is rarer than we admit.
I think the days we remember most fondly are rarely the ones that asked the most of us.
They are the orchard days.
The nothing-special-but-somehow-everything days.
The ones where you laughed a lot and checked your phone less. The ones where nobody was trying to optimise the moment while it was happening. The ones where time moved slowly enough for you to actually notice yourself inside your own life.
Some days do not change your life.
They just remind you that you are inside one.
There is no grand achievement to report from today. No milestone reached. Just cherries and sunshine and familiar voices and the quiet comfort of a ritual we have repeated enough times for it to begin feeling woven into the shape of my life.
The extraordinary moments are wonderful.
But the ordinary ones are where real life actually lives.
And I think part of becoming fully alive is learning to recognise those moments while they are still happening. Before they become the ones you ache to return to years later.
Because one day, without realising it, somebody will pick cherries for the last time.
One summer there will be a final drive home.
And that is exactly why ordinary Wednesdays matter as much as they do.
If you have something like this in your life — some small yearly ritual, some ordinary thing that quietly returns you to yourself — hold onto it carefully.
Those are often the moments life is actually made of.
Now if you will excuse me, I have a very large bag of cherries calling my name and absolutely no self-control.
Tell me in the comments — what is your version of the cherry orchard? The ordinary thing you return to every year that somehow ends up meaning more than expected. I would love to hear about it.
Saved you some cherries,
Lizzy 🫶🏽
I’m coming for a bag of cherries. 🍒
Ordinary Wednesdays are the best 🤍☺️
As simple as it may sound, getting my nails done!