Part I Observing Life: One Absurd, Ordinary, Miraculous Moment at a Time The foundation of microjoys is subtlety. In an age of provocative headlines and FOMO, we are deeply attuned to what is loudest and most visible, leaving little space for nuance, quiet beauty, and the absurdity of the day-to-day. So much of life occurs during the in-between. And while we are gifting our full attention to the shiniest objects, we allow moments of profound joy, humor, and meaning to simply pass us by. Like the rare sound of a bird chirping outside of your loud city window, the gorgeous light formation reflecting on the floor from a slightly open door, mistakenly wearing your underwear inside out (Oh, that was just me then!?), or the first time you notice you have the same hands as a cherished loved one. Ordinary moments like this happen quickly and within seconds they become missed opportunities for joy. Microjoys require us to pay attention to the details and acknowledge the fleeting, often miraculous nature of the everyday. As you read these next essays, I invite you to examine your own ordinary and delightful moments of microjoy-those that you've already experienced as well as those to come. As you do, try to remember that it is a choice to "put yourself in the way beauty." And also in the way of humor and symbolism, too. The Spice Shop My favorite Mediterranean spice shop is in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn. It's been around for well over a century. Though we recently moved, I return to the shop as often as I can. And every single time, I leave with paper bags overfilled with more lovely items than I could ever possibly need. I walk in and am enveloped by the delicious smell of fresh spices, a multitude of olives, and more grains than I ever imagined could exist; bins full to the brim with goodness. I see the same smiling faces of the people who've worked there for decades. There is also the one man who insists on singing every time he sees me; it's equal parts embarrassing and charming, but that kind of familial recognition is just another reason why I keep coming back. I take a number to purchase bulk foods and wander the store while patiently and impatiently awaiting my number to be called. I hear the sound of fresh peanut butter being ground, a cheesemonger talking about his cheeses in striking detail, and the hum of voices and languages that surround all of the daily activity of filling bins, buckets, and shelves. On a recent visit I picked up (in no particular order) lemon salt, rose-petal preserves, Sicilian lemon extract, three kinds of olives, pink peppercorns, flake salt, and, of course, dark-chocolate-covered ginger. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with most of these items. But every time I see that jar of rose-petal preserves on my counter at home, I'm instantly transported back to that bright winter afternoon that I walked into one of my favorite little shops in Brooklyn. A place that's been around this long could easily be overlooked as just a neighborhood grocery. But choosing to vividly see, touch, smell, and listen to what happens when I walk through those doors-that is the fundamental magic of being present. Consider This Choose an ordinary place that you visit often and consciously decide to be present for every detail of your experience. Allow yourself to be fully there and experience all of it. What do you notice? What sounds surround you? What do you see that you may have missed before? What resonates for you? The Polka-Dot Glass As if it knew that I'd need to be held and comforted during a time of great loss, my body became softer and more full. I was now two sizes larger than I'd ever been before. My clothes no longer fit; many of them, still brand new with tags, bought for the life I had in the Before Times. A metaphor for the way I felt after trudging through the last year: I also didn't fit into this new world in the same way that I'd once confidently sauntered through the old one. My pants were too snug; my jeans no longer fully zipped up. I once attempted wearing a long shirt and just leaving my jeans unzipped (who would know, anyway?!). Eventually, I stopped the charade altogether. Instead, I wore soft cashmere pants, boldly colored caftans, and patterned floaty dresses. In hindsight, those pieces weren't very different from the ones I'd worn before, except now, they weren't optional. After months of feeling somewhat comfortable in my newly discovered soft clothing, it was time to let go of the tangible evidence of my former self. The one who sauntered, rather than trudged, through her life. The self whose body would never betray her. The self who knew, without question, who she was. And so began an hours-long clothing purge of a different life, a well-lived life. I thought I'd be sad and disoriented, but I wasn't. I pulled off my soft pants and tank top combo and purposefully began trying things on. Each too-small item was neatly folded and placed into a bag for donations. Three large bags overflowed with beautiful, once coveted articles of clothing. The bags swelled with my former life: from a crisp, brand-new, white designer button-down (to be worn with a bold, high-waisted skirt!) to an unworn, sparkly, hot-pink cocktail dress-the perfect dress intended for an invite that never came and a party that never happened. After finishing up, I tearfully looked at the overflowing bags with both relief and delight. So many unnecessary clothes and so much weight unburdened. Lifted from my closet but also from my shoulders. I could breathe easier. I was no longer holding myself to a standard that didn't fit the woman I am today. And in this instance, fitting had nothing at all to do with size but everything to do with how I felt. When it occurred to me that I was transformed but still myself, I no longer needed to cling so tightly to the ghost of the woman I once was. Two days and one carload later, I'd donated my clothing to a local mission thrift store. I was now figuratively forty pounds lighter and as free as a bird. But before heading back to my car, I quickly perused the glassware section. As if under a spotlight, there sat one brand-new polka-dot drinking glass. It was the perfect match to my decades-old set of polka-dot drinking glasses, the set with one missing glass that had broken the year before. As fate would have it, my set is now complete. Again. Consider This Look for signs. In a world that often shuffles us around haphazardly, I believe that signs are like arrows that exist to gently guide us. Rather than rigidly marching through life with eyes focused forward, allow time for meandering and contemplation. Take the detour. Peruse the glassware section. Do the thing you feel compelled to do, even when you can't quite make sense of why. In these moments, we come face-to-face with our own inner knowledge while also making space for the collective wisdom that exists outside of ourselves. Birthday Cake for All My mother was-is still, to me-the matriarch of our family. For as long as I can remember, she would bake homemade birthday cakes for each of her children. As a Jewish mother, she showed her enduring love through food. We all understood this simple truth: these cakes, regardless of how old we'd become, were not optional. She was going to bake us a cake, and we would graciously accept it. As soon as my (now) husband became part of our lives, Mama started baking him a birthday cake, too. He had no idea what he was in for. Mom's birthday cakes were extravagant. Because of her generous use of fresh fruit, pudding, and excessive amounts of whipped cream, the cakes weighed a ton. Every time I thought she was done decorating, she'd add yet another garnish on top. With every dash of sprinkles and every spritz of cake spray, she was showing how much she loved us. By the time she was finished, we'd have a fifteen-pound cake with five different colors of sprinkles, three different fillings, and a full quart of whipped cream to top it all off. Over the years, I attempted many conversations with Mom explaining the benefits of minimalist cake design. She wasn't having any of it. The kitchen was her happy place and within those walls, every decision was solely up to her. If she wanted more cherries, more pudding, and more multicolored sprinkles, then that is exactly what she would have. What we would have. For all the times I tried to rein in her irrationally delicious cakes of plenty, today I'd give anything to have just one more sugary, overwhelming bite. Mom had a willingness to listen, laugh, and bake anyway. She left behind a legacy of deep love, food for the soul, and a tradition of always recognizing one another with sarcasm, humor, and-of course-cake. Over the years, I've eaten hundreds of her birthday cakes; enough to easily take for granted how much love she poured into each one. But with every bite, I recognized what a profound act of love and mothering was being generously gifted to each one of us. Consider This Is there a tradition among your friends, family, or loved ones that has become mundane and expected, that you take for granted? If you were unable to experience it again, how might you perceive it differently? Would you have more of an appreciation or show more gratitude? Would you spend more time being present while enjoying these traditions? Might it interest you to write them down and memorialize them? Consider these suggestions to channel your own microjoys for (often) underappreciated traditions. Remember, these are all just food for thought. Is That a Good Color? An extraordinary thing happened while I was sitting in my local neighborhood cafe. As the barista brought over my coffee, he asked a question that seemed so ordinary. So mundane. So unnecessary, even. But he asked anyway. A question that, to another person, might have seemed apropos of nothing. "Is that a good color?" I was instantly blown away by the insight of his seemingly innocent question. Here's the thing: I am serious about my coffee and I drink it with gusto . . . but also with half-and-half. And that was what he was referring to: the exact shade of my coffee when mixed with dairy. As a devout coffee drinker, there are few things more perfect than a cup of coffee made with the exact amount of cream that will turn it a precise shade of caramel. It's a slightly brighter color than burnt sugar, and it's not beige, which is the color of coffee with milk. It's also not the dull gray-brown that I often see in coffee with alternative milks but instead, the perfect shade of coffee with half-and-half. The barista knew this about me and, in that moment, I felt so seen, understood, and appreciated in my peculiar reverence for the perfect cup of coffee. Which brought back another color of coffee memory: At 9:00 a.m. on a sunny Monday morning, I went to pick up my wedding dress from a tailor on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. This was two days before leaving for Minnesota, where our wedding would be held. I excitedly tried on the dress only to discover that it was a foot shorter than what it was supposed to be. My floor-length wedding gown was now officially a mid-calf-length cocktail dress. Yes, that happened. But here is what also happened. After frantically calling and texting my closest friends to help formulate a plan B, I received the message that every one of us deserves in moments of distress: "Don't worry, I've got you. Give me thirty minutes and I'll arrive with a cup of coffee in hand for you. And it will be the exact color that you like it. I promise. Everything will be fine. Better than fine, even." The. Exact. Color. That. You. Like. It. In moments that matter, the comfort of knowing that you will receive exactly what you need in order to feel seen and heard-that kind of thoughtful comfort-means everything. It speaks to our human need to be understood. To be appreciated. To be loved. To be seen. How wonderful that people exist in this world who understand how sublime yet fundamental the color of coffee is. Consider This Our lives are filled with tiny moments, and within those tiny moments are hidden expressions of love and understanding. Choose not to ignore them. Choose to hear the messages behind the spoken words. Choose to feel the appreciation, understanding, and delight disguised by seemingly small gestures. In the Woods While spending time away at a cabin in the woods, I awoke to a beautiful, almost impenetrable layer of fog one morning; a gray haze that settled over the deep red, bright orange, and lemon-yellow leaves of the trees. But even at the mercy of fog, the colors of nature could not be dimmed or made any less magnificent. The tree closest to me was filled with the brightest green leaves atop tall, twisted branches, all held safely by a sturdy but elegant tree trunk. A perfect tree for climbing. And farther off toward the horizon, the tallest trees were the deepest, most vivid colors of autumn, so alive and breathtaking. Brightly colored fallen leaves saturated the ground beneath them: a blanket of nearly neon yellow. How does nature do this every year without exhausting itself? There is so much beauty that it gives out so freely. It was dawn and the lights that lit up the path around the property were still on. A nearby bench that I'd watched people congregate on all week was finally empty. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that it, too, was spending a restful moment taking in the wildness of nature. As I stood in this beautiful silence, I was in complete awe at the wonder of the simplest things. Not only of nature, but of waking up, standing still, and simply being alive. How magical it all seemed. I was overwhelmed by the idea that nature is simultaneously so powerful and yet so impermanent, too. Even a deep, dense, gray fog could not obscure the beauty of what simply is. Consider This Though we can't walk through life fully alert every day, when you are able to, notice the details of what surrounds you. Acknowledge the colors, textures, sounds, and, perhaps most importantly, feelings in those moments. Allow yourself the opportunity to gaze-to really see the world in ways that you are not able to when you move too quickly through the day. Take time to be present wherever you physically are, whether that be an office, kitchen, beach, or even out in the woods. There is magic in the details (almost) everywhere. Excerpted from Microjoys: Finding Hope (Especially) When Life Is Not Okay by Cyndie Spiegel All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.