A few months ago, I wrote about enjoying decaf... But I've gone back to regular coffee, and I think I want to quit. It's become quite a big deal to me. Here's why...

Back in 2013, I broke up with coffee as soon as I found out I had a little one on the way. For fourteen straight months (pregnant and then doing that nursing thang), I steered clear of caffeine completely.

Fast forward to February 2015. We were out to brunch with friends one Sunday when I finally decided to allow myself a cappuccino. There's only one word to describe how I felt after devouring it: clear. Everything seemed so clear to me! I was walking around in a silky smooth world of crystal clear thoughts. (Strange that I didn't feel energetic?)

So, just like that, I was back to drinking the good stuff on a daily basis. Just as quickly, I started wanting to drop it again...

First, the interrupted sleep. I stopped sleeping as soundly and found myself awake at 2am one night. For no reason! A new mom's hell is being awake in the middle of the night when your baby is fast asleep. Have I mentioned that sleep is my priority numero uno? :-) Then, the psychological pull. It annoys me to want to quit something and not be able to do it instantly. That little pull to have an afternoon coffee irks me. Cue my inner control freak, right? I've started equating coffee with weakness, as ridiculous as that sounds.

I want to be coffee free, but it's hard, I tell you!

I've started dabbling in green juice and tea, but I still give in to a cup of joe very early in the morning. Because, you know, the baby.

Abraham Lincoln was as confused as I was. That wise man once said:

"If this is coffee, please bring me some tea; but if this is tea, please bring me some coffee."

What say you: coffee or no coffee? Or who cares?

xo,
Marce

Luggage, packets of diapers, and shopping bags littered the floor between the bed and the door. For the holidays, our little family of three was staying with JJ's family in Miami for a few days. Traveling with a three-month-old had turned us into slobs, prioritizing function over form. Like having a stack of diapers in every nook and cranny we could find, you know, just in case, who cares if the room looked like the nearest baby store had exploded on top of our beds? 

Despite the clutter, our niece Andrea's young energy found its way onto the little bit of clear floor space available. Just home from cheer practice, she danced and jumped around trying to make the baby laugh in his crib.

I couldn't help but laugh, as well. She was so great with the baby, so caring and interested. I asked her if she'd show us what she'd learned that day at practice, and she said:

"Sure, let me get my iPod so I can play our song. Whenever there's music on, I can't stand it. In a good way. I have to dance!" 

And I have to admit, the girl's got moves. The music came on, and she danced her heart out for us—but she had already blown my mind. 

I thought to myself, "To love something so much, so hard, from such a young age. How lucky is that?"

What's the one thing I can't stand?

It sounds like my eight-year-old niece has it all figured out. But what about me?

It's been almost three full months since I closed my business. It's been incredible to spend so much quality time with my little guy, but I can't help but feel an itch to work on something again. Some days, I think about it nonstop.

The problem is I can't quite figure out what that next thing is. 

To be super honest with you, this process of exploring my next step has been somewhat excruciating. I've been dabbling in all sorts of stuff, which you may have noticed if you follow me on Instagram—photography, hand lettering, writing, etc. It's kind of my way of following this quote:

"You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing, and dance, and write poems, and suffer, and understand, for all that is life.”
— Jiddu Krishnamurti

So, how do I find what's next? How do I find the thing I can't stand not doing, like Andrea can't stand not dancing? What's occurred to me is to journal my process right here and see what happens: an unfiltered journal of what it's like to find the next thing. What do you think?

If that's super boring to you, I get it, no hard feelings. But if I hit on an awesome idea and become the next Oprah, you may be sad you didn't follow along ... just kidding! ... or not. :-)

Anyway, this means I'll be posting more often for a while—some posts short, some long, some boring, some exciting, some very personal, some not. I hope you'll enjoy following along, including the microstories to come, as well.

To infinity and beyond, yes?

xo,
Marce

PS. Thanks for reading day 18 of #100daysofmicrostories. :-)

As sweat dripped from my forehead onto the mat below me, I wondered, "When it comes to Hansel and Gretel, why does everyone remember the breadcrumbs and completely forget the white pebbles?"

That's one of the perks of having a baby, you know, getting to read stories you hadn't heard in decades and realize you got it all wrong all along.

It turns out that when Hansel and Gretel were first cast off to the woods, they left behind small white pebbles to guide them home. It worked, and they got home safely. The very next day, they were cast off again, further into the woods, with no white pebbles to leave along the trail. Out of desperation, they used what they had on hand:  crumbs of a slice of bread. Sadly, the crumbs were no match for the forest's hungry birds, and Hansel and Gretel were left wandering the woods with no way to get home.

The white pebbles worked. The breadcrumbs didn't.

I looked into the long mirror at the front of the room. Beads of sweat sprung from my skin like a snake shedding its skin. My face was alight in a rosy pink, flush from flinging my body this way and that longer and harder than my mind thought possible. And that mind of mine made sure I heard its wild protests every few milliseconds—

But for a second it just stopped.

For months, I'd felt a need—a yearning, really—to get back to something. To my workouts. To my faith. To my words. To my seeking. To me. Because that's a place we're all looking to go, back inward, to our Hearts, where we can finally, wonderfully, dependably rest. In the past, I'd tried to lay breadcrumbs to find my way there, through food or drinks or climbing ladders of accomplishment, but it never worked—not for long, anyway. But in that moment I knew I'd found my white pebbles, what would really work and get me back to my Heart: art, movement, love, health.

I knew it because it felt right. I felt right—stoic, graceful, light.

Finally, there, in that sweltering, unadorned room, I thought to myself, "I'm on my way home."

Thanks for reading day 17 of #100daysofmicrostories. I still have quite a ways to go to hit 100, but I'm chugging along like The Little Engine That Could: "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!"

xo,
Marce

“All of this sounds good, but it’s just to difficult to remember all of *this*,” she said, lifting the heavy bag of books in her hand.

My friend and I’d been walking aimlessly through the city’s downtown area enjoying the first rays of spring, but it must’ve been an hour since we’d left that cute little bookstore where she’d picked up way too many self-help books. As a loyal reader of books made of, you know, paper, she’d been lugging the bag around as we made our way to the subway station. I felt downright smug thinking of all the digital books stacked neatly in my phone, absolutely weightless—and then felt immediately guilty for this and held out my hand to carry the load for a while. My shoulder plunged at the weight of them.

She continued, “It takes hundreds of pages to explain each idea in these books. How are we supposed to remember it and put it into practice, too? Impossible.”

I chuckled, “I don’t know why you’re stressing out about this. There’s an easy way out.”

“Do tell…” Her eyes wide with anticipation.

“Simple. I use a cheat sheet. Like when you're studying for a test.”

She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, incredulous. "Go on..."

As we walked up to the subway station, I pulled out my phone and flicked my thumb left and right, up and down, until I reached a page full of notes, which I showed to her. “I can’t remember everything, so I make a list of what I want to be *present* in my mind every day. I review it first thing in the morning. And voilà! Here, I’ll send it to you.”

* * *

Read this every day
Last updated: March 31

1. God is in each of us, like sugar is in a cookie.
2. Love everyone as much as you can, especially the people you "hate" or resent. Love will dissolve all the bad.
3. Eating clean, whole foods leads to less disease and cancer. It means you’ll live longer to be with my babies.
4. Exercising and moving your body is for happiness and ability, not for looks.
5. Forgive everyone. They didn't mean to hurt you. They're just wrapped up in their own stuff.
6. Say what you mean, and mean what you say. Words are your tool.
7. God wants me to share love for Him with everyone else.
8. My body is my temple. It's carried me (and my fantastic baby) through my entire life. It's my best friend.
9. Talk to yourself as a coach would, not an enemy. Talk to everyone else the same way. Loving, lifting up, pushing, forgiving, believing.
10. Be nicer to your family than you are to anyone else.
11. Don't swear. Profanity are mean words coming out of a beautiful soul.
12. Communicate calmy when you're angry. It’ll be over faster, easier if you do this.
13. God wants you to do what you feel called to do. It’s okay that you’re still exploring what this means.

Thanks for reading today's microstory!

I'm curious what you'd add / change from my list? :-)

xo,
Marce

I open the front door, and it begins quickly. A Samsung TV. A Fisher Price infant seat. A West Elm rug. It continues—worsens, even—as I walk up the stairs. A Pottery Barn crib. A Kate Spade necklace. An Apple computer monitor.

"How did these things end up in my house, on my credit card statement?" I ask myself. 

But how could I forget the burning fire that invades me as I flip through a catalog or walk by a store window? My brain flickers one message like a neon sign: "Must. Have. It. Now."

Lamps from IKEA. A diffuser and candle from who knows where. An art print I found online. Exotic shampoo. Pants of all colors of the rainbow. Shirts to clothe a small village.

I stand here, and I look at all the things I have. They're not things, I realize, they're promises. A more welcoming home. Healthier-looking hair. Entertainment when you want it. Information when you need it. A safe baby. Peace of mind. Beauty. Happiness.

There's an insightful passage by Charlie Hoehn that says it well:

"Here’s an ugly truth: good marketing makes you feel incomplete.

In order to sell a solution, there must be a problem. I have to point out your pain, your flaws, and thrust a magnifying glass in front of your supposed inadequacies ... I get to tell you there’s something wrong in your life, and if you believe me, you buy what I’m selling ... You don’t feel like you’re enough until you have it."

Every single thing I've purchased has filled a hole in my heart—or is the hole in my ego?

Books I need to read. A kettlebell I need to swing. Plants I need to water. Gifts I need to send. Clothes I need to put away. 

Standing at the top of the stairs, I look over at my living room littered with toys, and I wonder, "What would my home look like without all these things?" Empty. Minimal. More of an echo. But I could still have peace of mind, beauty, happiness.

Standing in front of the mirror, I look at my reflection and wonder, "What would Marcella be like without all these things?" Less fancy and made-up. Harder to keep entertained. But in general? I could still have peace of mind, beauty, happiness.

Because, sure, I want that new couch I've been eyeing, and I want new summer shoes, and I want to spruce up my backyard with exotic plants.

I want, I want, I want. But I forget that I am. What I want I already am.  I already am what I want.

Thanks for reading Day 15 of #100daysofmicrostories. :-) Hope you liked it!

xo,
Marce

The night moved in quickly, overtaking us on the sand. A few friends and I had gathered for a fiery sunset what seemed like minutes ago, but now we'd been dunked into darkness and nonstop gusts of wind. Slapped in the face with loose sand one too many times, I started gathering my things and digging around for my flip flops, but I was stopped short when a friend came over to borrow my digital camera. Standing tall at 6'5", I often joked than my friend's gait was that of a giraffe's—gangly and deliberate, as if he knew that his skinny limbs might give out on him at any moment.

"So, I just press here?" he asked, aiming the camera down so I could see his finger on the shutter.

Back when digital cameras were a novelty, this was the only one on the beach that day, and it was likely the first one he'd ever laid his eyes on. The huge box of the primitive camera looked small in his big hands. He aimed the camera to the sky and —click!—pressed the button.

"Send me that when you get a chance," he said, placing the boxy camera back in my hands and continuing giraffe-like onto the next group over on the sand. I looked up at where he'd pointed the camera, an empty bit of black sky, and thought to myself, "Yeah right, what a waste. Definitely erasing that one." 

When I got home, I plugged my camera into my laptop and started scrolling through the photos I'd taken, mostly of friends and the varying shades of the sunset. But when I went to delete the last photo, the one my friend had taken, what I found wasn't just empty black sky. It was the iridescent moon illuminating the outline of three swaying coconut trees. It was beautiful.

And I wondered, "If he hadn't taken that photo, would I remember that night sky? Would I have even noticed its beauty?"

And so, I fell in love with photos—not as an art per se, but as a method to stamp moments into my memory forever. Because if I don't remember it, did it really happen? If I don't remember it, did it really matter?

PS. For those of you who follow me on Instagram, I hope this explains why I post so many photos of my little. :-) For example, I took the picture at the top of this post at the beach this weekend, mostly because I hope I'll never forget how much fun we had. Document, document, document, am I right?!

xo,
Marce

Hunched over with cold, I approached the Convention Center in small quick steps. When I first left the apartment, the cream color of my Converse shoes had shone a bright contrast to the rain-spotted sidewalk, but no more. After a 20-minute walk, they too were now sodden with rain. I curled and uncurled my toes in an effort to send them some blood and, hopefully, warmth. “Does that even work?” I asked myself. I had no clue, but it felt better to try something than to just let them go numb with cold.

Walking with my eyes glued to the sidewalk, the hood of my jacket hung low over my face. With only a few inches of visibility, I moved as quickly as possible without bumping into anyone. And, then I saw him. Or, I saw his shoes—they were clean and they were dry!

The man’s blue windbreaker matched the color of the umbrella sheltering him from the raindrops falling more quickly now. Our eyes met, and he cocked his head to the side swiftly, inviting me into the shade. I thanked him profusely, and we exchanged names as I scooted under the umbrella’s shelter.

“Do you know how to get to this room by any chance?” he asked, handing over a ripped piece of paper with a number on it.

“Yeah, I got my name-tag there yesterday. It’s not far from this entrance,” I told him.

“Great, can you show me the way? I’m running so late.”

“Sure, I'll walk you, but we’ve got 30 minutes until the talks start. You’re fine.”

“Except I was supposed to be there 30 minutes ago. I’m the one giving the talk, so...” he said sheepishly.

“Oh snap, you so fancy! What are you speaking about?” I asked, intrigued.

He shrugged. “I founded this company called Rhapsody back in the day. I guess people want to hear about it?”

“Rhapsody, huh? Never heard of it.” I rolled my eyes upward in surprise and laughed. I’d never used Rhapsody myself, but I knew people who'd been big fans. My music-obsessed uncle had used it to his manage his entire music library for years.

We stepped through the Convention Center’s doors, and I looked back out into the rain, to the corner where I'd encountered my new friend and his umbrella just a few minutes before. The event hadn't even started, and I was already meeting people—nice people, successful people, smart people.

"Almost there", I told myself. I wasn't an entrepreneur yet, never mind successful, but I knew right then and there that I was well on my way.

Whew! It feels good to be back. It'd been too long since my last contribution to #100daysofmicrostories, but I'm back on track. Thanks for reading Day 13, a short snippet of my experience at SXSW back in 2012. Time sure does fly...

xo,
Marce

Monday.

"Monday," I kept saying to myself. "On Monday, it'll all come together. I'll escape to my coffee shop and get back to it. I'll write, and it'll be glorious." I was looking forward to it like nobody's business. A junkie waiting for a fix. Pure craving.

But Monday came along and my plan did just the opposite—instead of everything coming together, it all fell apart. My childcare plan went caput, and there can be no "alone time" when accompanied by another person, even when that other person is a mini-infant-human.

Writing? Like in the microstory, observed, thoughtful, deliberate sense? Not happening.

Instead, you get a recap! Of my life lately! Fun? Let's hope?

JJ and I recently went on what I call a "post-babymoon" to Colorado—a weeklong restorative retreat in the mountains. With no diapers to change and no baby to carry to and fro, we had so much *time*. We even—gasp!—traveled with no hotel plans! We winged it, and it was awesome.

I had my new camera delivered to Colorado, and we got a few good shots...

Who wouldn't just gravitate toward that beauty? Our view heading up to the mountains was spectacular.

And soon all that beauty was just around the bend.

Oh, hai, dude!

... and JJ's belly for the win!

Time for some awkward poses, yeah? Wind, help me out a little? Thanks.

Ski lifts, don't mind if I cry on you?

On the one day I decided to ski, I was sad like this tree—too cold, too many numb toes for my liking.

The coziest place in all of Winter Park. Also the coolest because it's where I won a game of Cards Against Humanity! Me fanny?

Apparently, I'm as nerdy behind the lens as I am in front of it...

A happier tree, yes!

All that untouched snow! I want to protect it and stomp on it in equal measure.

I hope you enjoyed this short sneak peak behind my camera lens. Nothing too exciting, but sometimes the ordinary is all you the beauty you need. (Especially with backdrops like those mountains, am I right?)

As soon as I have some help holding down the fort, I'll be back with Day 13 of #100daysofmicrostories. I miss them dearly.

xo,
Marce

“Here, drink this. It’ll help,” our host said and handed me a steaming cup of tea.

In 110 degree weather, just one look at it made my throat close up in fear. “How,” I asked, “is this going to help exactly?” Skin sizzling and breathing with difficulty, I stared at the tray of cups with disgust.

“I’m a Bedouin, I know the tricks! If you drink something to get the temperature inside hotter than the temperature outside, the outside will feel nice and chilly. You’ll feel better in a few minutes,” he explained.

A gust of orange sand blew in front of our tent. I squinted my eyes and looked at him sideways. I made it 12,000 miles to the deserts of Jordan, I might as well try this, right? With hesitation, I picked the cup up from the table, trying to hold it without actually having to touch it. A quick sip here, a quick sip there, until I could see the bottom.

After spending the afternoon trapezing around the desert in pickup trucks and nearly getting thrown off a camel’s back (which is easier than you’d think), I was lazy and exhausted. In this oven-like heat, everything felt better when I just stayed put. Then, like magic, the tea worked its charms and my body temperature cooled back down to something closer to normal. I relaxed into the soothing relief.

“I’ll take ice over fire, dude,” my friend Carolina told me, as she fanned herself wildly.

“That’s what you say now,” I said. “But both are horrible in the moment. We always want the opposite of what we have. Boston winters ring a bell?"

Even here in Wadi Rum, we’d been ping-ponging from fire to ice and back again so quickly. That very morning, I’d woken to the shrill sound of the morning Islamic prayer and shivered under the mounds of blankets above me. My breath had floated in the air above me when I yawned. The fire pit at the center of our circle of sleeping bags had dimmed, and the sun was starting to peak its head over the horizon. I’d scooted closer to the next sleeping bag over from me in search of some body warmth, at least until the sun’s warmth made its way over the hills.

I realized that the Bedouin trick for the abrasive early morning temperature had been the same as that afternoon.

“Here, drink this. It’ll help,” he'd said and handed me a steaming cup of tea.

Thanks for reading Day 12 of #100daysofmicrostories. It's been fun recalling my time in Jordan! :-)

xo,
Marce

I don’t remember the addresses of many places I’ve lived. Every once in a while I’ll come across on old checkbook and think, “Huh, I used to know that address by heart,” or “Wow, I had forgotten that zip code.” 

But not so with Florence. At just the thought of the words "Via Cavour,” the memories drift through my mind like the smell pesto pasta wafted through our small apartment every Thursday at noon—slowly and very, very welcome.

I never thought I’d call a cramped two-star hotel home. Just three blocks from the main religious attraction in the entire city, my little home sat three floors atop the crowds, keeping my classmates and I serenely free of tourists but still close enough to walk to sights more beautiful than I could’ve ever dreamed of.

In the few months my university allowed me to escape to Florence, I did it all. 

A wine tour through Tuscany. A walk up to Piazza Michelangelo to attempt (and fail) to take in the entire city’s beauty at once. A trip across the Arno for the best gelatto in town. A hike up to the tip-top of the Duomo. Drinking superb boxed wine out on a park bench. A train ride to Pisa to hold up the entire tower with just one finger. Sitting on the floor of the Uffizi because why did nobody tell me museums are so tiring? A hysterical laugh-fueled run home from the bar with my girlfriends, dodging tourists and sketchy guys blowing kisses in the historic center. (What was so funny? I can’t remember.)

Six years later, I found myself adding another experience to the list.

JJ led me through the cobblestone streets. With six more beautiful days of Florentine paradise before us, he asked, “So, what’s the plan? What are we going to do?” I replied, “It doesn’t matter. I just want to be here.” 

The night was young, but jetlag pulled on our bodies like lead weights. We walked aimlessly, open to whatever each side street offered. My hand on his shoulder, we balanced on the uneven bricks of the sidewalk—until ethereal organ music stopped us in our tracks.

Hidden in the street’s narrowness, I hadn’t even noticed the church’s tall facade. I craned my neck to look up at its Etruscan beauty before we walked in and took a seat in a back pew. There was no service going on, no priest at the front of the small room, nothing in particular happening, other than beautiful music playing for a random collection of strangers. We sat there for the better part of ten minutes, basking in the dim yellow glow of the candles strewn around the room. And when we were ready, we got up and walked back out into the crisp Florentine air.

We almost walked right by that church, but Florence invited us in.

Florence invited me in and kept a piece of my heart, some of it sprinkled on Via Cavour. All I can do is go back and visit it as often as I can, just to feel whole again.

Trying to capture my love for Florence in words is so hard. It’s overwhelming sometimes, and I miss it every single of the days. I hope this story made some sort of sense? :-)

Thanks for reading Day 11!

xo,
Marce

Cooing and raspberries sing through the monitor, whirring my brain back to life slowly, a wheel sluggish to gain momentum. The weight of my body sinks into the mattress as I reluctantly roll over toward the small black and white screen sitting on my bedside table, thinking, “Mmm not yet, little guy, please not yet...”

I struggle to open my eyes, sticky from another night of forgetting to take my contacts out. Blink, blink, blink, I do my best to flood them with water. The image gets clearer, and the vague movement turns into the baby's pajamas twisting and turning this way and that. Learning to crawl, his body contorts in a series of yoga poses: downward dog, plank, cat / cow, child's, and downward dog again. My heart skips a beat in excitement. Because ten hours without your best buddy is too long, you know.

I throw my legs over the side of the bed and feel my flip flops waiting for me, but it's way too early for hard plastic on my feet. I can't be bothered with angling my toes to put them on, so I kick them aside and shuffle to the door barefoot.

When I get to his nursery, the top of his head is visible over the crib railing, but he can't see me. Bobbing up and down, he practices his new trick, getting up on all fours and belly flopping back down again. I ease the door closed and sneak over to his crib.

Through the crib rails, I whisper, "Pssst. Pssst." He stops all movement and his head snaps up, his baby blues wide with expectation. He finds me peaking down at him, our eyes meet, and our faces explode with smiles.

I wonder what he might be thinking, "She's back! She came back for me!"

All I can think, though, is something my parents said to me many moons ago: 

“I love you more than yesterday, but a little less than tomorrow.”

Sometimes I wonder how I've gotten through the past six months with a baby? But mostly, I wonder how I got through twenty eight years without him.

Thanks for reading Day 10 of #100daysofmicrostories! :-)

xo,
Marce

She clapped and waved her hands frantically at the waiter. He’d seen her already but was busy refilling glasses of water one table over. She called out to him, her voice cracking and higher pitched than was comfortable. When she brought her fingers to her lips to whistle, I reached out to stop her.

“Grandma! He’ll only be a minute. Please relax,” I urged, nervously eyeing the other tables around. Luckily, nobody was watching.

She leaned across the table and in what was meant to be a whisper reminded us, “You know, the coffee here is free!”

My cousins around the table chuckled. My grandmother is a lady of habit, and dragging us to this restaurant was no exception. When asked to choose a place to go eat, her default was response was either “the waffles” or “the burgers.” This time, the waffles had won. For her, it was no rare occurrence to schedule her outings around the two constants in her life: the novelas she watched on TV and her daily gathering with friends. How many years had she been gathering with the same group of friends—ten, twenty, thirty years? It could be longer. How many times had she told us about the free coffee? I smiled at the thought.

I rested my eyes on the building behind her, the San Francisco Convent. Its facade a robin’s egg blue, the Convent was one I’d sat before dozens of times—I’d even attended a wedding there once—but I knew nothing about it.

While everyone laughed over my brother’s Billy Madison impressions, I pulled out my phone to do some quick research. What I found was the oldest church in all of Central America. Unbeknownst to us, we were just meters away from an incredible relic of our faith. I’d been staring at a pretty face, a beautiful structure to look at, but within its walls was so much history, art, and prayers. First built in 1525, the church was destroyed three times over the few hundred years afterward. What wasn’t destroyed? The remains of almost 75,000 people buried deep within its catacombs.

“How did I miss all this?” I wondered.

And I remembered a quote from the book I was reading, The Jesuit Guide to (Almost) Everything:

"God communicates with you in your every day life. You just have to watch for it."

The waiter arrived with our meals on a large tray. “Gallo pinto and eggs?” he asked. He took his time going around the table handing out pancakes for some, waffles for others, oatmeal and fruit for me. And, at my grandmother’s insistance, coffee for everyone.

The room vibrated with awkwardness and tension. Or was it just me?

As teenagers, we weren't accustomed to hearing the word "sex" without being overrun with a fit of nervous giggles, as if a single mention of that word made us instantly aware of exactly where our hands and legs were placed, conscious of even our facial expressions, scared of how we might look as we sat and listened to this talk. Nobody looked at each other, but we all felt like everyone was staring.

The man at the front of the room commanded our attention easily. His linebacker-like build, bald head and booming voice instilled just enough fear in each of us. His voice wound through the hall, impossible for any of us to look away or even think of anything but his words.

Next to me, I heard a sniffle. From across the table, our guidance counselor passed a tissue box in my direction. A hand to my left reached out to grab one. I didn't have to look to know whose hand it was.

"See now, there is a sea of distance between why we all engage in certain behaviors. And I know this is especially relevant in your lives at this moment. Seniors in high school, applying to colleges thousands of miles away. Knowing you're leaving all of this behind for greener pastures, a blank slate and clean start. But let me make this clear: what you do or don't do now will mark you for years to come. So pay close attention," he said to all of us.

On the edge of our seats, we waited for the bomb he was about to drop. And drop a bomb he did.

"Boys and girls. Soon-to-be men and women. Different species. Different motivations. And I want you to make informed decisions. So, here it is."

Someone coughed. My hands gripped in a knot. This dramatic pause was lasting a lifetime.

"Guys give love for sex. Girls give sex for love. I’ll let that sink in for a moment.”

At this point, the hand to my left reached out and grabbed the entire box of tissues. My heart ached for her. A late-bloomer myself, I’d never even had my first kiss, and I realized at that moment how lucky I was. I'd escaped that maze of teenage hurt and hormones unscathed. I'd make my decisions grounded in self-worth and understanding, not a longing for love that wouldn't come. My decisions wouldn’t mark me for years to come, as he’d said. I was scot free. But what about those who weren't?

"Now, do with that information what you will, but I've done my part. Now you know the truth. Guys give love for sex, and girls give sex for love.”

I'm still not sure why we received a talk of this nature at a high school leadership conference, but God sends us wisdom in strange ways, right? All we can do is capture it.

There are exceptions to this rule about sex, of course, but I'm still glad I was there to hear this.

xo,
Marce

My hoodie’s pockets were full: tissues in one, apartment keys in the other. Now that Madrid’s weather had taken a turn for the chilly, tissue paper had become a must-have when I set out for a run.

As I stepped out of my apartment building, I tapped the keys in my pocket one last time before l the iron door slam behind me. I’d never been locked out before, and I wanted to keep it that way. I looked to my left, to my right, and to my left again. “Sure, why not?” I wondered, and set off at a slow gait. Left it is.

Start, stop. Start, stop. Start, stop. These city blocks weren’t long at all. Every time I got into a groove, a red light would hit the pause button on my flow until the recording of birds chirping made it through my headphones. “I hate those birds,” I thought to myself. Why would the city of Madrid choose chirping birds to announce to pedestrians when they can or can’t walk across the intersection? That shrill "chirp, chirp, chirp”  even made it into my dreams some nights.

I slowly climbed the subtle hill toward Paseo de Castellana, inching my way northeast with each street block. Once I made my way onto the wide boulevard of the city’s main street, I was free. No street lights making me hit the brakes, and nobody for me to dodge. With free space in front of me, I decided to hit the gas full speed. Sprint, sprint, sprint, my legs propelled me forward, my heart racing, and my smile a mile wide.

After about a minute of challenging myself to run as fast as my legs could take me, a strange awareness hit me like a tidal wave. I realized I wasn’t thinking anything! I tried to recall, “What was the last thing I thought of?” and I came up short. I couldn’t remember thinking anything after I’d chosen to turn left outside my apartment. “That’s…odd,” I concluded. Isn’t thinking a good thing?

I’d read about this long ago, about extreme concentration forcing a person into a state of mind so utterly focused that no other thoughts can infiltrate. I’d talked about it with a friend of mine who’s a devout mountain climber.

“Think about it,” he’d explained. “There’s no room for thought when you’re clinging to the wall and your fingers are slipping. You either survive or you don’t. Sure, I’ve got harnesses and the whole deal, but my mind isn’t thinking about the back-up plan. It’s focused on succeeding.”

I continued running down the tree-lined boulevard, savoring in the sporadic rays of sunlight that made it through the branches. I welcomed their jolts of warmth as I slowed back down to a jog.

“Mmm,” I realized. “This is delicious."

This story is mostly for me. I miss running outside. I miss having so much beauty to wonder at as I put one foot in front of the other. I miss no-mind. Maybe I'll search for it this week. :-)

Thanks for reading Day 7 of 100!

xo,
Marce

The red and white logo shined bright at every turn, a beacon of savings and convenience to the pedestrian twenty-something, which described us perfectly. We had no car, didn’t want to spend on a cab, and couldn’t walk far due to my growing belly. So, we gravitated to the holder of all the things. That’s what it should be called. "Target: holder of all the things.” Decorate your home, dress for a vacation, stock your fridge, buy all the electronics your heart could ever desire, baby-proof everything in sight, become a fervent athlete, spruce up your garden, and there’d still be entire Target departments left untouched.

For being smack-dab in the middle of Washington, D.C.’s action, this store wasn’t nearly as packed as you’d think, but perhaps that was due to the sheer size of this red and white behemoth. My friend Soup pushed our cart through the aisles, I walked alongside her, one hand on the handlebar to keep the pace. The belly wasn’t huge yet, but the little guy had developed a habit of giving me a swift kick in the gut if I walked us anywhere too quickly.

“I never expected my college counselor to be quoting the Bible, you know?”

In the middle of a big decision, Soup was turning to any resource she could find for clarity. As we strolled through the store aisles, she told me about the conversation that had given her peace of mind.

“First of all, we’re chit-chatting about all of my options, and out of nowhere she asks me if I believe in God. Which caught me completely off guard. I never expected this lady to bring up God, you know? So, I tell her that I do, and she tells me, ‘One of the most frequent phrases in the Bible is “fear not.” So fear not, Melissa. Fear not.’”

Intrigued, I jumped in, “Fear not. Sounds simple, but, realistically, how do you just turn fear *off*?”

The question stayed with me as we finished picking up our supplies for our rooftop picnic that night. It sat with me as we watched Jimmy Fallon videos on YouTube at 1am. And it walked with me as we made our way to church the next morning.

I had never been to a charismatic church service before. And this. This was cool. As we walked into the church first built in 1858, I was hit with the awe that accompanies places embedded with faith. On top of it's otherworldly beauty, the rush of music and movement was instantly heart-opening.  

As the service continued, the music got louder and more people started giving into the flow, singing and throwing their hands up—and I realized that these people were free of fear in this moment. Fear of judgement? Gone. Fear of the unknown? Kaput.

They had surrendered.

On the plane ride home the very next day, I reflected on this beautiful word: surrender. I turned it over and over in my mind as we soared through the sky, basking in the peace that comes along with that kind of all-encompassing trust. "Could I surrender, too? Would that remove fear from my life?" I wondered.

As soon as the plane’s wheels hit the asphalt, I switched my phone on and was hit with a wave of incoming messages. The first one I opened was from Soup, assuming she’d want to know if I'd arrived safely. But I was wrong. 

Her message read, “I got the job. Fear not."

In the words of Soup herself, it's hard to remember all the nuggets of wisdom we come across. I wrote this story because I'd love us to remember this one forever.

Fear not, my friendsies. Thanks for reading Day 6 of #100daysofmicrostories. :-)

XO,
Marce

PS. I'm posting this a few hours late because I got all kinds of busy with these two cowboys yesterday. I am excused.

In the red-amber light, I squinted to make out the numbers on the Discman’s small screen. I clicked through to the next track, waiting in silence to see if I’d clicked through to the right song. As soon as the strings hit my ears, I relaxed into the familiarity of my song, my jam, a drug hitting my earstream and spreading through my entire body.

"Oh look at how she listens. She says nothing of what she thinks. She just goes stumbling through her memories, staring out onto Grey Street."

That Dave Matthews. A man after my own heart.

Head bopping and heart light, I turned to the photo paper soaking in water, where it would stay until the end of this song. It was the best “grand finale” song, the one that always accompanied the end of a photo’s development.

Our professor had assigned us absolute creativity on this last week of our course. Free reign to discover, snap photos, and develop a story however we so wished. I’d chosen to collaborate. John the Texan was always carrying around a guitar and a notebook full of lyrics, so why not leave with him a professional-looking album cover to show it off once he got around to recording?

He’d agreed to the plan just the day before as we walked back from lacrosse with our friends. They were heading to a movie later in the town’s only theater—a real red curtain kind of place—but I declined in favor of the darkroom.

“But, isn’t it creepy in there?” they asked.

“You know, darkrooms aren’t as dark as you’d think,” I answered proudly, defending the frontier I’d discovered and come to love.

The song continued, singing just for me:

"There's a stranger speaks outside her door, says take what you can from your dreams. Make them as real as anything. It'd take the work out of courage."

And it was true. So many hours of that summer had been spent soaking and tending to photos in that beautiful red-orange light. Not once had fear reared its ugly head. Neither had work.

As the drums and strings faded out to silence, I hit the pause button and lifted the photo out of the water. I held it up to the amber light and smiled even with my heart.

A throwback to the beautiful summer of 2002. I'll always be so grateful for you, Exeter. You brought me art.

PS. Who knew I liked being alone so much?

xo,
Marce

“Can I touch him?” I asked.

Incredulous, the doctor replied, “Of course. He’s yours."

The pain, the heat, the fear—all of it had melted into one big puddle of utter disorientation. In a move of incredible acrobatics, the baby had gone from being inside my belly to on top of my belly in a few seconds. He was here, he was mine, and I was asking if I could touch him. But after all the instructions on holding onto the bed railings and not touching the sterile sheets, could they blame me?

I was reminded of my time at a sports camp a few years before. JJ and I had decided to spend the last part of our honeymoon practicing sports dear to our hearts—golf for him, tennis for me. After sharing a gloriously carb-heavy breakfast, we’d separate for a few hours of our respective sport, reconvene for a loaded lunch, go our own way again for the last bit of sports, and then end the day with a deep tissue massage. Heaven? Close to it.

But after the first full day, I was downright exhausted. I had wilted. So much running and sweating and serving and fetching had rendered my muscles useless. I was in pain. Had this really been my idea?

When my dad called to ask how our first day had gone, I told him I was dying a slow death by tennis ball.

“So, slow down,” he told me.

“But it’s not that easy! The coaches are screaming at us to run for the ball, having us do so many drills. They keep yelling at us to go faster and faster. I don't know if I can handle another day,” I confessed.

He broke it down for me, “You’ve always been a good student, but you don’t always have to do what they say. If they say run, maybe jog?"

He was right. I had always been a good student. And here I was, unsure if touching my own son was breaking the rules. I so funny.

With the doctor’s unnecessary permission, I stretched my hands out to him until the IV taped to my left arm tugged, rendering a full on baby-cuddle impossible. I lay my hands on his warm back and stared. The doctor’s words played again in my head.

“He’s yours."

Thanks for making this story so easy to tell, little one. My baby boy. All mine. :-)

xo,
Marce

The slopes had been so silent, an opportunity to be alone amongst a crowd. The dozen or so kids in my class were always far away, sprinkles of magenta-colored jackets on the white snow. The pure color of the snow, the dark green of the trees, my muffled breath against the top of my jacket. I missed it all as soon as I walked into the restaurant and was hit by a wall of sound.

Coming in from the snow, the restaurant’s vibrant noise and walls of windows were more than my body could take. The room’s wooden floors and decor were flooded with sunlight. I squinted my eyes and followed the rest of the troop to a cluster of round tables at the edge of the room.

Taking a break from the slopes to have lunch in a beautiful ski lodge, you’d think we’d be cozy. Far from it. Faces sunburnt. Lips chapped. Fingertips red and hot. Backs sweating. Our jackets hung off our chairs, and stray gloves were strewn across the crowded floor beneath us. 

Our ski instructor went around the table taking drink orders. Getting the undivided attention of a dozen kids below the age of thirteen, though? Not easy.

“Alex, what would you like to drink?” she asked.

Sitting on my left, Alex fizzled with excitement. His freckles and bright brown eyes danced as he told one joke after another. The slopes were no match for his nine-year-old wells of energy. I elbowed him to get his attention, and he settled down to ponder the question carefully, the different soft drinks carouseling through his mind one at a time.

“Mmm, a Rojita!” he decided.

Perplexed, she asked, “Uhh, what's that?"

I felt bad for her. No way she’d heard of Rojita before. Wasn’t she from Vienna? I jumped in to help. “It’s a red soda we have in Nicaragua…"

“Yeah, we don’t have that here. Pick another, Alex,” she answered.

“Mmm, Milca!” he exclaimed. Another red soda from Nicaragua. 

She arched an eyebrow and looked at me. Again, I jumped in, “Same thing, different brand… You probably don’t have it either."

“Definitely don’t carry Mi—what was it—Milca? How about water?” she asked. Her patience was thinning by the second as he shook his head. “What do you want then, Alex?"

He snapped his fingers in triumph. “I know! Fanta Roja!”

What was his thing for red soft drinks—and Nicaragua’s for that matter?

Luckily, she’d seen the Fanta’s Fantana models dancing on television at some point and recognized the name. Unluckily, though, the restaurant didn’t carry it, either. The third time was not a charm. Alex settled for a Coca Cola, and I wondered what the jolt of caffeine would do to his energy levels. One look at our instructor, and I knew she was thinking the same. She had her job cut out for her this afternoon.

Skiers zipped past our tables, a thin sheet of glass separating their quiet from our boisterousness. I wanted to get back out there. To the silence. To the solitude.

With a ski trip coming up soon, it was fun to relive one of my favorite childhood memories. Long live red soda. :-)

PS. Everyone's kind comments and encouragement have made #100daysofmicrostories so much easier on my soul. Please keep it coming. *INTERNET HUG*

xo,
Marce

The dark of the night tinged the bridge's famous cherry color with the darker hues of the wine country to the north. But the cherry red what was I was here to see, what I’d been dreaming of ever since the opening credits of Full House first graced my television screen. I heard the tune in my head:

"Whatever happened to predictability? The milkman, the paperboy, evening T.V.?" 

Luckily, the lamps that lined the bridge's sides showed bits and pieces of the unique color that distinguishes the Golden Gate Bridge on any postcard.

As we drove up to pay the toll, I turned to my friend Mario, "You pay to cross the bridge? But it's basically a national monument."

"The city of San Francisco gets it cut from the tourist attraction, for sure," he said, as he forked over a few dollars to the teller.

The streetlights illuminated a white sticker on his dark hoodie. It read, “Google Guest: Mario.” I wore a matching sticker on my jacket with tattoo-like pride, evidence of our afternoon visit to Google's headquarters in Mountain View. After enjoying a free lunch out on the plaza, we’d strolled around the complex in brightly-colored bikes. Larry and Sergey, such good hosts. Me? Not such a good visitor—I may or may not have nearly run a few Googlers over with that old bike.

Despite our exhaustion after a long day of adventure, though, Mario had insisted on adding one more to the day's line-up. "To the Golden Gate we go!"

The toll was a short ways off from the start of the bridge, but the anticipation turned it into miles. I could see the concrete and steel colossus looming over us, stretching as high as the clouds. Or, you know, fog. That's San Francisco for you.

Mario laughed at me, the tourist, pulling out my camera and filming our approach. He’s a native now, and natives don’t take pictures, apparently. The first tower was slow-coming, a mountain whose base never seemed to get closer. I peered up the windshield as long as I could, trying to see to the top as we finally slipped underneath. I looked forward again, to the second tower. This time, the size wasn’t what impressed me—it was the Art Deco style. It reminded me of my copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, the cover a black and white piece of art so very 1920s.

And just like that, it was over. We left the bridge and its towers and lamps and wine red behind us. As we followed the road off the bridge, I realized I'd never considered what lay on the other side.

We made a right turn and stopped at a crowded lookout point to snap some photos. Dozens of tourists milled about. They took photos of each other like schools of fish, gathering and dispersing, gathering and dispersing. 

The wind furiously lapped at our faces with a fury, our ears ringing as it whooped around us. I shivered under my sweater, fighting the urge to shove my hands in my jeans and walk back to the car, but one look at the moon convinced me I needed to capture the moment. I ran up to the edge of the lookout point and quickly snapped a photo, without even a look at the camera's viewfinder. 

"You can see a lot of the city from here," Mario told me. And he was right. San Francisco sprawled out before our eyes, the moon lighting up the city's hilly surface.

But we hadn't driven all this way to see San Francisco. We'd come to see the bridge. So we hopped back in the car, paid the toll, and experienced the two towers all over again. I could hear the Full House theme song playing again in my head:

"You miss your old familar friends, waiting just around the bend."

I hope you liked Day 2 of #100daysofmicrostories!

The best friendships are the ones that run smoothly in the background of your life, sometimes without you even noticing. This one goes out to my homeslice Mario. Coq au vin, my friend.

xo,
Marce

(Image credit to @marcdraz. Amazing shot!) 

The apartment was stuffy, a welcome buffer between me and Boston's chilly weather this early in the morning.

The alarm went off once, twice, three times, the sound coming through my dreams as if I was ten feet underwater. I made my way up for air, wading out of my dreams until all there was was beeping. My eyes wide with sudden panic, I leaned over my bed instinctively to turn it off. “Make it stop,” I thought to myself. "Make. It. Stop." I reached toward my desk, scrambling across its surface for the phone but coming up empty. Of course the phone wasn’t there. I’d moved it to the other side of the room to force myself out of bed. So smart. So evil.

One foot after the other, I crawled toward the screaming phone, my body groggier than my mind. As soon as I reached it, I blinked my eyes into focus and searched for the blue icon. "Mmm, Facebook," I thought to myself, the perfect mindlessness to pull me out from under the grumpy fog of this early hour.

A notification: “Juan José Lugo wrote on your wall.” 

Huh. Didn’t expect that.

Juan José. Or JJ, right? I couldn’t remember when I’d met him. I definitely knew who he was, but I wasn’t sure when we’d become friends? As I navigated toward the message he’d written on my wall, I tried to remember.

I wondered to myself, “During my golf lesson, maybe?” This summer, I'd only been taking lessons for a week or two when some older guy — JJ, I think? — had come up to make small talk. He’d insisted that I swing the golf club so he could give me tips. My hands shook the entire way down, fearing the newbie mistake of hitting the floor instead of the small white ball. Thankfully, my body saved me the embarrassment and reserved the floor-hitting for later. As awkward as I felt, it wasn't half bad. The ball surged forward forcefully in a straight line, going further than I expected despite its punch-like trajectory. His compliments rang clear in my head, but his face was blurry as can be. Typical—I'd always been a harbinger of praise. "It must've been him. That's his thing, right? JJ = golf. But ... why is he writing to me?"

Immediately, I thought of a conversation I’d had just the night before with a friend. We'd been on the phone for hours, postponing studying for as long as possible, meandering from subject to subject as if we had all the time (and air time) in the world. As I sat on the floor in my room, though, bleary-eyed and groggy, one specific line played in my head over and over. 

"You already know the person you're going to marry," he'd said. 

We'd been discussing who we’d marry, wondering what our future partner-in-crime might look or be like. Incredulous, I'd rebuffed the idea as nonsense.

"How could anyone tell the future? Bonkers. Anyways, I've always wondered if my future-husband is currently on the other side of the planet wondering where I am, too. Or, you know, dating someone. Shame on him. Shame on you, future-husband! Just kidding, you're at home thinking of me, aren't you? You're so cute, future-husband. Can we call him FH for short?"

The conversation had fizzled after that. I'd looked at the clock and realized we were approaching 11pm. My sleep-worry set in and I quickly hung up, saying, "What can I say? I'm a sleeper."

Just ten hours later, here I was, staring at a message from JJ. "Could he be FH?" I peered back down at my phone, a mish-mash of nervous excitement careening through my veins.

"You already know the person you're going to marry," he'd said. 

He was right, wasn’t he? Because when you know, you just know.

Hope you enjoyed Day 1 of #100daysofmicrostories. This one's for you, Jdawg! I love you. I always knew.

xo,
Marce