How to Drop Pebbles

It’s Thursday, and I’ve had enough for one week. I protest by opening my Outlook calendar and blocking out two hours. I set my status to “Out of Office.” I decide to meet J for lunch.

As I head out, the clouds are low and brooding, an overture of their next symphony.

We meet near my office in Long Island City at a cozy Izakaya-style restaurant with light wood paneling and paint-splattered cups that remind me I haven’t picked up my paintbrushes in a while.

There’s a painting I keep seeing in my mind: rows of abstract houses stacked atop one another, each with a red door. A thin strip of sky hangs overhead—dusk, or sometime after. Midnight blue. If I make it, I’ll call it Little Red Doors. The vision is clear, but it hasn’t left the dream-space yet. Like many of my ideas, it lingers in the dark incubator of wonder—that ethereal space where creation begins: elusive and brimming. But eventually, ideas must make their way to earth. Seeds have to meet the soil if you want them to grow.

J gets there before me. We hug for a long time. I’ve known her for 15 years, and I meet a new version of her every time I see her. The key to any long-lasting relationship is to meet people where they are.

She asks how I am. I tell her it’s hard being an artist with a 9-to-5. She says it’s hard being an artist without one. We both agree: it’s a flawed design. We weren’t meant to live like this. We’re communal creatures, wired to go for long walks and pick fruit off of trees. We were made to take our sweet time.

By now, it’s raining. Water taps cheerfully on the window behind J. An allegro. We start with miso soup—warm and briny, seaweed clinging to the spoon like tentacles.

“How’s the writing going?”

“It’s going.”

Views are down. Reach is down. The way we consume information is rapidly changing. Stories slip past in a blur—our eyes flicker, our fingers scroll. We’re overstimulated, undernourished. Attention splinters. Nothing sinks in.

I know what I’d tell someone else: promote more, make your profile public, guest post, get strategic, experiment with different platforms.

But I’m not there yet.

I’m in the pebble phase. Like in Aesop’s The Crow and the Pitcher. A thirsty crow finds water at the bottom of a heavy pitcher, too shallow to reach. She tries tipping the pitcher over, clawing at it. Nothing works. So she gets creative. She begins dropping in pebbles, one by one. Slowly, the water rises to the top. Eventually, she drinks.

We order rice bowls—two different ones so we can share. J tells me about a documentary she’s co-directing and producing about a Black women's climbing expedition. I admire her work. She asks what’s new with yoga teaching. A to-do suddenly appears in my head. I try to push it aside, but the body pushes back. The truth pools in my throat, asking to be spoken. “The internship is fine, but I'm procrastinating on what I actually need to do,” I admit with a laugh. Another pebble project, slow to rise. She nods with understanding.

The rain swells louder now, reaching a crescendo. We finish our bowls, but want to stay longer. We order tea and listen to the rain for a while. Another key to long-lasting relationships is being able to sit in comfortable silence. I take a deep breath, and then another. My nervous system settles. I am safe.

I remind myself that at this time last year, I wasn’t writing at all. I hadn’t even begun my yoga teacher training. There is work to be done, yes, but there’s no reason to feel stressed about it. The urgency is all in my mind—me vs. me. Or, rather, me vs. trauma.

Growing up in a state of hypervigilance taught me to constantly scan for threats, which was extremely useful then, but not so much now. I’m slowly unlearning this response, which is perhaps my most important pebble project. Healing is devoted work.

After some mind-wandering and intermittent chatting, we pay the bill and walk outside. Another long hug. J heads to a café to work on her documentary; I head back to the office. As I turn the corner to find the nearest 7 train, I see a red door—a bold message in a sea of gray.

I think of my Little Red Doors, stacked and waiting for me when I'm ready. Some visions take time. Some pitchers are deep.

I pull back the hood of my raincoat and tilt my face to the thunderous summer sky. The raindrops streak down my face like I'm in a Disney music video. I stand there for a moment, reveling in the symphony, before wiping my face and heading into the subway below.

If you’re on the highway between where you’ve been and where you want to be, hang in there. There will be days where the doubt creeps in, where your ego insists it’s not worth it. Don't listen to that story.

Keep dropping pebbles.

Keep showing up.

Keep going. 

One day, the water will rise, and you will drink. 💧

me in a parallel universe