Nov 9, 2025 Lafayette Park, San Francisco

We moved every few minutes to find the perfect position to lay on our made-for-one picnic blankets. Our backs to the ground were the most comfortable—light blue sky above, white jetstreams dissolving into clouds. But on our backs we couldn’t see each other as we played catch-up on months of unshared stories of our lives. So we slithered, writhed and rotated like lazy seals docked near the marina, trying to position ourselves in a way that felt like home yet didn’t disrupt the best view of all—of a dear friend sharing an intimate story, almost a secret, in a profound act of vulnerability.

She didn’t want it that sunny, I wanted some, the sun moved too, and so it was a dance, an unorchestrated one. It felt like peace to flow with my friend, especially after so long and especially with someone so lovely, one who reminds me that I’m not the only person living life and facing the tiny and sometimes huge pebbles stuck in my shoes. Unable to pause and take care of myself, nor able to ask for help, stuck in an in-between, questioning your ability to survive, pushing your ability to survive. Why do we do this? Why do we choose to live life hard? It can be really easy, but then where’s the life in that? 

The pebbles we choose to suffer over are the embellishments we decorate this life given to us with. It’s our masterpiece—choosing our suffering as life’s artistry.  Having friends who share their embellishments and which ones they picked is a gift. It allows one to see one’s own humanity reflected back, just in different garb, that’s when you know you are alive—enough to see another and to see yourself.