I recently
learned there is an actual word for something I’ve been doing my entire life. It’s
called pebbling.
Apparently,
penguins will offer small stones to one another as a sign of affection. It’s
their way of saying I choose you, I like you, you matter, and possibly, let’s
build a life together and raise little penguin babies who waddle dramatically
into the sunset.
And when I read
about this, I had one immediate thought: Oh, no. I’m a penguin.
Not the cute,
sleek kind either. I’m the overly enthusiastic, emotionally attached penguin
who shows up with a rock and makes it weird. Because if you have met me- truly
met me- then you already know this about me:
I am that woman
you barely know. That woman you just met. That woman you made awkward small
talk with at the checkout at Walmart, or at work, or at a craft event… and then
somehow, within a week, you are holding a handmade baby gift.
And you’re
standing there thinking: Who is this woman? Why did she do this? Is she… okay?
Does she have a basement full of fabric and secrets?
Well, yes. Yes, I do,
and no, I am not okay. But I am delightfully not okay.
And this, dear
friends, is pebbling.
Pebbling is the
act of giving small gifts, often simple things, often unexpected, not because
someone asked, not because I want anything back, but because I saw something
and thought: This belongs to them.
Some people
pebble with coffee.
Some people
pebble with memes.
Some people
pebble with compliments.
Some people
pebble with stories.
I pebble with
bags.
I pebble with
purses.
I pebble with
baby blankets and little handmade things.
I used to
wonder why I do it. Why I love giving things away. Why do I spend hours sewing
something beautiful, only to hand it to someone else as if it’s no big deal?
It makes me
feel like the world is still soft in places and in a world that can be harsh,
chaotic, exhausting, and heavy… softness is a kind of rebellion.
It’s about joy.
It’s about connection. It’s about being able to say: “I can’t fix the entire
world, but I can make something that makes your day a little better.”
We all have
something we’re meant to offer the world. And yes, sometimes it’s a story. Sometimes
it’s singing in the choir. Sometimes it’s a handmade purse. Sometimes it’s a
baby gift for a woman you met twice and only know vaguely through mutual
acquaintances.
That sharing is not
“too much.” That is sharing your light. And I will die on this hill, probably holding
a spool of thread and my best pair of scissors.
