Well, I’d torn it apart. A scene in a story, that is. My frustrated self was just about to give the scene its last rites and hit the delete button when I glanced at my watch. I was running late. In a mood, I shut down the computer, left a desk strewn with notes, and “got outta town.”
I went to a jewelry-making class.
Now, what I know about crafting jewelry would make for a very short conversation. But into the class I went. I didn’t really feel like it, but I’d committed to going.
The project was a glass pendant and/or earrings. We were an assorted group, writers nestled among artists (some were experienced jewelry makers.) After instruction, we began the hands-on. The table was spread with a smorgasbord of glass, all colors and shapes, some translucent, some opaque. Did I mention feeling a little pressure? A little discomfort? E-e-ewe.
We sorted through shapes and cut our own pieces of glass. We assembled and reassembled and experimented. We polished and glued. Animated conversations turned to subdued or nonexistent ones and, briefly, the room grew quiet.
The jewelry pieces were then placed on kiln paper, ready to be fired and fused. I’m tall and like big jewelry. You probably can tell which is mine.
Leaving my pendant to the fates and later date pick-up, I returned home, but not to my office. The next day, it seemed a fresh wind had blown through the house and swept away some story debris. Mind you, the work was as I’d left it, but I definitely felt renewed and up to the challenge.
The most valuable part of all this? As uncomfortable as I might have been in the class, nothing was in my mind except a little stack of green glass. Who knew of its medicinal ability to help clear a word-clogged, befogged head?
I hope I like my pendant … I’ll post the results. (No matter what.)
Here it is!