A beginner’s drawing class and a macramé workshop sounded fun until we began to do the work. My hands shook. An impulse to bolt (or sob or both) engulfed me. I can’t do this! Why did I sign up? Everyone else looks so competent.
But I clipped the translucent-skinned tracing paper between the silver-teeth of the easel’s binder and darkened it with charcoal marks. I strangled my cotton twine into knots.
And kind teachers reassured me. And I struggled. And so did everyone else.
At breaks, I mentioned my initial fear to fellow students. One never looked at me again. One smiled and said me too and we laughed.
I know a potential friend when I see one.
But I clipped the translucent-skinned tracing paper between the silver-teeth of the easel’s binder and darkened it with charcoal marks. I strangled my cotton twine into knots.
And kind teachers reassured me. And I struggled. And so did everyone else.
At breaks, I mentioned my initial fear to fellow students. One never looked at me again. One smiled and said me too and we laughed.
I know a potential friend when I see one.
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