On being scared and eventually… working again in a metal shop. I ran two miles this morning and my first four-miler this year the day before yesterday, building toward the 10k Bridge Crossing in October. Sometimes life is like running: you just have to keep doing it.

When I was in seventh grade—my first year at Cordell Hull Junior High School, since closed—there was a sort of craze among the boys to startle girls. They would thump our back or leap in front of us or shout in our ears, or all at once—anything to see us jump. I deliberately trained myself not to react. I would not shriek or scream or even blink, but stare at the boys cool-as-anything. It was a massive effort at self-control. They gave up on me, and that primitive and entirely unhealthy pattern of flirtation was foiled.

In high school, I used to go out for walks in the dark. Miles all alone into neighborhoods I hadn’t even visited when I was riding my bike all over creation. I was careful to avoid people, ducking into hiding, listening and walking turning corners. Never ran, never confronted until my dad caught me coming in at 2am. I was alone, I saw no one, I just walked. He said we would not mention this to my mother. I promised not to do it again. I lied.

I was judging a field trial in Canada when I started labor for our firstborn at 4 in the morning on an August Sunday. (The family has heard this story too often.) I drove home alone from Vancouver Island to the Oregon. The nurse didn’t believe I was in labor when I first called, but said I should come in later on Monday when I lost my mucus plug. Doctors were sure he was a 3-pound preemie, so they had me on meds to stop labor, which it didn’t. I had contractions every two to three minutes until they finally did an ultrasound and saw how big he was, 5 pounds 71/2 ounces. Even then, because they were busy, they kept me on meds for six more hours. When I asked the doctors when they would take me off the drugs, they assured me my baby was fine (he was). I told them I could see the monitor, I was worried about myself. “Why?” they asked. “Because in about thirty minutes I am going to be hysterical.” They laughed, probably because I seemed so calm, but Gary talked to them in the hall: “You should believe her because if my wife says that, it’s true.” They didn’t but it was. Half an hour later I was sobbing. This was Wednesday afternoon. Alan was finally born at 5:30pm. I had been in labor more than three and a half days. His birthday is tomorrow.

I have always been steady in a crisis. My yearbook staff told me only when I got all calm-seeming, they knew we had trouble in River City.

When my father was dying, I was the one who best forged my father’s signature so that Mom could make arrangements that were otherwise impossible once my father was comatose.

During the weeks I was at The Flight of the Mind, I was tense until I’d written something I liked. I might have seemed fine. After I had something worthwhile on the page, I was completely okay.

I am calm in a crisis. And mostly pretty fearless. At least, it might appear so.

And here we are in Portland as the weather cools slightly and we are no longer masking and instead beginning to do some of the things we planned to do once we didn’t have to head home for the nearly two-hour drive before dark. Last night we attended our second reading at Powell’s Book Store. And a week ago I took a metalsmithing class. It was just three hours and the goal was to make simple stacking rings.

Ninety-Twenty Studios has inherited the excellent tools from the now-closed Oregon School of Arts & Crafts. (I had signed up for metal classes there, years ago, but they were cancelled and I was limited to weekend/holiday in the morning or afternoon classes, given the drive from the coast. Now, we live just a few minutes away.) Winona Huang was wonderful, patient, and helpful. I completed two stacking rings and started three more.

Here’s the thing: I have raised silver, made dozens of sterling brooches, pendants, and earrings, forged wire, handmade woven chain, enameled on copper and silver, and completed custom work on commission. I began working with sterling in high school, studied at the University of Washington, earned a degree in Metal Design, working under John Marshall, and taught jewelry design at Forest Ridge and through a Seattle community center.

The other thing? All of this ended in 1979 when we moved back to Oregon. I tried to restart with enamels in 1983, but this attempt lasted only a couple of days. I completed two-inch test tiles, one in cloisonné and the other using a personal technique of deliberately burnt enamel edges using a favorite color called “Pigeon”. The last day, I was working on something new I can’t remember now, only that I was pulling a counter-enameled piece out of my enameling kiln when Alan crawled under my out-stretched arm. Well over a thousand degrees just over his head.

I was calm.

The trivet and fork went on top of the kiln. I closed the door of the kiln, latched and turned it off, got down on my hands and knees and unplugged it, and didn’t use it again. Not ever. I gave the kiln and all my supplies away to a former student and never heard from her again. [This is how I became a textile artist—the most dangerous tools are my rotary cutter and sewing machine.]

All this to say: once upon a time, I knew my way around fine metals and a metal shop. A. Long. Time. Ago.

The Ninety-Twenty Studios is better equipped than any shop I have ever worked in, but the torches and work stations, and most everything else is probably better, but different, the space is tight for more than four or five people, though we didn’t get in each other’s way during that class and the studio was full.

The night before the class I woke just after one and could not get back to sleep. In the studio, I was so shaky I had to eat a candy drop to raise blood sugar. My body felt like it was coming undone. I once knew how to do this! How could it be that I was struggling so hard? I felt clumsy and foolish and out-of-place. Worse, I felt incompetent. As if gravity had shifted under my feet and slightly to one side—like Imight fall over at any moment.

Winona showed us how to do everything from sawing through soldering and finishing, with generosity and skill. It was a crunch to get through an entire process in three hours, but she managed and so did every one of her students. I’d done all of that before so often I had barely needed to think about it. Despite that, I was restless, uncomfortable … struggling. My solder didn’t want to flow. I broke a saw blade, and that happens but still…

One problem was that what I found in my class kit was Hard solder. I figured that out later when I went through my toolbox at the beach. I had Hard, Medium, and Easy solder. I might even have Easy-Flow, but haven’t found it. I could blame that for my difficulties, but it wasn’t that simple. Everything in that space felt unfamiliar and I felt incapable.

Six days later, I went back (yesterday) to finish work on my own. The night before last, in anticipation of that return to the metal studio, I also had trouble sleeping again but not so bad. Six hours sleep. I had doubts.

Even writing about this, I feel tense all over again. My impulse is to suppress and deny fear. I recognized what I was doing yesterday morning. I wet myself. I was sitting quietly and wet myself so that I had to change clothes. [I looked that up just now. It’s never happened to me before but can result from “severe stress.”] That was when I told Gary: “I’m scared. Really, really scared to go back to this.” Would terrified be the more accurate term? What if I can’t do it anymore, what if I just cannot manage it? What if all that experience is lost and all that once-earned skill is beyond me? What if I can’t?

He gave me water in a thermos and a nut bar, and drove me to the studio. There were three cars parked out front but no one to open the outer door for me or the other participant. I called every number I could find. We knocked. We rang the bell. Eventually someone renting studio space opened the door, and at that moment the apologetic shop monitor arrived on his bike to let us in. He was helpful when I could not find something, not his job, but a fair kindness.

Both water and nut bar came in handy, and things went well. I used my own solder, I completed my work in less than an hour and a half, spending more time not-working than working, and believe I have made myself comfortable in that environment. I went through all the tool storage cupboards and drawers (so many tools!) and chose to leave an hour early on a high. I finished what I’d started the week before. There was a simple sterling and gold ring I wanted to make that I have not started, but I will return for a three hour block at some later date, and I feel confident that I can complete that project.

I have never been fearless, but I can generally fake it long enough to get the job done. I should not be faking it to myself. Denying emotion to myself is not helpful but a lie. Holding on and doing what must be done should not come at the expense of pretending I don’t feel fear or pressure. I should know better. Next time at Ninety-Twenty, I will.