There is something so alluring about a veil. It whispers “come see”, and yet begs not to be lifted, for it seems far more beautiful this way, even with someone or something sacred and perhaps unimaginably beautiful beneath. A veil plays with our imagination, and a veil of fine lace heightens a simmering anticipation even more.
A hand knitted shawl of old is a priceless garment of any wardrobe . . .
I like to think about the old days how knitting a fully covering lace shawl would provide entertainment in an otherwise bleak and isolated life of a windswept island of Shetland. The kind of shawl that veils a woman completely, yet can be passed through a wedding ring, is the mark of excellency. What privilege to be determined enough to knit a thing like this, for then one spun the yarn so fine and endless, what a bittersweet end when it comes off the needles, and one must go back to the sheep to start all over again.
Perhaps the most enjoyment in the steadfast driving rhythm of knitting lace, with hands and eyes bound to every stitch, comes from freeing a mind to ponder elsewhere.