I have a lot of lace wight yarns. I love it that I do. I know that for other people, too much yarn is a mental burden and can make them anxious. Not for me. These boxes and boxes of yarn are comforting. They are my wall against the world. I love that I have boxes of just laceweight. So far, though, I have not knit a lot of lace. Only a few lace shawls have made it through the wall of sweaters and the last couple of years small things. So far, I have principally been a lace buyer. And I am very, very good at that.
I think part of my love of lace is because I am not a delicate person. I am more of a clumpy person, a short, densely boned, big headed person. I am a short sturdy pit pony kind of person. I am no where near this.
But I love delicate things. If I never knit up all the lace yarn, I still enjoy it. I love taking a hank and opening it up and wrapping it around my wrist. I love feeling the fine strands through my fingers, I love the look of it against my skin.
I love its colour.
I love the texture.
I love the endless variation.
And it is truly endless. Or at least that is what my stash tells me.
I have laces in all kinds of wools, and silks, and flax and blends. Delicate mohair and silk. Flax and linen. Cotton and linen. Alpaca. Cashmere.
My laces are an endless inspiration to me and I do mean to knit it up. All of it. Every lovely meter. Every colour. Every single delicate skein. It's going to take a while.
Whether I will be given the time to knit it up is yet to be determined.