Which lace book recently said, lace is knitting’s Mt. Everest?

Some of you seem to knit lace like it’s nothing, just a romp across a wild-flower pasture. For me, it’s a wet, muddy slog up a mountain, an arduous journey of concentration, spatial misconceptions and mystery.

Having taught enough beginners, I’ve learned that some people have a natural affinity for certain skills, others don’t. I watched mouth agape as Sylvia spun up her first bobbin—a complete natural. Me? I feel like a one-man band who can’t get the monkey on her shoulder to keep time with the cymbols on her knees. 

I grasp the physical skills quickly enough—except with spinning. But it’s understanding lace’s topography, how one stitch interlocks with another, how a hole empties onto a ridge then breaks into a landscape of stockinette. It’s like stumbling through the translation of a difficult text, where the reading is slow going and the comprehension very low.

I ran into Cheryl Oberle at Costco this week. There I was bug-eyed from pouring over Barbara Walker’s second treasury, hands sore from digging SSKs like potatoes. Poor Cheryl, I trapped her between the flowers and canned tomatoes, begging her to translate the meaning of “multiple of 16 plus 1.” Which she did. Graciously. Changing my life.

Lace still feels like a monster—Rachmaninoff’s third piano concerto in silk and wool. But at least the language of it is coming clear. With a little help from my friends.