Project specs (I never do this because I can never remember):
Hyrna Hergorbar, from Three-Cornered and Long Shawls by the incomparable Sigridur Halldórsdóttir (I bow to you, Sigridur, though your charts made my eyes cross). The book is now (again) available from Schoolhouse Press.
The wool is from an Icelandic lamb from Jager Farm, just up the road from my house. Unfortunately Barbara didn’t remember the lamb's name. Washed and carded by me. Spun by me. Knitted by me. Me. Yes, me.
I freely admit that it's more granny than glam, but I love it fiercely and with brazen immodesty. It's a cool shawl, but its beauty doesn't quite explain my passion for it. I think it's the magic trick that Stephanie has been talking about: I've conjured a frill, a bloom, a cultural connection and a pretty thing to warm my shoulders from the shearings of an angry sheep. My life is filled to the brim with intangible results, from my brilliant and charming children in whom I am trying to instill the desire to be law-abiding citizens, to the impossible task of describing and measuring liberal arts education, to the endless stream of laundry and dishes and carpets replete with grime. I do it. And I do it again. And it's still there.
This was sheep hair. Now it is my shawl. And the only people responsible are myself and the shearer. This is a thing that is truly mine. And that, I think, is why I do this.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. And this, Mr. Keats, is the flowery band I wreathe that binds me to this earth.
Not too bad for a guinea pig.