White Lace

I wore satin and lace on my wedding day.  The gown was inexpensive even for that time forty years ago.  Complete with headpiece, veil and train it was less than a hundred dollars.  My mother made it for me, sewing on every sequin, every seed pearl by hand.  It had long lace sleeves and the body was satin with a lace overlay.  A more beautiful gown I have never seen.  Thanks, Mom.

My grandma Ceil usd to tat lace.  Another Grandma crocheted it, as did my mother.  White lace has always been a part of my wardrobe and a part of my home.  Lace peeks from my shirt and lets sunlight into my rooms.  I love the look of white lace, the intricate design, the way it keeps my privacy while it lets in the outside just a little bit.

White lace is my feminine self, the vulnerable part of me.  It isn't the part that shows in the business world.  It is the romantic side that shows itself in dreams in color, white chocolate and clouds, pink sunrises and red sunsets.  White lace lets me see magic in a still pool.  I can peek out the window without being seen, yet invite the lightning in to brighten the night.

Black lace, pink or ecru--they are the colors born of necessity; they serve no secret purpose.  They are the frivolous side of me.  They are a change of pace.  They don't have the purity and quiet innocence of white lace.

We went to two weddings recently.  The bridal gowns were lovely, one in eggshell, one in white.  The brides were so gorgeous as they gathered  their trains off the floor to dance with their new husbands.  Happiness was written all over their faces.

But something was missing.  Neither one wore even a speck of white lace. . .