A Kind of Therapy

It’s been a kind of therapy photographing these old things for Folkling.
Documenting their history and imperfection, creating moods with the photos that capture not only theirs but my seasonal shifts in becoming.
But perhaps that is the marker of any practice or art form that brings us joy.
In that it is a kind of therapy— A healing of the disorder of our lives.
A remedial execution of action that we turn to to make things right when they presently aren’t.

Such is the act of self portraiture hidden within the documentation of these old garments for me.

In a lot of ways it would make my life easier to just hire a model to shoot these pieces. It’s an involved and time intensive process setting up my tripod, connecting my phone to my camera, battling the spotty connection between the two and reshooting the images until I capture the thing I have in my head.
But there is a type of learned patience within this too.
Or perhaps I am aggrandizing the process…

I suppose I digress.
All of this is to say that I am working on releasing this small collection in the shop soon.

Stay tuned.

Two Years Ago Today

grass clippings are hitchhiking on the bottoms of my feet as i cross the lawn and i have the milky dew of the figs i just picked dripping down my fingers. 

the sun reaches my skin through the cotton shirt i’m wearing. because i’m moving, and because it’s early in the day, its rays aren’t yet powerful enough to make my skin dewy like that of the figs. but you can tell, even this early, that it’s only a matter of time before the heat will be labeled oppressive.

the crate myrtle is in bloom and the river is shushing by as it always does. i have to pause for a moment to remember what day it is. “...Wednesday” i think to myself “it’s Wednesday...”

the half moon brick steps lead me up into the house and i make a half hearted attempt to leave the grass clippings outside, though i am sure some end up trailing behind me on the well worn carpet. 

i select a knife from the chopping block in the kitchen and hesitate for a brief moment at its odd shape, only mildly considering that it’s probably not the right knife for this specific job. 

no matter— it’s sharp. 

and now ribbed moss is imprinted onto the backs of my thighs as a sit with a plate in the center of my crossed legs

and i eat the slices of rose colored fruit off of my lap. 

—A journal entry from August 29, 2018

Tiny Routines

It is the nature here that has kept me grounded.

Kept me continually looking forward and focusing on the good.

I lived in Richmond my whole life, was born and raised in The Fan.

And then, after 26 years, I came out to the Chesapeake Bay. A place I grew up coming to for a similarly long period of time as my Dad is a sailor. So many spring, summer and fall nights were spent out on these waters. A few winter ones too.
It’s always been one of my homes.

And then I left for The Road.
And then I left again.
It kept calling me back and I kept answering.

Yet another kind of home.

But now I’m back here on the bay and now more than ever it feels like a respite and sacred place amidst the chaos of the world.

The Road still calls, and perhaps it always will. But this place, with its endlessly fascinating array of flora and fauna, is the needed anchor amidst it all.

I have now been here long enough, and in all seasons, to witness the varying cycles of the life that lives here.

I recognize the calls of the osprey and bald eagles and grey herons. Watch them all build their fortresses in the trees and on the pylons overlooking the water from fallen branches and dried grasses from the yard.

And how March brings daffodils and dandelions. 
April fosters camellias and low hanging wisteria. 
May greets buttercups and forsythia.
June grows tiger Lilly’s and road-side daisies and, best of all: magnolias. 

And July—July has brought blackberries.

Which has been one of the greatest gifts in this season, discovering them all around the property. Because I’ve never been here during a July until now, and to witness such a constant thing despite my inconsistency and variation brings a kind of centerdness to me somehow.

It is in witnessing these tiny routines that I find solace amidst attempting to create my own.

This Is Virginia In The Summer

You have to close your mouth when biking at night.

This is Virginia in the summer.

The air is thick and hung with winged creatures.

The moon winks at me from the water filled ditch, newly filled after the afternoon’s down pour.

The low-hanging magnolias unfold their skirts towards the grass beds, entangled in a flirtation with the sweet scented leaves.

I cut some Queen Anne’s Lace with my pocket knife and revel in its silhouette against the dusk.

Petal pushing, pedal pushing.

This routine is one of the few I perform without fail.

A small days end respite from the unrelenting speed of time.

My bike basket fills with little pink slips of paper.
They hold a promise of something more if I choose to exchange them at the post office down the road.

(I never do take them with me, somewhat absentmindedly but more so as an act of defiance of the one mean post master in town…)

I hoist my bike up onto my shoulder and ascend the porch stairs 
1-2-3-4-5-6
and into the house.

I run upstairs to my computer, where I can record my thoughts faster than any other medium.

My feet are so hot I start to pull off my boots (because I wear boots year round…) but I’m afraid I’ll lose the words so I stop half way.

Typing feverishly with one boot on and one boot off.

“Are you awake?”
He asks.

“Yes but I can’t talk right now.
I don’t want to lose the words I just found.”

Before The Dawn

There is unrest.

Weighted and dark, moving throughout the country.

I’m watching from here on the bay my beloved city, Richmond, upend and fall apart from the inside out.

Streets I grew up on are unrecognizable to me now.

People being pepper sprayed on their porches?

Curfews?

Limiting freedom of speech?

What is this world we are living in?

I know others feel the weight of these days more permanently and inherently than I.

I am broken hearted for those who have been systemically abused, mistreated and marginalized in this country.
A country I take pride in in so many ways, for our dreams and innovations and independence... but in this?

In this we have it wrong.

We have to find a different way.

How is it that we can’t get this right?
How is it that we are still fighting about this?
The equality of human beings?
This should go without saying... right?

And yet here we are.
Wrestling with the heart issues of the generations before us and cycling through the same motions.

There has to be a better way.

We can do better than this.

The ones who come after us need better than this.

But I believe this to be true as well, which is that it is always darkest before the dawn.

—————●—————

I am taking the week off of posting to elevate others and attempt to engage more meaningfully in these times and in these moments in the community I have right in front of me.

Keep listening.

Keep learning.

Keep loving.

The Consistency of Place

“The land doesn’t speak to you because you don’t stay in one place long enough to hear it”

It seems a lot of what I’ve written about recently stems from conversations with various friends from all across this country.

I don’t know that I’m talking to people more than I normally would, but perhaps life has slowed down enough to really be able to meditate on the things being said to the extent they deserve.

This is a paraphrased quote by a friend who mentioned this line from the book: The Practice of The Wild and it’s from a conversation with a Crow elder.

It struck a chord with me for several reasons.

While I have the constant pull of The Road on my mind and that’s a huge part of me, I’m also a life long Virginian. A born and raised Richmonder, and someone who grew up routinely going to the Chesapeake Bay and its surrounding tiny towns because I’m the #daughterofasailor.
I have immense pride in being from one consistent place and having the roots that I do.

I lived in #RVA for 25 years before I chose to make the bay my home in between my road dog life, and while it’s always been a part of me and felt like home, taking up residence here has made that more tangible.

When I came home in November from living a year on The Road, I really meant to be back just for a few months to catch up with loved ones, work on some writing projects and then get back out there.

And then the world fell apart.

Yet, in the midst of that I’ve had more ability to enjoy this place. Discover unexplored corners, notice things I’ve always driven past too fast, really get to know my neighbors and those who work in my community and appreciate the consistency of place.

I have been debating what to do in the coming months.
Whether to leave or stay.
What leaving would look like now that photo jobs have been cancelled and I’m unsure if @folkling could be consistent enough while being mobile to make ends meet and still trying to save for a place of my own.

And I’m still debating.

But I’ve been relearning the importance of home. That even in these times, or maybe especially so, pausing long enough to listen to the land and appreciate where you presently are is a narrative worth hearing.

How To Survive Staying At Home: Get Dressed

Other than focusing on the good and trying to create something each day to some capacity, another thing getting me through this current upheaval of our world is getting dressed.

Every day.

What a concept, I know I know, but hear me out.

Even before the stay at home order that we currently have in place in Virginia, I have largely worked from home.
Through my varied ten years of owning my own business and working for myself, whether it’s photography or writing related, my knitwear designing or vintage curating, a lot of what I do in a day can be done from home.
As a result, I have had a built in routine of getting dressed every day.

Because I noticed when I didn’t, when I stayed in my pajamas, or my workout clothes, I did not get as much done in a day. I felt sluggish, distracted, unorganized and quite frankly, not so great about myself.

I truly notice a difference in my outlook and attitude when I choose clothes I love, don my hat and boots and maybe even put some mascara on. Even if I’m not leaving the house that day.

Think about it, if you feel good, you’re going to do good. You’re going to feel put together and therefor your output and actions have the ability to be more put together.

It should go without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway, that I am in no way faulting anyone for living in their yoga pants during this time. Everyone’s lifestyles are different, especially those of you home with kids. That is a whole other battle of priorities and things you have to take care of in a day… but if you’ve been feeling kind of off lately and need a reframe of mind… maybe just try it.
Put on your favorite pair of jeans (cause while I have been getting dressed every day I am actually mostly just wearing the same pair of pants…) brush your hair and just see if it makes a difference in how you feel.

It might be the attitude shift you need to see today as a good day.

Another practice inline with this ethos?

Make your bed.

I haven’t gone a day without making my bed since… I honestly don’t remember.
But maybe that’s a post for another day.

On The Feeling of Home

These times certainly pose opportunity for contemplation.
Contemplation, and solitude of course are not foreign states for me. They’re ones I find myself inhabiting regularly, if not striving to obtain more routinely and consistently.

The concept of home is one that is often on my mind, but especially so in these last few weeks.
How many don’t have a safe or comfortable one to retreat to in these times.
How many I have had over the years.
How tired of mine I am.
How happy in mine I am.
How I often ascribe the feeling of home with temporary places or people that I meet.
(Most recently with a man in a pair of raw denim jeans, beat up leather boots and kind eyes, standing on a sidewalk…)

I am fortunate to have had many homes.
Indeed, to still have many homes.

And while I am both in the midst of trying to find a permanent place and home that is wholly mine, and also get back to one of my homes (The Road), I am still pressed to move into a state of gratitude for it all.

So here’s a little collection of film photos from one of my old Richmond apartments.
My favorite one in fact.
Taken in a new season of my life, albeit long ago, and blossoming with exciting potential, contented wonder and settling in.

And as hard and utterly frustrating as some things have been in this current season of my life, I still associate those same aforementioned feelings with where I am now.

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Quarantine: A Self Portrait

I continue to be healthy and well, as are those closest to me and I am grateful for that.

I haven’t wanted to write about what’s going on because, frankly, I’m tired of reading about it and talking about it and thinking about it.

But in a world of rising unsureness, it is in a way unnerving to attempt to make plans and think about the future when you’re not really sure what the future is going to look like.

When will things go back to normal?
What will ‘normal’ even look like after all of this?
Will everyone I know and love be okay?
Will I be able to pay my bills?

Then again, that is largely how it’s always been.

There have always been bad things going on in the world, things we haven’t been able to control or understand, and while this particular case is unlike anything we’ve seen in many of our lifetimes—every generation has such events.

There have always been daily invitations into downward spirals of stress and anxiety. 
Things to draw our attention away from resting in contentment and finding joy in our present.

So while we wait and watch the world around us shifting into more panic and fear, regardless of our feelings on it being warranted or not, there are two things we can do:

1. Take it all one day at a time.

2. Be grateful for the good that you have in your arms to hold and the ability to hold it.

Quarantine: A self portrait.
Masks made from raw denim, recycled copper wire, leather and vintage thread.

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—☽ —

What's Coming Next

I am coming back to blogging.

I have found myself saying that often over the past few years in my sporadic sharing on this platform. This is the year I am really going to do it! And then….. five posts later, Okay now THIS is *really* the year I am going to do it…. cue same result.
And perhaps this time is just like all of those other times, but honestly this time feels different.

Because now this time, in many ways, it’s all I have.

With the world in its current state of social distancing and staying at home and daily doses of fear that invite so much confusion and anxiety—It feels like now is the time more than ever that I need to remember who I am.

And one of the things that has always pulled me back from any edge I have ever found myself on (we won’t get into how many there have been… I am an emotional creature) is sharing the beauty I see in the world.
Through words.
Through images.
Through stories.

It is a common understanding that we are all made of stories, and yet it is one of my biggest pulls to any individual I cross paths with.
Everyone’s unique narrative and my ability to bear witness to it.

I am living out one of my own that feels important to share. Not for the validation, though that is often the temptation, rather for the specific ability to offer a communal understanding and empathetic view of shared experience. Of opening up our minds and hearts to things unknown to us until exactly now that were found only within the bravery of open expression.

I also feel the need to share honestly in that part of me has felt empty since coming home.

And that’s largely because when I pulled into Virginia four months ago, after living a life on The Road for 333 days last year, I stopped telling stories.

Sure, verbally I told a few to some friends and family, and the occasional stranger who I’d meet that would pull one out of me because they’d comment on my jacket, or my hat, or the fact that I-don’t-look-like-I’m-from-around-here-even-though-I-am-it’s-just-that-I-hang-out-with-cowboys-too-much….
But mostly I’ve kept to myself and closed up in the unknown of what’s coming next in my life.

I stopped writing.

And writing has always been an integral part of me.
I have long felt that as long as I made time for both reading and writing, it was a day well lived.
The coupling of learning something new, and sharing my experience.

All of our experiences are different, especially during a time like this, but it feels important now more than ever to share that.
Resources, stories, kindness, wisdom, love, understanding, empathy…
It is within the recognition that there are experiences outside of your own that life is most often meant to be lived.

Which is why yours is one worth sharing.