A Confession

This month has held a lot of contemplation.

A lot of recollection of what once was, what is no longer, what is yet to be.

Something that Owen and I have been reminding ourselves of in the last few months is— no great thing worth doing is without some unknown.

Some amount of scary feeling.

Some amount of “but what if…”

I’ve been reading some of my writing from 2018 and feeling so deeply—“I miss that person”.

It’s a strange thing to miss yourself. But there are elements of who I am that I have let go of, set aside and placed on the back burner out of what I perceived at the time as necessary in order to survive.

I look back on the last four years and recognize that I’ve largely been operating in survival mode.

A mode that strips away the fringe and unnecessary to some degree, but can also strip away the core of something and push it into a state of otherness and something unrecognizable.

Something it was never meant to be.

All of this probably seems vague and ominous.

And in some ways it is.

I didn’t set out to write this post and be melodramatic.

But I suppose I’m not quite ready to talk about the shifts and changes that are coming, so much as I am ready to talk about the feelings that got me here.

Or rather, more so, the things that I miss.

I miss being curious about people.

I miss being open to people.

I miss loving people.

I miss writing.

I miss taking pictures just for the sake of it, and not to sell something.

I miss reading.

I miss doing less.

I miss living slower.

I miss spending more time off of a screen than on it.

I miss walking in grass barefoot.

I miss the water.

I miss sailing.

I miss creating and not feeling like I have to incorporate and monetize it into the brand.

I miss sharing things on a kinder internet, in a kinder world.

I miss being more open and free with my feelings/thoughts without waking the next morning to hurtful and hateful DMs. Of strangers feeling like it was their duty and right to correct/shame/educate me on how I was wrong for doing what I did, saying what I said.

Or what I didn’t do, didn’t say.

I miss being Leney vs. “you’re the girl with that store!”

I miss being more of a human and less of a brand.

I miss privacy.

I miss not managing people.

I miss weekends.

I miss my family.

I miss my friends. Friends that knew me before Folkling. That loved me before Folkling.

I miss believing in and expecting the best out of people instead of the worst.

I miss Owen.

I miss when my life wasn’t wholly and entirely— Folkling.

Folkling Brick & Mortar Shop Opening

It feels surreal to be announcing this at all, let alone at the end of this particular year.
This contemplation, of having a shop, was long held as a “oh wouldn’t that be fun…” kind of dream.
A hypothetical dream. A dream where you think about your life and all of the things you would do if you could, in an alternate universe, do everything you wanted to do.

And then, this year, things shifted.

Photo work was placed on hold during the pandemic and my side business, Folkling, where I curate beautiful old things from my travels around the country and share their stories, became all I had in the way of making a living.
So I put my all into it.
I worked from sun up to sundown every day on this dream.

This dream to continue to be able to provide for myself a life of independence shaped by my artistry and sharing the beauty that I see in the world.

It took off. Turns out when you can’t go anywhere for months and you have limited options in the way of artistic output, focus and motivation pushed into one direction can do pretty amazing things. The reluctance and reticence I felt at the beginning of the year at the requirement to stay in one place turned into a blessing beyond measure.

A kismet happenstance of needing a change, praying for a sign for the-next-right-thing and a spontaneous drive through a small town and noticing an empty storefront.

The rest, as they say, is history.

In many ways this space feels like the ultimate tangible representation of all I have worked for in the ten years since I started A Girl Named Leney and the three since starting Folkling. To have a physical space to share with others, even with the limitations of this current time we live in, feels like such an incredible gift.

This dream that I held in partial disbelief of it ever being a reality, has now become tangible and it leaves me in awe and more grateful than I feel capable of expressing.

It would not be possible without the support of so many along the way. This is by no means a feat of an individual, so many have helped shape this venture into what it is today and I know there will still be many more yet to come.

But as for the official opening….

I was going to call it a soft opening because, well, we still don’t have a sign, there’s a lot of inventory that still needs to be tagged, we need more clothing racks and a couch and shelves and a bunch of other tiny details that no one but me will notice... and even though I feel beyond ready I also really don’t feel ready.

But I recognize that this space, this extension of me, will be ever changing and evolving as the months roll on.

So whether soft or grand—consider this the opening announcement.

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Staring December 11th, the Folkling showroom will be open exclusively on Fridays and Saturdays from 10am-6pm.

During the week will be reserved for business-as-usual online listing, photo work and going out on The Road to pick!

So grab your mask and a friend and come out and say hello this weekend!

107 S Main St.
Suite 1
Gordonsville, VA 22942

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Flyer by Maria Scott

The Quilt Coat Project

If you missed the beginning of this story, you can read part one here and part two here.

And so, after a dream.
After driving 1,400 miles round trip.
After turning an internet friend into a real life one.
After taking a risk.

We started to create.

We are turning a very special stack of found quilts into—COATS.

We believe strongly in only using quilts that have damage or wear that would otherwise have deemed them less collectible or usable.

(We can’t bring ourselves to cut into the good ones...)

Sarah has hand washed each and every one naturally and laid them out in the Alabama sunshine.

We both put in the work of planning and dreaming out each and every quilts new life.

Each will be thoughtfully cut and pieced together to make a heritage piece that is in and of itself a layered work of art.

A story of making something old new again.
A garment that will last your lifetime.

Sarah’s doing the sewing—then we’ll be meeting up to exchange them and I’ll bring them back to Virginia to do the photographing, story telling and listing for you all in a few weeks (they’ll certainly be well traveled and steeped in narrative by then!)

We will have a variety of sizes and lengths, but this will be a small collection for now.
We don’t know where it will lead, but we are enjoying the process and the opportunity to create something together out of a shared passion and love for old textiles.

We’ll be sharing more as these quilt coats are created!

Thank you all for your excitement in this project with us. It’s one of hope and redemption.
You’ve been spurring on two women’s dreams.

And if we’ve learned anything from this project of ours... it’s to listen to the dreams.

A Beautiful Unfolding

If you missed part one of this story, you can read it here.

This is my friend Sarah (also known as @potters.daughter on Instagram).
Between us is a stack of quilts that we spent the better part of a month finding and rescuing all over the deep South. Most of these were found on my way to meet Sarah actually. That’s right—we’d never met in person until this day. Until this moment we were, as they say, just Instagram friends. But a dream Sarah had— not even three weeks before this photo was taken— led me to driving over 700 miles, with a car full of quilts, to meet her. Because we share a love of projects.
And a love for old textiles. And for not only *seeing* but *sharing* the beauty of imperfect and cast-off things and believing in their ability to still have life left to live. Additionally, we recognize that there is a lot of beauty to be found in partnering with someone to create something.

As much as you may want to do and create and be all of the things all by your lonesome, there is a special kind of magic that comes in choosing to join together with someone to share in the creation of a work of art.

That’s what this story is about... Collaboration.

But not in the millennial sense of the word. A surface level, here’s-a-thing-created-by-one-person-and-sponsored-by-another.

But a true equal partnership of deep exploration into the possibilities of the unknown and working together side by side in equal standing. To create something that feels layered and meaningful. To trust in the divine and in something bigger than ourselves.

I hope you’ll stay tuned as we keep unfolding the rest of this journey.

(I wasn’t trying to make a pun, you know, with quilts and all, but I kind of feel as though that’s a good title for this chapter of this story: A Beautiful Unfolding.)

A Dream That Led Me To Driving 700 Miles

My life is driven by stories.

This is the beginning of a story that I want to share with you.



It’s about two strangers who became friends over the internet and decided to create something together.

It’s about seeing the beauty in worn-out, imperfect things.
It’s about dreams.



I’ve been in love with textiles since I was a little girl.
Growing up, my Momma would take me to thrift shops and fabric stores.
I’d spend hours in these places walking around with my hard earned money, contemplating old clothes and yards of fabric to cut up to create the patterns I’d dreamed up from taking apart garments I had at home.


For a time I dreamed of becoming a fashion designer.


(And then I became knitwear designer. So that dream came true in a way. But that’s a story for another time…)


As I got older, I started to appreciate the history, style and construction of older clothes.
I learned about the toxic fast fashion culture and the harmful ways that most of our clothing today is produced and how much is thrown away.

I committed to only buying secondhand and US made clothing.

Then I became a curator and reseller of vintage clothing.
Which was a new kind of dream.
To be able to share this passion with others and live out this ethos of “saving the world” one dumpster of clothing at a time was a pretty rewarding (and just downright fun) thing.

Then I started learning about quilts.



Each, one-of-a-kind works of art. 


Made meticulously and thoughtfully by hand. 

Many, cast off and forgotten heirlooms from traditions long ago.

Each pattern holding storied meaning.



I realized that many quilts have been damaged beyond use and are cast off, unusable and undesirable because of their imperfections.


I started a personal collection of these quilts because I still saw their beauty, despite their stains and wear.



As it turned out, an internet friend named Sarah (@potters.daughter) felt a lot of the same things that I did about quilts.
In fact, we started talking about our quilt love so much that she ended up having a dream about it…

That dream of hers led to me driving over 700 miles from Virginia to Alabama a few weeks later.


Her dream?
I’ll tell you more about it later this week...

On The Road Again

I am headed out on The Road.

I don’t know yet how long I’ll be gone but I’m connecting some dots between some photo jobs, vintage picking and most of all—

Answering the pull to be out amidst new and natural wonders of the country I call home in the simple, free and easy way I miss so much.

Although, I’m not sure how free and easy it will be.

I don’t know what I’ll encounter out there as the world has changed quite a bit since I was last out in it ten months ago.

Granted, The Road for me usually encompasses large periods of time alone, away from people, out in nature.

But I always enjoy meeting others wherever I happen to be. Hearing their story, exchanging some communal goodness and good will between passing kindred spirits.

But now, I won’t be able to interact with people and make friends quite in the same way.

The Road has been built up and elusively out of reach in my mind this last almost-a-year.
I have felt grounded and content at home and enjoyed my sweet Virginia more than I have in a good long while.
Made new friends and loves and discovered new corners of home that were before unknown.

All of which I am so grateful for.

So I’ll come back.
(I always come back.)

But I am a woman with a two sided nature—I love to be here and I love to also be there.
Here and away—both are home.
I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to have both in quite this way, or if this will be the end of my wanting it even— but I need to go out and see if The Road, this ever persistent promise, is what I remember it to be.

—————●—————

I am opening my books for @agirlnamedleneyphotography for the next little while, so if you’re somewhere out there and have a photography or documentation proposition for me
(or some of your grandparents clothes/quilts you want me to buy for @folkling)
— shoot me a message.

xo
—————●—————

September

September has long been my favorite time of year.

The amount of feeling encapsulated within this season is hard for me to sum up in a few sentences, but it mostly entails things along the lines of newness, fall on the horizon and good things coming.

Folkling Shop Update | Mountain Mama

This collection of antique whites was shot in the Blue Ridge Mountains one slow early morning last week.
There was the sweetest bit of cool air blowing through the trees, an inviting promise of fall on its way, and the icy mountain river was a revitalizing wake up for my tired bones as I waded across from my campsite.

Each of these pieces were handpicked in Virginia. Some have mends and imperfections, but as you all know, it is in these very details that I find so much beauty and I think that the storied signs of wear and use make them all the more valuable and special.

This collection is a hard one for me to let go of, as the extra time and care I put into fixing and documenting them brings about more attachment and sentimentality in the process. But I hope that the places they end up will be better than where I found them.

Here’s to giving old things new life.

Suggested listen: Narrow Road by Jeffrey Martin (Actually, just go listen to this whole album…)

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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