Author: Ginger Allen

Posted on by — 1 Comment

We are living and dying at the same time.

Every time I go home from a day in the garden, my body reminds me that I’m not a spring chicken anymore.

Hauling rocks, shoveling dirt to and fro, crawling around on my knees, digging and yanking roots, lifting a rock in and out of its chosen placement until I can form the hole to fit it perfectly — all of this is hard work. Good, old-fashioned, hard work.

And it’s just what I needed.

When the pandemic struck with all the subsequent repercussions, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was grieving. …Grieving the staggering forthcoming loss of life, grieving the fragile nature of our society’s compassion for others, grieving the reality of elevated risk for so many people I love, and grieving the loss of the business revenue I had worked so hard to secure for our family. The grief became so overwhelming that I needed a place to work it out. I needed a constructive way to haul and shovel and crawl and dig and yank that grief out of my body.

Many nights I’d lie in bed after a day with the rocks and try to find a muscle that didn’t hurt. I pushed myself sore many times, and turns out it was the best remedy I could find. The grief became clarity, and the time in the garden helped to create a deep sense of spaciousness within me as I prepare for the days to come.

The truth is that the world is complicated. Life is messy, and so is death. People worldwide are dying daily from COVID-19. And other people are trying to figure out how to get back to work. We are living, and we are dying; we are dying, and we are living. Both are true, at the same time.

What’s also true is that we have an amazing opportunity right now to synthesize the best of our world pre-pandemic with all the lessons we’ve learned about ourselves and our world during the pandemic into a new “third way” of life post-pandemic.

It’s been longer than six weeks since I began working with the garden. I am finally beginning to feel more centered and ready to discern moving forward with my business. Things will be changing, and I’m still listening to learn the details of the best way forward. Yet one of the things I know for sure is that the Sunny Garden and I will be pals for a long time to come.

Ginger in the Sunny Garden, mid-April 2020
Posted on by

Learning the Lingo

I could launch into a litany of words and phrases specific to goldsmithing that would not make a lot of sense to a non-smith.

No copper tongs in the pickle.

The girdle is uneven.

It’s time to sharpen the graver.

Pour the ingot through the flame.

Bleed the line.

I could continue, but I’ll spare you. The point is that any discipline or avocation is going to have its own vernacular. I’m learning the lingo of stone masonry.

Chinking helps to set.

The wall needs a good batter.

Two on one. One on two.

I found a book in the Cedar Cross library called Building Stone Walls by John Vivian.

I also managed to get another handy volume called Stonework by Peter McHoy.

As any good autodidact would, I’m finding it helpful to read/listen to several different perspectives and then engage each area somewhat methodically, taking note of what works and what doesn’t. Sometimes I don’t know what doesn’t work until it’s done and I notice that the drainage is off in a heavy rain, or that a wobble develops after some repeated walking.

So there are a few areas that I plan to revisit and improve. But for now I’m enjoying moving forward with what’s next. With the exception of a few tweaks to come, I have completed all the walkways at the main garden entrance.

Up next is The Pocket.

But first, let’s pause and celebrate this milestone!

Three steps in
Posted on by

Celebrating a milestone

Emerging from deep within me late yesterday, a hallelujah-style whoooop-yee-ha rung in the trees around the Sunny Garden.

It was a glorious moment!

I set the last stone in that tricky, curvy, slope-y section of the path that I’ve been working on for the last three weeks. I gathered up my tools, grabbed my water bottle, and stretched my back. As I swallowed, I looked down along those stones and realized that I had reached a milestone. (Pun intended.)

Hallelujah!

Weeks ago when I assisted Mac in the Moss Garden, we were wrapping up our work for the day when he invited me to take a stone next to him.

We sat there and observed the space where we’d been on our knees most of the day. Mostly we sat together in silence, with just a few thoughts shared aloud between us. It was a precious reminder for me. A holy pause.

Pause speaks to the very essence of Cedar Cross and why it exists. The spaciousness of respite gives nourishment and clarity to the soul. It balances launching with holding, studying with observing, doing with being.

Jimmy captured this moment of Mac and me pausing to reflect on our work for the day.

So, after my big hallelujah moment last evening, I sat down just outside the space and reflected on the pathway, the work, the time, and the context. Putting together these hard pieces of earth is somehow leading me toward new truths about the hard pieces of life in this world. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just building a pathway.

A mile of stones. A milestone.
Posted on by

Using what we already have

There are a couple of stone foundations and chimneys at Cedar Cross – remnants of the lives lived here in years past.

These structures were built using a resource of the land that occurs in abundance here – granite.

When an artist snatches the tail of her muse leading her toward a new medium, look out. There are entire commercial industries built around selling art supplies and teaching craft lessons and so on and so forth. And thank goodness for that, for the nurturing of creativity in folks however it shows up for them. I’m all for it.

But in my case, in this moment, less is more. I’ve lost most of my income for now because of this pandemic, so in my creative endeavors of late, I’m committed to working with what I already have, using what I already have, and not spending money if I can help it.

So THANK GOODNESS there is no end to the supply of rocks at Cedar Cross!

When this land was farmed, rocks were piled up out of the way of the plow. In the woods I can find piles here and there, lots of them. My understanding of the geology is that stone outcroppings tend to run northwest to southeast. That helps me know where to look. And John is helpful with directing me to outcroppings.

I have three piles going in the Sunny Garden. They are sort of sorted according to shape and function. Sort of. It’s all a work in progress.

One is for massive flat boulders. Those work well as steps, and I’m thinking of trying to do the main floor of The Pocket with those. That will be tricky and require the strength of Samson before his haircut. But, hey, since haircuts are hard to come by in pandemic times, maybe we can work something out. We’ll see.

Another pile is for stones with some depth and a lovely flat side. Those are for the pathway.

The third pile is for retaining walls. Smaller stackables are for the plant beds, and bigger rocks are for The Pocket wall.

John advised me when I started this project that with stone work, you’ll end up collecting more rocks than you’ll use, usually at a rate of three to one. Every rock placed is selected for that spot, so it makes sense that some won’t be chosen.

I guess that means at some point I’ll be making my own pile of rocks somewhere in the woods, available for someone else looking to build something some day in the years to come.

Posted on by

The root of the problem

I think I’m on stone number 729 or something like that. By now I’ve learned how to select the stone for the spot and how to set it so it will be stable enough to walk on.

Slopes create a challenge, even if they’re slight. But what really creates an obstacle is root systems.

So when I encountered a huge root on a fairly short and steep slope, I realized both challenges concurrently would require special effort.

If a root is smaller than your average cucumber, I’ll cut it and remove it. If it’s larger than that, I work around it because I don’t want to risk serious injury to the life of the tree.

So far I’ve cut through hundreds of roots. And so far there have been only three that I had to work around. They were huge – perhaps the size of my arm. The latest one took a while to manage because of its location in a stepped area.

The solution was three huge and somewhat flat boulders.

I ended up with three wide boulders. The middle one has a huge root underneath on the left side. I went back out rock hunting to find a stone that was this size with a thin left side.

When I begin to dig, I don’t know what I’ll find. Most of the time I can make things work easily. Topsoil. Clay. Roots. I get to play with patterns and imagine several different options. But sometimes there’s a whopper root just waiting beneath the surface. And then there’s nothing to be done but cooperate.

I’m resisting the urge here to write a clever garden metaphor for life. It would go something like this:

Gardener digs a hole, as Human explores self within.

Gardener encounters an immovable obstacle, as Human remembers pain of trauma and loss.

Gardener examines obstacle, studies form, and evaluates options, as Human unpacks injury and works to bring healing where it was previously absent.

Gardener works in spite of and along with obstacle to accomplish desired result, as Human works in spite of and along with pain to move toward redemption.

Something like that.

Posted on by

Change is slow, or is it?

I started this project just weeks ago with an almost new pair of leather gloves. Heavy duty ones. 100% pigskin.

This morning I noticed a hole in the left index finger. I can’t believe how quickly I’ve worn a hole in these gloves.

I’m not ready to ditch them yet, of course. They still have plenty of life left in them. They’ll help me lift and haul lots more rocks. But maybe they won’t last as long as I expected.

I read a prediction (or maybe it was a headline or a tweet, not sure) that because of COVID19, by 2070 our planet would still be habitable, people would have a renewed connection to nature, and the climate in general would be on its way back. This is a stark turn of course from the climate predictions pre-pandemic that in fifty years our planet would not be well.

Maybe nature is showing us how quickly she can respond when we make big changes. Suddenly, because we don’t want to die, we are staying home. Because of this we already have clear skies over China and Los Angeles, dolphins returning to the Venice canals, and me digging in the earth, opening myself to her again.

Thanks for reading. I‘m off to grab my gloves and dig for a while.

It only took three weeks to wear this hole.
Posted on by

I’m making decisions every day.

At the entrance to the garden, right where I’m setting stones, there’s a rich and lovely loropetalum. It was a new species to me, so I did some research.

I learned that it’s in the witch hazel family, that it can grow to 15 feet, and that it is ideal in woodland gardens. Ours had several little offspring, including a few in the pathway where I’m digging and setting stones. What do I do with them? 

I had to make decisions.

Decisions are important in life, and we make lots of them all day every day. What to eat. What to say. How to approach a problem. How to express joy and gratitude. 

During this pandemic, the decisions I’m making on a daily basis have changed. As a creative entrepreneur, my daily decisions were around production methods and studio equipment and staffing and design choices and authentic marketing. I do have an online e-commerce business and the ability to work with custom clients remotely, so some of that is still active in my days. But since my wholesale business is “on hold” indefinitely, a major portion of that is gone from my daily experience, at least for now. 

Yet I’m still engaged in the process of making decisions. And today it was time to decide where to transplant the loropetalum. For me, decision-making is more of a collaboration. It begins with discernment and a time of sitting with the issue at hand, being open to where Spirit may lead. 

I’ve been doing this for a while with that loropetalum, knowing the day was coming when I’d reach that spot on the path and they’d have to go then. One went to the front of the studio, one to the north side of the studio, and one south of the fence line toward parking spot #3. I hope they like their new homes. 

There’s still one more baby loropetalum left to transplant, but it’s not in the pathway. So, we can make that decision later. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1M1IZ4RgQ2l6zvpottgDJWxfTZFPyXYmo
Posted on by

Stones and rocks and boulders

I lost count of how many loads of rocks I gathered today. 

For some reason I was drawn to really large stones. This was particularly surprising considering that I was lifting them by myself. 

I started the day calling them rocks. 

By the end of the day they were all boulders. 

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1bjMd-l3dsnjtrRgjX9r4UCNomDRuMBRQ
The community around Cedar Cross is called Rocky Ford. This is why.
https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1cbZ9Ws0BaiFU2CLTTz3_8Wxaw35FqFC-
Load number who knows.
https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1g2LijDXdG1pWqZsijIyi7nbBPg9XcgO9
These are the small- and medium-sized ones.
https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1X3p9heH82JykFbMwtNUjbbbDHBdXihWe
Reba says that’s enough rocks for one day.
Posted on by

Order of operations

I spent a lot of time in the dirt in my 20s.

When we lived in a townhome, I had an extensive container garden. Having grown up in rural Warren County, gardening as a city dweller might was a new challenge. 

Then, in our first house, I planted everything everywhere I could. I dug by hand, laid pavers, planted herbs and tubers and perennials and annuals and vegetables and shrubs. (I don’t think I ever planted a tree.) I followed whatever attracted my attention and worked intuitively learning as I went along. Bliss. 

When we moved to our current home, I was mothering four little girls and working to build my creative practice into a business. I gave up my time in the dirt. But it was this season in my 30s when I learned to work smarter and think about how to do things most efficiently. Things in general. Batching processes, combining like tasks, planning the week, and so on. I was responsible for a lot, so it was necessary. I didn’t have the luxury of impulse or aimless wandering like I did when I was younger. Or, at least, that’s what I thought. 

So as I’m entering my 50s later this year, I would hope that I can (by now) integrate these different ways of working. I really want to start working on the fence. But I know that I need to stone The Pocket first  because I can’t really predict the footprint of the stone surface and retaining wall there until it’s happening. And the fence line needs to follow that footprint. And…

Since I can’t stone The Pocket until I know how much red clay I’m working with from the pathways, I need to finish those first. And I need more rocks. Lots more rocks. 

Maybe I can build a prototype fence post for the corner between the two little staircases on the studio porch? Just to see if my cedar-stack idea will work?

Maybe. But not until after you go get some more rocks. 

First things first.