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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I decided to ride up to Cedar Cross with Jimmy this morning, unplanned.
After yesterday’s dig, I was hopeful that one more day of the same could get the meditation space ready to receive the red clay that I would be excavating from the paths. After all, that was the impetus, or one of them, for the digging. I was having dirt management problems over on the pathway.
I was right. Four loads yesterday, and four loads today. I ended the day with library rods in place to mark the lower retaining wall that will be needed, and perhaps a small elevated section that could be used as a low lotus resting place, or a footrest perhaps. (Probably not the footrest thing.)
We have a retreatant this week who’s often ready to talk. She lingers and shares. She has a broad smile, and she loves Reba. I’ll call her J, and I learned that her retreat experience opened her, and that she has much new life in store.
Interacting with others at a distance of six feet or more is an interesting experience. I notice that I’m seeing the entire person, reading body language and overall energy more than facial expressions or vocal inflection. I’m uncertain whether this creates a deeper understanding or not.
J called the meditation space a “pocket.” Ding! That’s it. Now this meditation space has a name, at least for me. The Pocket. Meditation is like being in God’s pocket, safe and along for the ride.
Yes, I have a ton (pun intended) of stone work ahead, and still more digging and planting, and weeding. So, I’m not sure yet exactly when is the best time to move to the fence. But I’m thinking about the design.
There are a few sketches floating around in my head and on various pieces of paper. I’m leaning toward something kind of unconventional that will help to define the space, and also provide visual interest (thinking of the Sunny Garden as an extension of the studio).
It involves a vertical metal garden stake traveling through a hole drilled in the center of a lentil rock at ground level. Above the rock, sections of cedar with a hole drilled will be threaded onto the stake. Most of the cedar sections in the stack are short, but some are long enough to reach the next stack. Hence, fence.
What about the arbor? John was a great help in the garden today with his trusty loppers and the mower. And we realized that the mower doesn’t fit in the current footprint of the arbor. So, we’ll widen it just a few inches. Can the stacks extend eight feet high? Is there a metal stake of some sort that is, say, ten feet long? I need to consult Mr. Green Jeans.
Today was a busy day in the garden, and a hard day. I came home with an itchy rash after I spent most of the day on my hands and knees weeding and pulling roots, all while I was thinking about the fence, and about fences in general. We’re all functioning as if we are individually fenced. They call it “social distancing.”
This morning during morning prayers (it’s Monday) we talked about the pandemic. From now on, the paradigms of our lives will be pre-pandemic, pandemic, and post-pandemic. We will be forever changed, and we’re hoping for the better. As expressed by John, and I agree, there were many aspects of our society that were broken and are better left behind. I still find myself preoccupied wondering how bad it’s going to get, and for how long.
It’s like waiting for death.
And yet, I planted the tiniest of seeds a few days ago. And they’ve germinated already.
Maggie moved out of her room at WCU last week with Austin’s help. Today Mae moves out at UNCA. She’s allowed to bring one other person to assist her, and she has a three-hour window to pack up and move out. When she came home for spring break, she didn’t know that she would not be going back, per COVID19.
So, Reba and I headed up to work with the garden. John visited early in the day and commented on the frequency of my days in the garden lately.
“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands,” I replied. It’s a Thursday.
My wholesale business is “on hold” indefinitely. The venues to which I sell are all closed, deemed not essential. Suddenly I’m without income, and I’m left with questions about whether my work is “essential.” I always thought it was, believing that art elevates the soul, and that jewelry is an intimate art form in that it’s wearable and wrought with meaning for the wearer. Are those truths still true?
I’m ready for more stone work. But I decide to spend some time weeding in other areas to broaden my scope. I need time to think things through, when it comes to rocks, that is.
I have learned to think of the rock and the earth as concave and convex mirrors. And I’ve learned that soft red clay, which I often reach when I dig deep enough, is the perfect under layer for a stone that’s going to be walked on. I started out with slim stones, much wider than they are deep from the flat side. Turns out a stone with a flat side and a little more depth is much more ideal, more stable.
Digging deeper is causing some issues, bringing up stuff that I hadn’t planned to deal with. (Ha! Isn’t that how it goes. Should I start a list of garden metaphors for the contemplative life?) I have surplus red clay, and I have no idea what to do with it.
Until… I’m weeding on the east side when I notice a little tucked down area behind the main planting bed, just to the left of the arbor. I’m intrigued.
It would be an ideal place for meditation. There’s already what seems like a foot stone and a break in the stone wall. So, I set more stones to build a small retaining wall on the back side of the planting bed. And I kept weeding. Stoning. Weeding. And so on. And so forth.
The soil in the meditation space is rich. It’s on the downward slope from the entire garden, which years ago was graded and built up with fresh topsoil, and seeded as a lawn. There’s not much lawn left per se, but that topsoil is still there, much of it washed downhill from the main courtyard.
So, I’m thinking the thing to do is to 1) remove the topsoil from the meditation space and move it to the forthcoming center bed around the sculpture, 2) use the excess clay from the walkway to build up (level, with slight grade for drainage) the meditation space with a small retaining wall on the downside with the new fence line, and a stoned surface. That’s the order of operations as I understand it for now.
That, plus the plan to keep showing up to see what this garden has to teach me.
I have enjoyed my new weekly rhythm since the winter markets.
After their annual retreat, John and Margaret asked about sharing morning prayers with us (Jimmy and me). We readily accepted, wanting more opportunities for community and for time at Cedar Cross. I moved one of my extra benches into the studio and planned to begin each week with CX Studio Monday. And, CX Mondays would begin with morning prayers.
I also have a Sunny Garden sketchbook, and I’ll share those entries here from time to time. Here’s today’s:
It’s my “studio Monday” — I should be at my bench, but I’m fascinated with the stone pathway I’ve begun. That’s all I want to do.
Orders are being cancelled. But I still have some.
I continue with the work I began a few days earlier. Somehow I never, well, not much, get time at the bench. I did cut a few slices of tubing.
It’s becoming apparent that the Sunny Garden is a gift for me. It’s a project that I can’t finish in a day, and, unlike a piece of jewelry, it is literally alive. It will continue to change and develop with the seasons and the passage of time.
At this point we are just getting to know each other. I have no idea what is planted where, and as things are sprouting I am continually curious to see what emerges.
John mentioned a while back that he always thought the courtyard needed a focal point – something in the center of the circle. Today I found one.
I used a wagon wheel hoop that was leaning against the studio building and some of the heaviest, chunkiest rocks in the stash to build a sculpture in the center. I was really just playing, but I do think there’s potential.
Hi. As a member of the mission group for Cedar Cross Retreat Center, I’m caring for the Sunny Garden, just behind the art studio. Cedar Cross is a 52-acre forested sanctuary for rest, reflection, and renewal located in central North Carolina. The Sunny Garden is one of a few areas where the canopy is open, allowing hours of sunshine daily. This blog is my journal as I work with the garden. Incidentally, this is all happening as the coronavirus pandemic has taken the globe. – Ginger Allen
Sunny Garden Journal Vocabulary
library rods – once the knobs and metal rods in a nearby library’s paper card catalog drawers (pre-computer days), now our garden markers The Pocket – tucked-in meditation space in southeast corner
Sunny Garden Journal People
Butch – Mr. Green Jeans, mission group convener Jimmy – Cedar Cross Coordinator & author’s husband John – forest steward, Cedar Cross co-founder Lillie – mission group Mac – mission group member, Moss Garden creator Mae – author’s daughter Maggie – author’s daughter Margaret – original Sunny Garden gardener, Cedar Cross co-founder Olivia – author’s daughter Reba – cool dog Ruthie – author’s daughter Vickie – mission group member
Jimmy Allen
Ginger Allen