[Garden Memories: XIX]
Next to the huge granite rock with the grinding holes left to us by the Maidu tribe was another large granite shelf that lifted just above ground level. Between them was a large crack about four feet wide by twelve feet long, no deeper than a kiddy pool. One year for Easter, Mom got us all pekin ducklings, with the idea that we could somehow turn the granite fissure into a small duck pond.
The two parallel rock shelfs were on a slight grade, so in theory we could damn up the lower end, and the crevasse would hold water. One or two bags of concrete is all it would take, Mom thought. The problem, as we learned, is that concrete and natural rock don’t create a water tight bond. Our duck pond lasted a day or two. Then we’d refill it. Then it would last another day or two. (I believe the ducks either got tired of waiting for a permanent fix, or we misjudged the threat of coyotes. Either way, they didn’t stay around long.)
Our pond idea reminds me of the self-help work that is suppose to pass as personal development or deep healing. Many of us, with good intentions and hopes of real change, implement our (or other’s) good ideas without developing an understanding of the problem, the substance of what we’re dealing, or the depth of our wounds. We think a little concrete patchwork will be water tight. And it never is.
Real inner work—also known as the spiritual journey, as I see it—is the long slow work of reshaping the contours of our existence. That requires deep, sustained, intentionality and commitment. And grace. For us from without and from us from within.
