Four years ago, I would have laughed if someone told me I'd be mixing mud with my bare feet to build walls. At sixty-eight, I was supposed to be settled into retirement routines, not getting my hands dirty learning construction techniques that most people abandoned a century ago. But here I am, writing this with clay still embedded under my fingernails from yesterday's work on my neighbor's cob oven, and I can't imagine going back to thinking about building the way I used to.
It started because I was frustrated. After my husband died and I began this whole journey toward more sustainable living, I kept running into the same problem everywhere I looked. Everything about modern life seemed designed to maximize waste and environmental damage, and construction was one of the worst offenders. The numbers are staggering when you actually look at them – buildings are responsible for nearly 40% of carbon emissions globally. The cement industry alone produces about 8% of all CO2. Every new house contains thousands of components shipped from around the world, each with its own carbon footprint.
I'd been reading about this stuff, getting more and more depressed about it, when my granddaughter Emma mentioned something she'd learned in her environmental science class about "natural building." She showed me some pictures on her phone of houses made from mud and straw that looked like they belonged in fairy tales but were actually modern homes. "Grandma, people built their own houses for thousands of years before we had all this industrial stuff," she said. "Maybe we should learn how to do it again."
That planted a seed. I started looking into it online, found a workshop happening about two hours away, and on a whim decided to sign up. My daughter thought I'd lost my mind. "Mom, you're almost seventy. You don't need to be learning masonry or whatever this is." But I went anyway.
The workshop was held at a small farm where the instructor, a woman named Janet who'd been building with natural materials for thirty years, taught about fifteen of us how to make something called cob. It's basically a mixture of clay-rich soil, sand, and straw that you mix together with water until it reaches the consistency of… well, it reminded me of the mud pies I made as a kid, except much more substantial.
Janet had us take off our shoes and socks and stomp around in this mixture like we were crushing grapes. I felt ridiculous at first – here I was, a respectable retired insurance clerk, squishing mud between my toes with a bunch of strangers. But there was something almost magical about it. The material felt alive under my feet, and as we worked together to get the consistency just right, I found myself enjoying the process in a way I hadn't expected.
"This is what people used to build with before we convinced ourselves that construction had to be complicated and expensive," Janet explained as we shaped the cob into a small garden wall. "Clay, sand, straw, water. That's it. No toxic chemicals, no materials shipped from across the world, no specialized tools that cost thousands of dollars."
What struck me most was how forgiving the process was. With regular construction, if you make a mistake, it can be expensive and difficult to fix. But with cob, if something wasn't quite right, you just added more material or carved away what you didn't want. It was like sculpting, but for buildings. Janet called it "having a conversation with your structure as you build it."
That workshop was three years ago, and it changed how I think about pretty much everything related to buildings and homes. I've since learned about several different natural building techniques, helped with projects in my area, and even built a small cob storage shed in my backyard – with proper permits, I should mention, because natural building doesn't mean ignoring local regulations.
The more I learned, the more sense it made, especially given my childhood memories of how we used to live. My mother's generation didn't throw things away the way we learned to do later. They fixed what broke, made do with what they had, used local materials when possible. These building techniques are really just an extension of that same mindset – using what's available locally instead of shipping materials from hundreds of miles away, building things to last instead of planning for replacement, working with your hands instead of relying entirely on machines and specialists.
Cob is still my favorite material to work with. You mix about 20% clay-rich soil with 70-80% sand, add straw for strength, and enough water to get it moldable. When it dries, it becomes incredibly hard – there are cob buildings in England that have been standing for over 500 years. The technique is forgiving for beginners, allows for artistic expression, and creates walls with excellent thermal mass that help moderate indoor temperatures naturally.
I helped my friend Margaret build a cob fireplace in her living room last year. The whole project cost less than $200 in materials – we got clay-rich soil from a construction site that was giving it away, bought sand from a local quarry, and used straw from a nearby farm. A conventional masonry fireplace would have cost thousands and required hiring professionals. Instead, we had a wonderful time building it ourselves over several weekends, and Margaret says it heats her main living area better than her old gas fireplace ever did.
The main limitations of cob are that it's labor-intensive (though the labor can be enjoyable social time rather than drudgery), and it needs protection from excessive moisture through good foundations and roof overhangs. It also works better in some climates than others – though people have found ways to adapt it for most conditions.
Straw bale construction offers another approach that's particularly good for colder climates. Instead of mixing straw into mud, you use whole bales of straw as both the structure and insulation, stacking them like giant bricks and then covering them with plaster. The insulation value is extraordinary – about twice as good as conventional walls – which means much lower heating bills.
I participated in a straw bale workshop where we built a small studio for a local artist. What amazed me was how quickly the walls went up. With about eight people working together, we had the walls erected in a single day. The bales are heavy but manageable, and the technique doesn't require any special skills beyond being able to stack things and use basic tools.
The artist told me later that her heating costs in the studio are almost nothing, even during cold Massachusetts winters, because the straw provides such excellent insulation. She's been using it year-round for her pottery work and says it stays comfortable in all seasons with minimal heating or cooling.
Straw bale does require keeping the bales dry during construction and having a proper roof to protect the walls from moisture. You also need to source good quality bales, which isn't always easy depending on where you live. But for people wanting super-insulated buildings, particularly in colder areas, it's an excellent option.
Another technique I've learned about is called earthbag construction, which uses polypropylene bags filled with moistened earth, stacked like enormous bricks and reinforced with barbed wire between courses. The bags are then covered with plaster to protect them from sunlight. What makes this method particularly interesting is that it can use almost any type of soil – clay, sand, gravel, or mixtures – which means you can literally build from whatever dirt is available on your site.
I only helped with one earthbag project, but it left a strong impression. There's something reassuring about those solid, tamped earth walls. The technique is less finicky than cob or straw bale, and the resulting structures are incredibly strong. I've read about earthbag buildings surviving earthquakes and hurricanes that destroyed conventional buildings nearby.
The main drawback is that filling and moving the bags is physically demanding work, though there are simple machines available now to help with the bag-filling part. And while the bags represent a tiny amount of manufactured material compared to a conventional building, they're still not entirely natural materials.
Then there's cordwood construction, which works particularly well if you live in a forested area. You use short lengths of logs – usually 12 to 24 inches long – laid in a mortar bed with the cut ends showing on both sides of the wall. The logs can be pieces too small or irregular for regular lumber use, so you're basically using what might otherwise be waste wood.
I helped with a cordwood project for a friend who had a lot of small trees on her property that needed to be removed for forest health. Instead of having them chipped or burned, we used them to build a beautiful little workshop. The walls have this wonderful pattern of log ends that looks almost like a mosaic, and the insulation value is excellent because the wood and mortar create alternating thermal zones.
The main challenges with cordwood are that you need properly dried wood (green wood will shrink and create gaps), and the mortar preparation and placement takes time. But if you have access to suitable wood, it's a beautiful way to build that uses truly local materials.
All of these techniques share certain principles that appeal to me. They use minimal processed materials, rely on local resources, create <a href="https://zeroemissionjourney.com/eco-friendly-home-renovations-tips-for-sustainable-building-and-design/"><a href="https://zeroemissionjourney.com/eco-friendly-home-renovations-tips-for-sustainable-building-and-design/">healthy indoor environments</a></a> without toxic chemicals, and cost a fraction of conventional construction – particularly if you're willing to do some of the work yourself. They also create buildings that can eventually return to the earth instead of becoming permanent waste when they're no longer needed.
But beyond the environmental benefits, what I've found most rewarding is the sense of connection to the building process. When you've mixed cob with your own hands, stacked straw bales, or placed cordwood piece by piece, you understand your structure in a completely different way than if you'd hired contractors to build with factory-made materials. You know what it's made of, how it goes together, and how to maintain or modify it.
There's also a social aspect that I wasn't expecting. Natural building projects tend to attract people who want to learn and work together. I'm still friends with people I met at various workshops and building projects. We share tips, visit each other's projects, and provide support when someone runs into challenges. It's created a community of people who understand that building your own shelter is both possible and deeply satisfying.
I'm not suggesting that natural building is going to replace all conventional construction. Hospitals, schools, and urban apartment buildings will probably always require industrial methods and materials. But for many of our housing needs, particularly in suburban and rural areas, these techniques offer real alternatives that are both environmentally sustainable and economically accessible.
The biggest obstacles tend to be regulatory rather than technical. Building codes were written around conventional construction methods, and many officials don't know how to evaluate natural building techniques. This is changing slowly as more natural buildings demonstrate their safety and durability, but it can still require patience and persistence to get permits in some areas.
Finding professionals for things like electrical and plumbing work can also be challenging, since most tradespeople aren't familiar with working in natural buildings. And getting insurance or financing can be difficult when lenders and insurers don't understand the techniques.
But these obstacles are gradually diminishing as natural building becomes more mainstream. There are now several areas in the United States where building codes specifically accommodate techniques like straw bale and cob. More contractors are learning to work with natural materials. And there are lenders who specialize in financing alternative construction.
My own journey with natural building continues to evolve. I'm currently planning a small earthbag root cellar for my backyard – something I've wanted since starting to grow more of my own vegetables. The materials will cost less than $300, it will provide excellent food storage without electricity, and I'm looking forward to the satisfaction of building it myself.
I've also started teaching occasional workshops at our local community center, sharing what I've learned with other people who are interested in these techniques. Many of them are younger folks looking for affordable ways to build their first homes, but there are also plenty of people my age who remember when building your own was normal rather than unusual.
What strikes me most is how these ancient techniques feel both old-fashioned and revolutionary at the same time. We're going back to building methods that sustained humanity for thousands of years, but in our current context, choosing to build with mud and straw feels like a radical act. It's a rejection of the idea that shelter has to be expensive, environmentally destructive, and created by specialists using materials from around the world.
For anyone interested in exploring natural building, my advice is to start small and get some hands-on experience. Build a garden wall, outdoor oven, or storage shed before attempting a whole house. Attend workshops where you can learn under guidance. Connect with local natural builders who understand your specific climate and regulations.
Most importantly, remember that the process is as valuable as the result. Working with these materials connects you to something fundamental about human creativity and ingenuity. Every time I put my hands in that cool, earthy cob mixture, I'm reminded of why I started this journey – not just to reduce my environmental impact, but to reclaim the basic human satisfaction of creating shelter with my own hands, using materials from the earth beneath my feet.
At my age, I don't have time for activities that don't feel meaningful. Natural building feels like one of the most meaningful things I've learned to do in my retirement. It connects me to the past, provides practical skills for the present, and might just be part of the solution for a more sustainable future.
Donna’s retired but not slowing down. She spends her days gardening, reusing, and finding peace in simpler living. Her writing blends reflection with realism—gentle reminders that sustainability starts at home, in daily habits and quiet choices.
