By Betsy Gonwa, 
With a spade, I scraped the top layer of sod from in between the fall transplants, careful to avoid the young green shoots of the Lady Ferns. In an attempt to expand the fern bed, they had been plopped into the ground last fall when it was cold and overcast, threatening rain, with winter weather looming ahead.
On the ground under the established ferns, I noticed that there were very few weeds; an occasional sprout of buckthorn, but no dandelions or Creeping Charlie. Some of those ferns had been transplanted 16 years ago. Others had been there longer. They each stood firm and tall, totally at home in front of the retaining wall in the space under the junipers. The dark brown ground around their roots contrasted with their green aliveness, and spoke of its own wealth.
As I scraped and sometimes knelt to pull the weeds closest to the ferns so as not to damage them, I thought about the weeding and purging that has come about in my own life, through prayer and discernment and the passage of time. Recently, believing that the discipline of a commitment would help me to add a second meditation time to my day, I had participated in a 21-day-challenge of chair yoga and meditation. Just like I had dug holes in the grass under the junipers in the fall, I set up a folding chair in my study each day at noon. And I had become aware that making space in the middle of my day impacted the time before and after.
Under the junipers, the newly transplanted ferns appeared fragile and vulnerable. The spaces between them were larger and they were located farther away from the rock wall and the trunks of the junipers, perhaps less protected from the sun. How would they fare? And how would the addition of a consistent spiritual practice into my daily routine impact my life in the long run? It was a small, simple act. We started with one minute of meditation, and gradually worked up to 21 minutes. What might the fruit of 16 years of such a practice be? Would the space around this practice grow richer and deeper with the passing of time? Just as the ground around the mature ferns?
I would return to this bed of ferns again, I knew. Just as the work of prayer and discernment does not end, neither does the need to weed. Still, I marveled at how the ferns had multiplied and flourished with very little care from me. And when I put away the spade and my gardening gloves, I considered the process of discernment in a new light. Was I putting too much emphasis on weeding? And not enough on planting?
Perhaps I didn’t need to prepare a whole garden bed for a new planting in my life. Perhaps it was enough to dig a hole just the right size, let the roots spread out, and allow the reseeding process and the sun and the rain to do the work. And, of course, the wind. Let me not forget the wind. Like the Spirit of God hovering over the waters, creating and bringing to life, the wind spreads the seeds to where they will grow. I smiled when I thought of where the Spirit Wind might blow the seeds of my mid-day meditation practice. Yes, I thought, closing the door of the garden shed, I could trust this practice to produce lush green aliveness in my life.
Can you dig a small hole and plant something new in the soil of your life?
