by Carolyn Ash, Stillpoint Faculty: The Art of Spiritual Direction - Year 1

A day in my Southern California garden shines with peace, quiet, calm. Turning soil and tending plants creates space in my spirit, energizes my body, and soothes my mind. Repeated motions become a mantra for my hands and body. The mundane becomes sacred: sifting arid soil through my fingers, pulling weeds, feeling the heft of my tools, noticing earthy things with fresh vision. Gardening is meditative.

Native plants grow naturally in the local soil and climate. In Southern California, native plants soak in winter rains and thrive in waterless summers. Native plants in native soil. In spring, I revel in new shoots, bright green and new against ancient beige earth. Soon the California poppies pop up, bright golden-orange petals that float on slender stems above lacy leaves. In summer, pungent sage mingles with scents of redwood mulch in the hot dry garden. Gray green leaves of Indian mallow soften the hard glare while mallow’s bright yellow blossoms smile in the sunshine. In autumn, crusty late summer stems hide beneath the round and scalloped coral bell leaves. Crispy brown leaves pile up behind the pots of lavender and salvia on the old flagstone patio. The yard is cool under the maple tree, sun-warmed next to the delicate fairy duster bushes with their thread-like red blooms.

Birds and bugs like my garden too, I have noticed. Butterflies flitter among the poppies in spring. Bees busily gather pollen. Hummingbirds dip their needle beaks into monkey flower tubes. Spiders weave intricate glossy networks and wait hopefully at the edge for lunch to arrive. Bugs scurry on a thousand legs when I lift the stone roof from their tunnels. Finches flock around my little fountain, and the neighborhood mockingbird keeps everyone awake at night.

Weeds demand the most attention. They thrive in all conditions—clouds, sun, heat, cold, drought, flood. Perhaps they are the real native plants, but they are not the ones I want in my garden. They sneak in, snuggling up next to the purposely-planted. They hide under heuchera leaves and Manzanita shrubs sharing resources, twining roots, gathering strength for the great propagation. One day they explode to appropriate all unclaimed territory. It’s hard to stay ahead of the weeds. 

Weeding is an art.  You have to keep at it. You have to pull out the whole root or the weeds will spring forth again. The second round seems more vigorous than the first. You have to pull slowly to disengage root from soil. Wet soil releases roots better than dry soil does. You have to get the feel of it. When the root resists, keep the tension steady while it slips through the dirt. When you hear it snap, you have broken the root. The weed will be back. You have another chance to do it right next week or next month. 

Weeds appear in the spiritual landscape too. They often show up when I least expect them, in places I think are weed free. Like the garden weeds, I have to recognize them and then carefully disengage them. These days the daily onslaught of news feels weedy. I can’t pull those weeds, but I can try to keep the seed from spreading within me. Other things are weedy too, those things that I imagine separate me from the wonder of creation and the Creator. 

My contemplation returns to the ground. Native soil nourishes native plants, their roots growing deep into the dark and silent earth. Native soil of the heart seems an apt metaphor. As I—as you, we, all of us—put our roots into the deep and rich reservoir of divine love, we are nourished. Native soil of the heart: deep, available, un-conditioned, inclusive, cosmic, mysterious and mystical love.  It’s the love Jesus teaches in metaphor and parable. It’s the love-soil that nourishes us as we are invited to love God and our neighbors.

Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” 

We can cultivate native soil of the heart through silence and contemplation. And we can tend our native earth with spiritual companions who hold sacred space with us, listen deeply, gently invite us to examine the weeds, pray for and with us, and celebrate the buds and blooms.  Spiritual Direction is a place where your garden can grow. Tending to our soil, our native roots and the weeds and all the thriving and the dying parts of us. Like poppies and mallow and sage, we are native plants in the garden of creation. It’s good to garden--to feel and touch and tend creation. I envision the web, like the spider’s gossamer threads, connecting all living things—even the weeds—to the vast Mystery of the Cosmos.

Carolyn Ash, has been a member of the Stillpoint community since 2008 when she joined what is now called the Spiritual Journey program. She went on to become an intern in the Art of Spiritual Direction program, graduating in 2011. Carolyn feels privileged to journey with directees as they explore the interweaving of Spirit in their own lives. As a member of the ASD1 staff in Southern California for seven years, she delighted in walking with interns preparing to join the ancient practice of spiritual direction. Her other interests include gathering with family and friends, being outdoors, traveling, gardening, reading, and pottery. “A day of play in clay makes my soul sing!” she says.

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