Some seed fell upon rocky soil.
A whole bunch, actually. A couple of weeks ago I haphazardly spread some shady lawn seed across several large patches in my front yard where shrubbery once stood. The shrubbery was the casualty of my new axe. The mission for this summer is to grow some grass.
However, I had not properly tilled the soil. The earth was hard and unyielding. A few tiny blades of grass began to sprout up after 10 days or so, but with hardly the stamina that could ever make them viable participants in the community dynamic known as a lawn.
And so, somewhat spontaneously yesterday morning, I took a large shovel and began to turn the earth, making the soil much more receptive to the seeds. I used a rake to flatten out the large bumps that had existed. I showered the dirt with water, then added an exponentially larger amount of seed before watering once again. This morning, a bit sore, I watered once more, and will continue the watering pattern for days if not weeks to come.
I am pondering these days what things keep me from being a habitat where certain qualities might take root and grow in a sustainable fashion. It could be that some surfaces need to be completely unearthed, begun again from scratch, with fresh water and nutrients added so that new seed might be poured in.
A good friend recently shared the amazing events that happened during and after his completion of an arduous 40-day fast. I thought about the level of receptivity and discernment he tilled both within himself and others who felt mysteriously drawn toward him. I am supposed to respond in some fashion to his fast; exactly how, I have no idea. I'm not big on rushing into spiritual imitation. But I sense a tug to till, to rip some things up and pour some things in, to in general increase my awareness and availability to God.
Lawn care, like gardening,is a journey. It never fully ends. Neither does the making of a soul and the blossoming of its full potential and availability to love.