I worked in the gardens until sweat poured down my face. It was one of those sultry August weekends in Iowa that makes us all flee inside to avoid wilting. Though tempted to sip iced tea in the air conditioning, my gardens called to me.

It is that time of year when my flamboyant, showoff-y plants are past their prime, and their less colorful, autumn-blooming friends have not strutted onto the scene. The time when my most urgent task is to remove all that is dead and dry in order to clear a path for what is still to come. To cut spent blossoms off right where I spy new blossoms forming. To clear away lifeless stalks and branches so still-green shoots can shine. To curate wild bushes so they don't overshadow their less extravagant neighbors. To pull weeds and grass and garden detritus so my beds can have one last hurrah before the autumn leaves fall like a blanket, tucking them in for the winter.

I was talking to a friend in the midst of this gardening chore, explaining the process and offering up all the reasoning behind my sweaty work:

"It's time to clear out what's dead so what's still alive can have it's moment."

"I am taking away what's no longer needed in order to give less vigorous plants their day in the sun."

"I am cutting back the spent flowers so new blossoms can burst forth."

As I listened to myself blather on, stopping every minute or so to wipe sweat from my brow, it struck me how much my life needs this kind of ruthless pruning, as well.

I just returned from a seminar led by a theologian-philosopher named Andrew Root. He explained that this late-modern age we live in is called "the age of acceleration," where we are surrounded by, and bombarded with, more opportunities and information than our mortal souls can manage. We are drowning in too much of everything, assuming that the only way to keep our heads above the rising water is to paddle faster and faster and faster.

What our continued acceleration buys us, however, is not peace, but despair.

Not a reprieve, but exhaustion.

I thought of this as I pinched off the hundredth coneflower bloom of the afternoon, as I pulled up yard grass by the root as it crept across my garden border, taking over a swath of hosta, as I chopped off the lanky, bright pink liatris that had fallen willy nilly over all its neighboring plants, smothering them in a riot of color.

What feels lifeless to me right now? And can I cut it away to make room for something new to bloom?

What detritus needs to be swept up and tossed to clear space for me to see what's left?

What needs to be removed so something fresh might burst forth in its place?

Am I willing to prune my days as ruthlessly as I prune my gardens?

Gardening--even in the sweltering heat--offers ample room for meditation.

When I was finished, before I washed the dirt and grime off in a cool shower, I surveyed my work. Yard waste bin full to bursting, and my late-summer garden beds sparse, clear and clean in the late August sun.

The beauty that had been hidden under all the excess sparkled once again.

Photo by Julie Blake Edison on Unsplash