I'VE just been doing the first thinning of beetroot: where two or three are touching as they grow, I thin them to leave only one. You do the same with carrots - but here the dreaded carrot fly provides an extra dimension. Thin in the evening; take the thinnings away with you; leave no trace of the smell, which the carrot fly can identify from far away.

Thinning is a fiddly job, but a vital one: the plants won't - can't - grow if they are all fighting for the same bit of space and nutri-ment. Of course, not all thinnings have to be thrown away; some- times they can be eaten (if they are large enough) - like spinach. Sometimes they can be replanted, or given to friends. But, most of the time, their destination is the compost heap.

Throwing them away seems to go against a theme that runs through the Bible - about protecting the shorn lamb, and helping the weak. Thinning seems to be on the side of the strong, getting rid of the weak. But, in garden or allotment, you have to manage the balance. Sometimes you just get rid of a plant that isn't going to perform as well as the one next to it. But where you have a mixture of plants you have to make sure the bigger or more vigorous ones don't completely overwhelm those that are smaller, and prevent their flourishing.

Allotments are great places for sitting and thinking. The writings of the Desert Fathers record that "A certain brother went to Abbot Moses in Scete, and asked him for a good word. And the elder said to him: 'Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything.'"

Our allotments may not teach us everything (there can be far too many distractions), but they are places where we are far enough away from many of the normal preoccupations to be able to ponder "life, the universe, and everything". Being on the allotment can be for many people a time for reflection; time to make connections between heaven and earth, glory, and dirt.

This week, doing the thinning, I got thinking about the need to make space for faith to grow. If things in my life are too tightly packed together, there isn't much room to develop or deepen faith.

Our nutrient is time: if everything is competing for that, the result can be that nothing grows very well, or produces anything of much worth in the end. Or we have responsibilities and tasks that grow and grow, squashing out time for other things that we know are important, but which get less and less of a look-in. In that case, thinning out a few of the competing demands may be the way towards finding time for God. The Ignatian review of the day; a retreat; some quiet time; or a day with the Quiet Garden Movement -all may be ways of ring-fencing opportunities for growth.

Allowing space to grow and flourish is important in other relationships, too. A passage from The Prophet by Khalil Gibran is often chosen by couples for their wedding:

. . . let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you….
And stand together yet not too hear together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Negotiating personal time and space is part of a healthy relationship, and not just for newly-weds - couples in retirement, or confined to the house by illness, can also struggle because of being in each other's shadow all the time.

But internal space is important, too. Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote of feeling tormented and comfortless, then telling himself to

Call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what.

Individually guided retreats (IGRs) can be valuable here: having someone experienced to accompany us on a journey of challenge and comfort, and to recognise which of those is needing space to grow. One of the most popular places today for IGRs is St Beuno's in Wales - where Hopkins, as a young Jesuit, wrote some of his finest poems.

Leaving root-room for growth, joy, and comfort is a helpful image as I potter on the allotment, looking at what needs thinning out.