For the Love of an Earthworm

by Ellen Landauer

Late this past summer, I was raking the driveway to smooth out the ruts. It had been bone dry for weeks. Clouds of dust billow as I work.

Amid the dust, I see a sinuous little life form - a half-conscious earthworm. Putting down my rake, I kneel to get a closer look.

The little guy is covered with tiny sharp bits of sand clinging to the protective layer of his skin. I gently touch the worm with my finger. He moves a bit, but clearly is quite weak. The dry sand will soon kill him, damaging the mucous layer and dehydrating him.

Very softly, I gather him up and place him on my palm, protectively curling my fingers over him so I don't drop him. Unlike a healthy earthworm that would be reaching out with pointing, undulating front end and squirming vigorously, this one has his 'snout' retracted into a sad, blunt little nub and lies weakly in my palm.

I say, "OK, little guy, we'll find you a safe place in the garden." Earthworms obviously don't understand our language, but, like all creatures, instantly know our intent.

I walk up the long driveway and across the lawn to a raised garden bed. Kneeling with the worm in one hand, I use my other hand to pull mulch away from the base of a marigold plant and dig a tiny bed into rich soil where it is soft, cool and moist. Tenderly placing the little guy in his 'bed,' I scoop up more of the damp soil and sprinkle it to cover the worm.

After I push the mulch back over the earthworm, I feel happy he will now recover from his trials and tribulations. More than that, I am suffused with an inner glow from the few moments of loving contact with this little creature.

It is my Dad who taught me love and care for all living things. When I was no more than two and a half years old, he introduced me to earthworms.

Dad was digging a shallow bed for a flagstone path on one side of the lawn at our first home in the New York City suburbs. I sat near, playing with pieces of flagstone, leaning them upright against the shallow wall of the area Dad had dug out.

As he worked, Dad was placing earthworms he encountered in a small pile of moist soil next to where he was digging. He didn't want to hurt them, and would later take them to one of the garden beds.

At one point, Dad stopped and asked me to hold out my hands. He picked up a big handful of wriggling earthworms and placed them into my cupped hands. It was a zen moment for me. So young that I had no preconception about these creatures, all I experienced was the surprise of a moist, vibrant mass of life, delightfully sinuous, squirming in my cupped hands.

Dad then held out his hands and cradled the earthworms, lifting them and taking them to their new home in the flower bed.

Many years later, I continued to care for earthworms, carrying forward the love instilled by Dad. When I was a runner, if it was raining - driving the worms out of the flooded ground and onto the road - I would stop to gather them up and place them on a nearby lawn so as not to get run over by a car. When digging in the garden, every time I unearth a worm, I stop and place it in a safer spot.

So it came to pass one dry, dusty day, that it was only natural to save a distressed little earthworm. A seemingly insignificant creature that graced my day with innocent joy of a few moments of shared aliveness...

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