The other day I was digging in a planting bed (taking out those strange little growths) and every stab of the garden shovel brought up an earthworm, or at least part of one. I must confess to wormslaughter because I bisected them by accident.
Earthworms are like people in that they come in different sizes and colors — long, short, fat, not so fat, white, flesh-toned, nearly red. The creatures are beneficial to the soil and to plants, so I’ve been told. I still wouldn’t want my children to marry one.
What must it be like to be an earthworm? You spend your life underground, but not deep enough to avoid being bisected by an enthusiastic gardener. You live in the dark until the gardener jerks you into sudden sunlight. Then she tries to bury you with loose soil. You never know if you’re coming or going — both ends look the same.
So, what does an earthworm do all day? Does it take naps? Does it know when the sun goes down? Does it get cold in the winter?
Earthworms most likely don’t worry about those things. Can you imagine an earthworm on valium because of excessive anxiety?