Took a walk yesterday after a rainstorm and relocated about eight of these grey worms from the sidewalk to the grass. They flail around and struggle to get away from me; they have no idea that they’ve just met the best friend they’ll ever have. I would’ve liked to have brought them all home with me, but I didn’t have anything to carry them in and I had to stop at the market on the way home. As friendly and down-to-earth as they are at my neighborhood co-op, I didn’t think they’d want me walking in with eight worms cupped in my hands.
Writing this blog makes it impossible to take my mind off worms for even a little while. I’ve been having recurring dreams about worms. They’re not unpleasant dreams, or (to me) at all gross, but they do involve an over-abundance of worms. Nightcrawlers all over the surface of the soil, red wigglers spilling out of my worm bins, just so many worms that I can’t keep up with them all. I’m sure that’s interpretable, as my friend Annette, the psychologist, would say. There’s so much happening with this book—reviews in newspapers, radio interviews, a couple dozen events lined up—that the book, and the worms themselves, are always on my mind, creeping into every corner of my life.
When I move onto the next book, and the worms are once again relegated to their status as rarely-seen composters and earthworkers, will I miss them? Will I stand over the worm bin and make small talk? Will I go outside and dig one up and take a photograph of it, just for old time’s sake?