I Rescue Earthworms

Every day, as I walk Cecilia down for her naps in her stroller, I walk past endless baked and desiccated carcasses of earthworms. They die while trying to cross the hot, dry concrete of the sidewalks and then their flesh is washed away in the next rainfall or carried off by the industry of ants. So every time I see an earthworm desperately stranded on the concrete desert, I quickly stoop to pick it up and throw it back into the shaded grass. Maybe this does nothing for their survival in actuality; maybe they have already lost too much energy and can’t get back into the soil for sustenance, hydration, and protection. Maybe they die anyway, and maybe my efforts are pointless. But I’ll tell you why I do it.

Earthworms eat and digest organic waste, in the process turning it into consumable nutrients for the plants. They increase the fertility of the soil by breaking up the earth so that water can reach deeper into the ground and the roots can grow stronger. As they eat, earthworms leave castings behind that can turn depleted, exploited soil into nutrient-dense humus that can once again feed the plants. The plants can then filter the air and transform the sunlight into usable, consumable energy for animals and humans. The soil can then efficiently and endlessly sequester carbon, rather than dumping it into the oceans or the atmosphere, neither of which are equipped to handle the rate we are pumping it into them.

I rescue earthworms because everything is connected. Because I need to believe that this wriggling organism wrapped around my finger in a slimy embrace so strangely reminiscent of my daughter’s tiny fingers–can actually save the planet. For that half-minute, I let myself live in a world where even this small action of mine makes a real difference, helps things move forward: is a life-giving act rather than a death-producing waste. I rescue earthworms because I need to believe that what I do matters…that Lizzy’s life was not wasted…that I can keep Cecilia alive. And if I’m lying or self-deluding, then on days like today, when the sunlight is filtering through the green canopy of the trees, and I watch the mild June breeze lift the gold-brown of Cecilia’s hair from her brow–I choose not to care. I choose to be the idiot and the idealist and believe that even the smallest things we do can change the very structure of reality.