It sounded like it was raining, but I was perfectly dry, standing in the middle of my lawn at dark. Slightly perplexed, I turned on my flashlight and discovered the source of the sound: Thousands of nightcrawlers. 

Nightcrawlers are a regular feature of the Faurie lawn, but I had never seen so many worms come out to breathe in the warm night air at once. My jaw dropped as I saw five or more nightcrawlers in every square foot of my lawn. 

As the light shone on them, they quickly retreated to their holes, rustling leaves and sounding like rain. The entire ground seemed to move. 

It was exhilarating. A true sign of spring. I rushed inside to tell my husband who was... well... less enthused. 

I’ll admit, I love worms. Maybe a little too much. To me, they represent an aspect of the world that brings me a sense of stillness and peace: That material eventually degrades, decomposes and can become something new.

In Hindu, there is belief in the Trimurti: a trio of gods that are responsible for the Earth’s phases of creation, preservation and destruction— which in turn makes way for creation again. It’s my favorite part of the cycle. 

There’s something peaceful about knowing one day all my anxieties, my successes, my stresses and every valuable minute of my time on Earth will be destroyed and reduced to little more than memories and dirt. 

In the scheme of the Universe, I am a small piece of carbon, whose fatty tissue inside a skull sometimes has enough juice in it to perform basic math. My life is singular and it is short. Still, I am thankful for the era I live in which allows me to live it well. 

Advances in science, access to healthy food and clean water allow me to live twice as long than could have been expected 100 years ago. That’s more time for friends, family and fascinating new experiences —like enjoying the fresh spring air along with a thousand worms. 

It’s at this point in my rant about worms and my inconsequential, personal vessel of carbon, my husband warns me my fascination with decay is endearing but in a scary kind of way. 

I then remind him marrying me was a choice he made willingly. He can find his own place in the Universe in his own time. I found mine in the compost pile.

Kirsten Faurie is the editor of the Kanabec County Times. She can be contacted at or by calling 320-225-5128. 


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