i stepped on a worm today and he bled a little.
i'm well past the age of thinking that's entertainment, but i'm not past the age when stepping on one tiny worm brings me remorse and makes me reflect on all the lives contained within the cosmos. (is there an expiration date on that kind of response?) it was, for him, much more than an unpleasant moment, i'm sure. do worms' lives flash before their light-sensing organs in the moments before they skirt death? but until i saw him wriggling on the ground near my shoe, i had been looking up at the myriad sycamore trees that populate my neighborhood, and having a significant thought even for a human. i was reflecting on the fact that wind sounds differently blowing through sycamores, and that sycamores figure heavily in the story of Zacchaeus. some years earlier the sound of wind through olive trees had drawn me to consider that Jesus must certainly have heard such a sound, even on the night of his death. and i thought to myself, is this beautiful sound i am hearing now a sound that was close to Jesus' own heart?
and then i stepped on the worm. he frantically squirmed and i gasped before picking him up and dropping him in the soil niche between the grass and the pavement. he was injured, but still retained enough wormness and life to instinctively burrow down where he was safe from people whose heads are in the clouds. i think he will be okay.
