The beauty of having one thousand red wiggler worms as pets is not having to walk along behind them scooping poop and picking up steamy droppings in a plastic bag before dawn. To worms it is pretty much always before dawn, except for those occasional solar flares when I take the lid off their worm bin. The whole point of having worms is to collect their castings (aka poop), but I don't have to put them on a leash and go out into the cold night wearing my bathrobe and slippers.
All my red wigglers are named "Dave". Dave is a good, solid name. My first boyfriend was named Dave. True, we were both toddlers, and the relationship didn't last. We shared some good skinned knees and graham crackers, though.
Dr. Seuss created Mrs. McCave, who "had twenty-three sons, and she named them all Dave". The story is part of The Sneetches, one of the greatest books ever for kids or grownups. I only had three sons, but it often felt like twenty-three!
And so, my little Daves are making new and improved dirt that I'll eventually use in my garden. While that is the projected product of this endeavor, the process is intended to make me more mindful of my personal kitchen waste. Beyond that, it is about being part of the most basic cycle of our earth, and acknowledging the efforts of the smallest participants in this contract.
Why opera, then? While the worms break down life to the simplest of sitcoms, opera piles everything on like a cultural game of Dogpile with the Princess and the Pea's mattresses. At it's best, an opera brings everything down to a gut level of rich improved soil, while showing off for every sense like a gleaming scarab beetle.
What are we made of? If we pile all our leftovers in a heap, then let them be digested, can we become as rich and layered as the arias of "Tosca"? Can we also become the form of the most elemental nourishment for garden and soul?
I love the dirt, the sounds, the color, the dark, the rich complexities, and the simple worms.
© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder
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