A Worm Crosses the Road

It’s been raining, and the roads are covered in worms.

This morning, I stopped to watch one. It was pinkish gray, skinny as spaghetti, six inches long.

All six inches were headed towards the left side of the road. If it went straight, the worm had about a foot and a half to go. But it didn’t go straight; it went in a slow swerve, slink, swerve.

At that rate, it’ll be a lifetime before you get to the dirt on the left side of the road, I thought.

But the impossibility of it didn’t stop the worm. It stayed loyal to its own slow, swerving way.

And this, I realized, was how it had crossed over nearly the whole road. In fact, maybe it was the only way it could have carried itself this far. We can only go someone else’s way for so long before our will burns out.

Watching this spaghetti skinny worm, I felt real awe. Here in the pouring rain was six inches of fiery will making its own way across the pavement.

And if it takes a lifetime for that little worm to get to the other side of the road, it will be a lifetime well spent.

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