Squeamish

Gardening is credited with benefits such as reducing stress and increasing physical fitness. I’ve found that gardening not only does these things, but it has also reduced my squeamishness.

For instance, I can now handle worms. Whenever I cultivate a new spot, I try to save the worms from my hoe’s blade. I carefully pluck them from the soil and move them to a safe place. I’ve even come to appreciate a worm’s slimy lubricant. It enables one to grasp the end of a fleeing worm and pull it free of even solid clay. Worms are tougher than you’d think. Much of my squeamishness is related to squishing things and having their insides come out and touch me. (Yes, I have a horror of guts.) Surprisingly, not a single worm has come apart, despite my rough handling. The fatter, juicier worms still make my gorge rise a little, but I just think of all the castings such a worm will make and I feel a little more tenderly towards it.

Another of my garden related fears was the possibility of unearthing a dead body. I admit to a general “dead body” phobia. I’m especially frightened of finding them in bathrooms. When I was younger, if I had to use an otherwise empty public restroom, I would pee as fast as I could because I was sure that, in the stall next to me, a murdered woman was propped up on the seat. I tried to finish my business before that body dislodged from its precarious position and tumbled to the floor, flinging bloody parts beneath the partition. While I can now use public restrooms without qualms (at least, dead body qualms), I still check the bathtub in strangers’ houses for bodies. A drawn bath curtain always arouses my suspicions.

The leap from dead bodies in the bathroom to dead bodies in the garden isn’t as great as you may think. It started after I read Tracker, by Tom Brown Jr. In the (true) story, the boy starts a campfire in the New Jersey Pine Barrens in the winter. As the fire’s heat thaws the surrounding ground, the stiffened hand of a corpse (mob hit) emerges, frightening the boy and forever haunting my imagination. That story, combined with my existing, bathroom corpse fears, convinced me that ground everywhere was teeming with rotting bodies. (I’ll admit, watching Night of the Living Dead didn’t help either.)

I’ve gone on about dead bodies far longer than I meant to, but I think I’ve properly established the background for my corpse phobia. As I dug my first few holes in the yard, I worried that I’d hit the putrifying body of an animal, if not a person. Hundreds of holes later, I haven’t unearthed a single body part, with the exception of a steak bone, probably buried by a dog. I have, though, buried a few bodies myself, leaving a surprise for future gardeners.

I wish I could say that gardening had cured me of my fears of slugs, grubs, cicadas, and spiders, but it hasn’t happened yet. I’m taking baby steps. I can now calmly observe these creatures, if not touch them. Bear brought a cicada into the house and I didn’t go into hysterics. (I did tell him, quite sternly, that cicadas belong OUTSIDE.) Yesterday, I pushed aside my revulsion at finding a slug and knocked it into the pond for the fish to eat.

I wish I wasn’t such a girly-girl about creepy crawlies and rotting things, but I get a bit better every day. Spending time in the garden relaxes me, strengthens my body, and gives me a chance to commune with the wiggly worms and rotting corpses. Can you claim such benefits from another activity?