Every monsoon in Pokhara feels like a test of endurance — for the soil, the animals, and for me.
The rains come in long, stubborn stretches; water finds every low spot, every crack, every forgotten corner.
There’s hardly a thing that stays dry for more than an hour.

So when I first started vermicomposting, I didn’t expect my red wrigglers to make it through.
They live in open pits here — no roof, no cover, just layers of composting material exposed to the elements.
When the first storm hit, I imagined the rain would drown them, wash them away, or leave them cold and lifeless.

But they didn’t die.
They simply disappeared for a while — diving deeper into the pile where warmth and air still existed.
When the rains eased and I peeled back the top layer, there they were: slow, alive, glistening, already at work.

It amazed me.
They weren’t just surviving the monsoon — they were thriving in it, adjusting faster than anything else on the farm.
Their burrows became tiny drainage tunnels; their constant movement kept the compost breathable even in heavy moisture.
They turned what I thought was chaos into balance.

I realized then that resilience isn’t about resistance — it’s about relationship.
The worms don’t fight the rain; they work with it, moving where conditions are right, transforming what’s left behind.

And maybe that’s the quiet genius of the red wriggler:
to accept everything — the rain, the decay, the mess — and still turn it into life.

Every time I uncover a heap after a week of downpour and see them glimmering in the dark compost, I’m reminded that nature doesn’t ask for perfection.
It only asks that we keep participating — that we stay in the cycle, like they do.