What is a Worm Choir?

I hosted 10 strangers to commune with worms, and nobody asked what was in the tea they drank.

Enter in silence. Exchange your phone for a rock, a small bone, or a cactus node. This event isn’t to “share”.

It’s not a class, not quite a performance. It’s 10 strangers building a replica compost pile until it hums. Worms slip out of cracked bones, a mystery tea gets poured (no one asked what was in it), and someone found a clump of hair. On the table: a charcuterie board of rot—apple cores collapsing, bread half-fuzzed with mold, alive, fruit skin surrendering to bugs.

Hands plunged into a steaming pile of earth, hot and alive, breath rising like prayer smoke. Soil was sniffed, passed hand to hand, and read like an oracle. Laughter, shivers, something like awe.

The Worm Choir is now retired from public notifications. The only way to enter for free is by finding one of the 10 who were there. Ask them for the code. The next choir will only gather through word of mouth, through the soil’s own network.

This is a social experiment as much as a ritual—introducing compost not through math and ratios, but through participation, sensation, and a lens of care, decay, and renewal.

It’s dirt-sniffing as a nervous system reset. Scraps becoming chant, microbes becoming choir. An initiation into the slow, strange music under our feet.

Join when you’re ready to stop scrolling and start decomposing.