The earth is not a mother, but an aunt. She adopted us, her nieces and nephews, as her pet project. See, Mother Ocean is deep, is cruel, is a mother in the old sense, where she birthed us, and gave us to the shores. She is indifferent.
But Auntie Earth, in her coveralls and with her man-hands, with her weird affection for paints and posture, her grumpiness, her demanding stance, she told us, “Hey, I’ll help you grow up.” And she meant it.
And we are growing: 7 billion of us, bickering. 7 billion of us, hungry. 7 billion, 7 billion, singing sad songs and introspecting, navel gazing about our own importance, when we are the tiniest specks, on par with a microbe or a star. We don’t matter. But Auntie Earth knows we’re teenagers, with abundant intelligence, and overwrought with our own social dramas.
At least, that’s how I like to imagine it. It seems like a better story than tales of chosen folk, than yarns about how precious we are.