Mother Nature is not cute and cuddly. She is not beautiful nor judgmental. She does not give out second chances; you earn them. Her suitors flirt with life’s creation and marry its destruction, becoming swaths of pregnant earth with shoots of next spring’s unruly bouquet. She roars. She spits up sulphur that smells like the gas out of your rear end after one too many hot dogs. But with Her it’s all natural. She cannot even be boxed into one of the two halves of humankind that we have arbitrarily defined as She and He. No more shall Nature be referred to as It; She defies language.
Mother Nature is not a mother like you’ll find at the stove with a steaming teakettle and a cinnamon-stained apron. She is not a mother like you’ll find at the top of a burning skyscraper helping gasping smoky wretches into a helicopter.
She is the breeze-bitten grebe that you’ll find in the lake pecking at the neck of her own smallest son until he bleeds and drags away to starve, red trails along the forest floor alerting the carnivorous janitorial service to his freshness. Mother Nature is the sagging bag of skin and suckers that once was an octopus, now faded to a rag, while the pearls she’s been polishing shine with the eyes of the sons and daughters she will never touch. Nature is the huntress of the dry grassland that rises from the hills and sets in choreographed viciousness upon the soft dancer who will become dissected carrion for her small apprentices.
She is not the mother you will see ribboning her silken Cinderella in BPA and itchy bustles for a night of candy wrappers along the leaky October lane. She glows, however, on the breaking waves that crash against the temples of the turquoise t-shirt woman who storms into the fifth-grade classroom and demands an explanation, a flight boost to relaunch her baby bat out of the guano coffin sweeping the depths of his mind’s cave. For you see, it is acceptable for a mother to stop Nature’s sickle before it reaps Her Child, but only in special cases.
Mother Nature is not tragic. She is not awe-inspiring. She is just going about Her business, blind to the flamboyance fluttering at Her fingernails, deaf to the annihilating thunder of Her erupting skin, insensible to the glaciers stalagmiting off Her breathing lungs that pierce a tender pink nose and mark a tiny white hand for death with their knifelike chill.
She doesn’t love Her children; She devotes Her life to creating them at opposite poles and setting them to dance magnetically across Her granite bosom. Do not expect Her to take care of you or anyone else you care about; She is the biggest woman with the longest heartbreaking record of the world as it is yet known to our kind.
Do not expect to win a quarrel with Her; you may snip florets from Her brilliant braid, you may even bulldoze a few bruises in Her ancient tender skin, but in the end it is only you who cuts your own umbilical cord before Her yolk has coursed into your blood to bring sight to your eyes. You are unlikely to survive; second chances are reserved only for very special cases.
She will not cry over the amputations you inflict upon Her body on your journey to oblivion. It is you who will asphyxiate in your own sobs when it is too late to save the one Love of your life, the Mother, the flyaway Beloved who never loved you back.
Image credits in order of appearance:
By Gilles San Martin (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
By Shannon Keith, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
By Nonie from Australia (Kiani) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons