Special Guest Blogger: Greek Goddess Gaia

Ah, mortality. You lot keep writing about me like I’m ancient history while I’m literally history.  The planet doesn’t just up and retire. Not unless it’s had far too much of humanity’s nonsense, which, frankly, is fair.
This is more of a pre-mortem, really, because I’m immortal, darling, not daft.
They call me a primordial Greek goddess, which sounds terribly posh, like I attended Oxford and speak in sonnets. In reality, I simply popped into existence one Tuesday and thought, Right, so… I am everything? No fanfare. No welcome pack. Not even a complimentary ambrosia trial. Just poof, here I am, the Earth Mother, cradling the cosmos like a slightly bemused au pair.
I didn’t ask for this. One minute I’m a void-slash-concept, the next I’m birthing Uranus (the sky, not the planet) and then immediately having to parent a load of Titans with him who treated rebellion like it was a sport.
Still, I did my best. I grew forests. I nurtured valleys. I invented soil which is not as easy as it sounds, by the way. Ever tried composting without worms? It’s a nightmare. And don’t get me started on the first time I tried to photosynthesize. Utterly draining. Literally.
Now, here’s where it gets juicy. Or, rather, stabby.
There’s this persistent rumour that I died, or was destroyed, or retired to focus on other projects but no. I wasn’t killed, per se. More… stabbed repeatedly by my grandson with a cursed sickle. You know, a regular Wednesday in those days.
Saturn, no, not the planet with rings, the other one, the moody Titan with issues got it into his thick skull that the only way to secure power was to slice up his Father (Uranus, my sky-hubby, who frankly had it coming) and toss the pieces into the sea. Which, technically, splattered all over me. Hence the bloody foam from which Aphrodite apparently emerged, looking fabulous as always. Honestly, some people just have luck with exits and entrances.
Did it hurt? A bit but here’s the kicker: I didn’t die. I couldn’t. I’m the foundation. The dirt under your nails. The reason your coffee table hasn’t floated off into space. You can’t kill the planet. At best, you can irritate it. (Looking at you, climate change deniers. Rude.)
I am the original influencer. I didn’t need hashtags. I just existed, and suddenly, life started popping up like mushrooms after rain. First bacteria. Then algae. Then fish with ambition. Then humans, bless their stupid little hearts who’ve spent the last few thousand years trying to conquer nature.
I gave birth to gods, monsters, mountains, and the concept of fertile soil. I raised a dysfunctional celestial family that makes modern reality TV look like a BBC documentary.
I’ve weathered apocalypses, ice ages, and the invention of polyester and yet some people still don’t recycle.
I’m not bitter. Well, maybe a little, but mostly, I’m proud. Yes, proud. Despite everything, the deforestation, the overfishing, the pollution, I’m still here.
I’ve seen civilisations rise and fall. I’ve hosted dinosaurs, pharaohs, Shakespeare, and that bloke who invented the deep fried Mars bar. I’ve been worshipped and misunderstood, adored and reviled but i'm not going anywhere. I’m eternal. I’m elemental. I’m the reason that Avocado you had for breakfast existed. And if you’re lucky, I’ll keep indulging your species for another few million years provided you stop setting the rainforests on fire and start planting trees like I politely suggested in 3000 BCE.
I’m the mud on your boots, the breeze in your hair and the inconvenient truth that you’re standing on me right now.