Under Grumpa's Hat

We’ve written songs about her beauty, built religions around her gifts, and plastered her image on reusable shopping bags. We call her “Mother Earth,” but most days, we treat her more like a convenient landlord who lets us stay rent-free while we tear up the floors. We speak of saving the planet, but maybe it’s time we stop talking for her, and listen to her instead.

If I could speak, I’m not sure you’d listen. You humans are a noisy bunch. Always talking about saving me, fixing me, “going green.” Cute phrases, really. Almost like a toddler proudly announcing they’ve cleaned their room while shoving the mess under the bed.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore you. You’re my children, after all. I’ve watched you crawl out of caves, learn to harness fire, invent music, and fly to the moon. You’re clever, curious, and full of potential. But lately, you’ve become a bit of a handful.

You say you’re saving me, but I don’t recall asking for saving. I’ve survived meteor strikes, ice ages, and volcanic tantrums that make your nuclear weapons look like sparklers. I’m not the one in danger. You are. I’m just waiting for you to grow up.

Every time you drill into my skin for oil, scrape away forests like unwanted hair, or poison my veins with your waste, you’re not hurting me in the way you think. You’re upsetting the balance that keeps you comfortable. You dig and dig, take and take, and call it progress. But it’s not progress if it leads you off a cliff.

I hear your leaders argue about pipelines and profits, claiming it’s all in the name of “economic growth.” Yet the air thickens, the oceans warm, and the trees, my lungs, are gasping. You fight over who gets to burn what’s left of me faster, all while congratulating yourselves for recycling your Starbucks cups.

And the forests… oh, my forests. Once you stood among them in reverence. Now, they fall faster than your attention spans. The Amazon, my emerald heart, is being carved up for soy and cattle, just to feed your endless hunger for more. I feel every chainsaw like a paper cut to the soul.

Then there’s your fascination with destruction. The way you stockpile weapons capable of ending everything, as if mutual annihilation is a bragging right. You’ve learned how to split atoms but not how to share bread. Isn’t that something?

But don’t mistake my tone for bitterness. I’m not angry. I’m tired. Like a mother watching her children fight over toys while the house burns. I know you’re capable of kindness. I’ve seen you plant trees, protect rivers, rescue creatures that can’t even say thank you. Those moments remind me why I still have hope for you.

What I wish you’d understand is simple. I don’t need saving. You do. You’re the ones living on borrowed time, sustained by a balance you no longer respect. I’ll heal, eventually. I always do. Give me a few million years and I’ll wear your skyscrapers down to sand, reclaim your highways with moss, and let the whales sing again without the hum of your engines.

But wouldn’t it be nicer if you stayed to see that beauty too?

Maybe that’s what I’m really waiting for, the day you remember what it feels like to be part of me, not above me. When you walk through a forest and hear silence, not profit. When you realize that every tree, every river, every breath of wind isn’t a resource, it’s a relationship.

I don’t want your pity or your politics. I just want you to grow up.

After all, I’m not your enemy. I’m your mother. And I’ve been more patient than you deserve.

Scarred, granted, but the planet will outlive us all, but how we live will decide whether she remembers us as grateful children or reckless tenants. The Earth doesn’t need us to save her; she needs us to remember her… and to save ourselves.

Maybe it’s time we stopped worrying about leaving a better planet for our children and started raising better children for the planet. The kind who remember she’s not ours to own, but ours to care for.