Don’t Mind Me

“Every masterpiece needs a little chaos.”

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” (Genesis 1:1-5)

Day One

God entered His workshop early, eager to begin His newest gift to the universe. Normally, His demeanor was measured and stoic, the very picture of pensive composure. But today… today, He was almost giddy. Even His step carried a hint of spring. This was going to be a big week for all of creation.

God liked an empty workshop. No chatter, no distractions — only the quiet hum of possibility. A clean slate. On a nearby table lay His tools, polished and waiting: Time, Gravity, Chemistry, and a fresh roll of Space.

He rubbed His hands together. “All right, then,” He said softly to no one and everything. “Let’s begin.”

From the corner, a voice piped up cheerfully:

“Don’t mind me.”

God froze.

A woman sat cross-legged on an upturned crate, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hands. Her hair was an untamed mess of leaves, twigs, and wind. Her clothes were the color of moss after the rain. Her pockets bulged suspiciously with… things. A carpenter’s pencil perched behind one ear. Her smile was small and unbothered. Rainbows were carefully tattooed on both cheeks.

“I thought,” God said carefully, “that I was alone here.”

She hopped off the crate and dusted off her skirt. “I’m Mother Nature,” she announced with pure exaltation. “I’m just observing.”

God adjusted His cuffs. “I am creating the heavens and the earth,” He said — not to boast, but to clarify the gravity of the situation.

“Gorgeous,” she said. “I brought snacks.” She set the basket on the floor and rummaged through it. The air thickened with strawberries and damp earth, carrying a faint, lingering sweetness.

God blinked once. “Let there be…”

He unrolled Space; it flapped once like a new tablecloth, then settled smoothly. He pocketed Time — for later. Then He held up the first tool, cleared His throat, and spoke the sentence He’d been saving:

“Let there be light.”

Light burst from His mouth like a regal decree. It raced across Space, doubled back, and filled every corner with radiant illumination. Darkness, cleverly displaced, curled into the edges, content to be useful when called upon.

God folded His hands behind His back and nodded with quiet appreciation.

From behind Him came a suspicious tink-tink-tink.

He turned to see Mother Nature kneeling low, painting fluorescent patterns onto fungi. She had pilfered a few components from His chemistry set. Tiny sparks bloomed at the tips of her brushstrokes. A mushroom pulsed softly, glowing from within.

Satisfied, she dipped her brush into a second concoction and sprinkled it carefully onto a handful of buzzing insects as they began to shimmer faintly. In her palm, a small winged creature blinked its new light for the first time.

“Bioluminescence,” she announced, beaming. “For the night.” She held up the insect proudly. “And these little guys… fireflies.”

God stared. Opened His mouth. Closed it again. Drew in a breath, watching the tiny lights drift upward like wandering stars.

“I am distinguishing Day from Night,” He said, His voice carrying the weight of ten unwritten laws.

“Of course,” she replied serenely, as if she hadn’t rewritten creation. She dipped her brush again and hummed louder, dabbing luciferin and luciferase onto another mushroom. The corner of her mouth curled upward as the fungi turned a glowing green.

“Don’t mind me.”

Day Two

“God called the vault ‘sky.’ … there was evening, and there was morning …”

(Genesis 1:8)

Day Two arrived.

God stood in the center of the vast emptiness, sleeves rolled up, His tools neatly aligned by size and function. With careful precision, He lifted His hands and parted the waters, drawing a clear line between above and below. The vault stretched wide, blue, and perfect. He named it Sky and admired its balance.

He clasped His hands behind His back, letting the hush settle in. “Boundaries,” He murmured softly, almost to Himself, “are sacred.”

From somewhere behind Him came a loud whoosh, followed by a soft giggle.

He turned slowly.

Mother Nature stood barefoot in a puddle, cheeks smudged with streaks of purple and gold, shaping something vaporous in her palms. “Clouds,” she announced proudly. “The fluffy kind. Look!"

Above her head, a puffy dragon drifted lazily past, followed by a marshmallow rabbit and a unicorn mid-gallop.

God blinked once. “That was… not in the plan.”

She gave Him a sunny, unbothered smile. “Don’t mind me.”

“Plans are suggestions,” she added cheerfully, spinning on her heel. “And these are forward-compatible. I’m thinking they’ll be good for… shade. And daydreaming.”

He exhaled through His nose. “I am separating the waters. You are… recombining them.”

“They’ll evaporate eventually,” she shrugged. “I’m helping.”

He glanced at the unicorn, then back at her, and sighed. “This is not how it is written.”

She grinned wider, entirely unbothered. “Then maybe the book needs… revisions.”

Before He could respond, she knelt beside the puddle again and gently blew across its surface. A delicate mist coiled upward and danced away on invisible currents.

“For mornings,” she said dreamily, “when people want to feel dew on their toes while walking barefoot through the grass.”

“I have not,” He said pointedly, “created people. Or grass.”

“Yet,” she replied, eyes glinting. “Forward-compatible.”

God pinched the bridge of His nose and looked into the vast universe for patience. The heavens, still under construction, offered none.

He made a note on the slate:

Boundary conversation — later.

Then, underlined it twice.

Day Three

“Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear.”

(Genesis 1:9–13)

On Day Three, God gathered the waters that had been pacing beneath the sky and told them to align nicely. They sloshed into basins, became seas. Land rose where the waters withdrew.

“Dry ground,” God said, pleased. “Land and Sea.”

He traced mountain spines with a fingertip and scooped valleys where rivers might someday argue with stones. He paused to admire the Red Sea of Galilee, already smiling at the miracles to come.

Behind Him, a small cough.

He turned to find Mother Nature kneeling in the dust, sprinkling something from her pocket. Nothing happened. Then everything happened: a mossy fuzz bloomed over a rock; phytoplankton absorbed the sunlight; lichen yawned.

“I’m adding green,” she said. “It calms the eyes.”

“I was going to do plants next,” God said.

“Oh, these are just starters,” she said quickly, flashing an innocent smile. “Just a little garnish. Don’t mind me.”

He eyed the garnish as it spread with quiet enthusiasm, flourishing the water and land in carpets of emerald and jade. Vines rehearsed the act of climbing. A tree tried standing, wobbled, and then stood anyway. The air changed — something delicate and generous filtered into it.

God breathed in and felt better.

“Photosynthesis,” she said, pleased with herself.

“You’re getting ahead,” He said, but it came out softer than He intended. Because He could already see the sea meeting the land in thin white lines of foam.

“Make your oceans,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m just giving them a reason to visit the shore.”

He cleared His throat and wrote on the slate:

Vegetation: very good.

Then, underneath, in smaller letters:

Talk to her. Soon!!!

Day Four

“Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night.”

(Genesis 1:14-19)

Day Four was a day for time.

God set the great lamps in the sky — the Sun to govern the day, the Moon to shepherd the night — and scattered the stars so precisely that sailors would always know where they were. Seasons took shape. Nights opposed days. A clockwork elegance unfurled with each placement.

He held the Sun in His palm a moment longer, feeling the weight of patience inside it, then set it on its path.

“Tidy,” Mother Nature said from her crate, nodding.

“Thank you," He said.

“I’m adding glitter.”

He frowned. “Please don’t add glitter to the universe.”

“Not glitter glitter,” she sighed. “Tasteful glitter.” A flick of her wrist sent ice blazing across the dark.

“Comets?” God muttered.

Then she tossed a handful of rocks skyward. God ducked instinctively.

“These are shooting stars,” she said. “People will make wishes.”

Before He could reply, a dry voice rasped behind Him:

“Who authorized comets and shooting stars?”

Father Time shuffled in, his beard full of forgotten calendars.

“You’re early,” God said.

“I’m never late,” he grumbled, glaring at Mother Nature. “She sent me seven messages insisting I come.”

She waved cheerfully. “Welcome! We’re making a universe. I thought you’d want to see your schedules taking shape.”

“My what?”

“Seasons, solstices, circadian rhythms. All forward-compatible.”

Father Time’s left eye twitched. “…Forward-compatible?”

He sighed. “Do you know how many variables you’ve unleashed?”

“Variables,” she said dreamily. “That’s adorable.”

God rubbed His temples. “Patience is a virtue,” He repeated to Himself for the one hundredth time.

Father Time peered at the stars. “And what are those?”

“Star factories,” she said with a grin. “You’re welcome.”

Father Time’s jaw dropped. “Nebulas? You’re sprinkling in star factories without a permit?”

She tipped a stream of starlight into a jar. “Stability’s overrated.”

“Do you ever make anything simple?” he groaned.

“Platypuses,” she said brightly.

Father Time blinked. “…You made a what?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, utterly unbothered. “I’ll balance it out with narwhals.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and whispered something about needing a drink.

God etched the final stroke on Orion. “Some of us are trying to build a stable reality.”

Mother Nature swirled another constellation into being. “Stable’s boring.”

Father Time slumped onto a crate. “This is going to be an eternity of paperwork.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “Don’t mind me.”

Day Five

“Let the waters teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth.”

(Genesis 1:20-23)

By Day Five, the seas were restless and the sky yearned for company. God invited life to teem.

Whales arrived first, playful and affectionate. Schools of fish swam in fluid formation. Birds discovered air and immediately began gliding in the sky.

Mother Nature, meanwhile, had one elbow in the ocean, laughing. “Look at this one,” she said, lifting a blobfish and holding it up to God. “Kind of looks like Father Time when he’s angry, don’t you think?”

God squinted. “I’m aiming for aesthetic consistency,” He said, watching a pelican unfold like a joke with impeccable timing.

“I’m aiming for surprise.” She released the blobfish, where it sank with dignified indifference to the bottom of the sea.

Then she unrolled a tiny, grinning creature with frilled gills like lace and an expression of permanent astonishment.

“Axolotl,” she announced proudly. “A salamander that refuses to grow up.” She leaned closer. “Admit it — you wish you’d thought of this one.”

God tried to say “Very good” with a straight face and failed halfway through.

Somewhere in the background, Father Time muttered darkly about reevaluating his life choices.

For a while, they worked side by side, and the room felt companionable: His designs steady and noble, hers scandalously “delightful.” She invented puffins in tiny tuxedos. He arranged migratory paths with Euclidean dignity. She taught geese to honk just to spite Father Time, who had complained of a migraine.

“Don’t mind me,” she said, dipping a starfish into glitter.

Late in the day, God noticed a delicate creature made of light, floating inside a bubble of air.

“Jellyfish,” she said.

“That will sting,” He warned.

“Yes,” she said, tipping them back. “Some beings need reminders.”

God raised an eyebrow but let it pass. Instead, He wrote Bless them, be fruitful on the slate — because blessings ought to be written big.

Behind Him, Father Time rubbed his temples and muttered, “I’m going to need more aspirin.”

Day Six

“Let the land produce living creatures.” (Genesis 1:24-31)

Day Six was always going to be complicated.

God shaped the land animals. He made the African bush elephant to represent strength. He made dogs to show humans what loyalty and unconditional love could look like.

He shaped a small creature that would one day sit in laps and decide whether to accept affection.

“Cat,” He said.

Mother Nature watched the cat wrap its tail neatly around its paws and evaluate them both with detached interest. “I’ll mentor that one personally,” she said. “Actually… I think I need a few cats.”

From behind a celestial clipboard, Father Time muttered, “Of course you do. Let me just… adjust the allergy statistics for humanity.”

God glanced over and noticed Mother Nature holding an insect between her fingers.

“What, pray tell, are you doing now?”

“I’m training the strongest insect,” she replied. “The dung beetle.”

Father Time didn’t look up. “No shit,” he said flatly, making a note on his chart. “That’s going to throw everything off.”

God ignored him. He turned at last to humankind. He took atoms, made humans; added feelings, consciousness, moral awareness, and mortality. He set them upright and placed in their souls and the ability to hope and dream.

“In Our image,” He said, pleased.

Mother Nature stepped closer, her eyes bright. “May I?” she asked softly.

He hesitated.

“Small things,” she promised.

He nodded.

She sprinkled freckles across a nose. She added dimples to a smile because she wanted laughter to have places to live. She set the fresh newborn scent because it represented all things pure.

“What’s that?” He asked, watching her nudge a tear into place at the corner of a laughing eye.

“Saltwater for the face,” she said. “It will mean everything.”

He tried not to love that. He failed.

“Give them language,” Mother Nature suggested.

“I intend to.”

“And give them silence,” she added, “so they notice what can’t be said.”

He did both.

When everything that moved and breathed had drawn at least one satisfied breath, the workshop went quiet.

From her crate, Mother Nature said, almost under her breath, “I don’t think I belong here.”

God turned, startled, and realized she wasn’t talking about the world but about the center of the stage.

“How about you handle center stage,” she said softly, “and I’ll keep the backstage humming?”

Father Time stopped writing, glanced up, and muttered, “Backstage chaos, more like,” before going back to his charts.

God opened His mouth to say something kind, but the words weren’t ready yet; so He closed it again and wrote Very good, and under it, smaller: very complicated, and beneath that: worth it.

Mother Nature tilted her head, dipping a fingertip into glitter.

“Don’t mind me,” she whispered.

Day Seven

“By the seventh day God had finished the work He had been doing; so on the seventh day He rested …” (Genesis 2:1-3)

On Day Seven, He stopped — not from weariness but to establish the importance of rest, a gift of renewal. Hopefully, Mother Nature would follow His example.

He strung a hammock between two palms that had appeared. He lay down and let Time do the slow arithmetic of rest.

The world exhaled.

Mother Nature tiptoed into the stillness, barefoot and bright-eyed, carrying her basket of ideas.

She tuned the wind and taught the tides their rhythm. She unfolded hope into sorrow, tucked curiosity into living things, and poured laughter into rivers. She slipped coincidence into the corners of existence and invented the quiet ache that makes beauty worth noticing.

Behind her came a slow, deliberate tap… tap… tap…

Father Time arrived, leaning on a staff carved with the grooves of uncountable time. His robe trailed centuries; his sandals carried dust from places not yet imagined. He stopped beside God’s hammock and cleared his throat softly, reluctant to disturb the quiet.

God cracked one eye open. “I thought you weren’t coming today.”

“I wasn’t,” Father Time said, dry as an empty hourglass. “But someone”—he glanced at Mother Nature disdainfully—“insisted.”

She glanced back, unrepentant, threading auroras across the horizon like silk ribbons. “I thought you’d like to see how it all… moves.”

He frowned but glanced around anyway. Stars pulsed in patient tempo. Tides folded and unfolded like practiced breath. Gusts of wind blew leaves off trees into rippling brooks.

It was, infuriatingly, magnificent.

“This is going to be chaos,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Mother Nature said, smiling. “That’s the point.”

God sat up, leaf-mussed hair catching the dawnlight. “Chaos framed by order,” He said gently. “Your timing makes her surprises possible. Her surprises give your rhythms meaning. One without the other isn’t living — it’s static.”

Father Time’s scowl softened. He lowered himself stiffly onto a rock and drew out an ancient-looking pocket watch. He wound it once, slowly, listening to the precise, patient tick.

“Forward-compatible,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Mother Nature grinned. “See? I told you you’d like it.”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied quickly, but his eyes stayed on the stars as they wheeled — perfectly imperfect — overhead.

God watched them both — the haphazard chaos and the measured rhythm, bound now by necessity and something softer.

He smiled.

The hammock rocked gently in the salt-scented breeze. Somewhere, fireflies flew through the night waiting to be chased by delighted children. Dolphins leapt in the waves under the sparkling sun. People, some with freckles and dimples, knelt praying words of gratitude to God.

Father Time closed his watch with a soft click. Mother Nature sprawled barefoot in the grass, strawberries staining her fingertips. God lay back, listening to the sound of a world breathing on its own.

None of them spoke.

God opened His eyes, gazed at the wild, ordered, humming, restless world — the laughter and sorrow, the storms and quiet mercies, the things planned and the surprises only she would have thought to add — and smiled, the kind of smile that holds both exhaustion and wonder.

Mother Nature leaned back in the grass, eyes half-closed, and whispered one last time:

“Don’t mind me.”

“And God saw all that He had made, and it was very good.” (Genesis 1:31)