#creationstory

Gaia

In the beginning it was lonesome. Time stood still, alone in the expanse of nothing. The eons ticked by, black and silent. Time created Pluto first. Cold and bleak, his eldest child escaped to the furthest expanse of the universe. Typical teenage rebellion. From him burst forth several children, all to become his moons, constant in their seeking of approval and attention. Time created Sol next. Bright and boisterous, she cast heavenly light upon the great expanse. She begged Time for companionship, scorching every child he made her to play with. She erupted with fury and pain, casting out tiny sparks of fire from her fingertips. The stars twinkled at her, winking and scattering across the great nothing. She flared with joy when they crowded her lap, unscathed. Time made the twins shortly after, Uranus and Saturn. They squabbled and shoved and pushed themselves far from Sol, who showered them with gifts of life. Venus and Mercury came next, sensual and silent, speaking only to Sol, moving closer to her with each passing eon to drown out the noise of the boys fighting about who had more flashy rings. Mars came next, hot and furious, waging war on any passing speck of dust. His skin grew molten from Sol’s constant doting, and her children imploded themselves upon him, giggling as he tried to swat them away.

Father Time was content. His family was like any other, not perfection, but wonderful. He marched on, ever expanding the great darkness inveloping his children. Sol’s daughters and sons painted the sky with constellations, beautiful galaxies, begging their grandpa to look upon it’s wonder. Sol beamed proudly, illuminating their art with her fire.

Time grew weaker. His children rushed to his aid, begging to help. He waved them off wearily, never stopping. He knew it was time to rest, but something was missing. Gaia was last. Time worked his hardest on her, perfecting every detail until she drew her first breath. Sol shone gently upon her, careful not to mar her lovely watery expanses, her lush greens and hues of royal and purple dancing on her surface. Mars sang her songs, and Venus showered her with affection unmatched. Time rested. He slowed, nearly dormant, and Gaia flourished. She seduced Lune with her beauty and charm, drawing her into her powerful orbit with just a spin. Gaia was happy.

But soon she grew lonely. Her elder siblings chattered wildly among themselves as the eons trickled on. She wanted children of her own. It took many tries to get it right. At first the creatures she melded out of clay bit and snarled and choked each other to death. She tried again, softening their teeth to graze upon her skirts of greenery. The animals lived in harmony. They created more of themselves, singing songs to Gaia as they traipsed her surface, and she created some to swim in her oceans, away from their familiar counterparts on land. All was good. Gaia and Lune loved their children and their children’s children, gazing upon them and letting them do as they pleased. Mars grew jealous, of course, a barren father, and in a fit of particularly strong rage at Gaia’s cooing, hurtled a chunk of his molten being at her. It smashed upon her children, their cries echoing across the now desolate wasteland. Gaia wept unconditionally, covering herself in pools upon pools of her own misery. Lune shielded her from Mars and his rage, pelting her skin with rocks. Sol turned away from her, melting Mars with her heat. Gaia became cold and barren. No children could survive now. She blanketed herself in Lune’s cool embrace, once again lonely and now desolate. Time saw his favorite child’s pain.

He arose from dormancy to comfort her, soothing her with promises of a better future. She pouted and iced over at his empty premonitions. Desperate, Time fashioned soft animals out of the cosmos, fluffy and big pawed, setting them upon Gaia’s lap. The bears enjoyed the cold, the cubs tumbling across ice sheets away from their mothers fishing in small pockets of Gaia’s icy pain. The tigers curled at the base of her trees, purring when she ticked through their soft fur. Sol grew curious of the new children, her own stars dancing across Gaia’s night sky to dazzle them. Slowly, Gaia bloomed. She preened over her new children, promising them no harm, only eden.

Time, slowing once again, created a child of Gaia’s own flesh. Lean and two legged, these creatures looked like none the cosmos had ever seen. They could speak, could appreciate the gifts Sol and Lune blessed them with, chattering excitedly amongst themselves as they created more and more of themselves. Gaia taught them to harvest herself, how to travel the wonderful seas with vessels made from her fingers, how to create brilliant structures with stone and wet clay. The humans praised her endlessly. They wrote songs to their mother and her siblings, praying for everything they needed, toiling away at her. She wept joyously and her children babbled their thanks of the blessings, hushed by the beauty that sprouted upon her at the location of her tears. She watched them for years, providing their every need, as they learned and grew and made temples to the cosmos to honor her and her siblings.

Time grew irate with the human’s selfishness. They didn’t bother to honor him, their father, their creator. So he created them an end. The humans mourned bitterly as they took their last breaths and Gaia mourned with them. She took them into herself, protecting them in her heart, Sol’s children teaching them how to paint the cosmos with their beauty. Time marched on and the humans squabbled amongst themselves. The new humans squandered what Gaia gave them, tearing at her and walling themselves away from each other. They fought incessantly, killing each other and tossing their fallen comrades back at Gaia’s feet. She grew tired of their insolence and warned them, shaking with anger. Their structures fell and the humans ignored her, no longer grateful for what they’d been given. Gaia raged. She splashed angrily against the land, upturning their precious structures, destroying them in one fell swoop. She spared her four legged children, sequestering them on a high peak in the middle of a now watery grave. The animals feasted on what humans survived, thanking Gaia with every bite. She cried uncontrollably, flooding herself. Two humans managed to survive her fury. They threw themselves prostrate at the animals and kissed Gaia’s feet, begging for another chance. She ignored their cries until she could no longer, soothing them with soft whispers and gentle rays of Sol’s light. The humans began anew, teaching their children what their Mother had taught them. They spread vastly across her surface, wisely returning to the land they were so graciously given. Gaia showed favor with them. She watched in wonder as the humans continued to flourish, settling and creating their own little world. She punished their sins with floods and earthquakes, upending their homes and setting fire to their factories. They always rebuilt. Soon acrid smoke filled the air. She coughed and hacked and sent dust spiraling across their towns, begging them to stop. They pushed on. The humans no longer listened to her. They threw their waste in her waters, choking her first children and smothering them with oil. She screamed in agony and sent peals of white hot lighting across the land as they shredded her forests to pieces. Each day she grew weaker and Lune fretted, turning her back to the humans. They killed millions at a time, greedy and evil.

“Kill them all, sister.” Mars pleaded. They shot great firey things into the cosmos, closer and closer to Lune until they arrived on her. She welcomed them, her sweet children, and they collected her in their arms before returning to Gaia. They clogged her view of them and she sent rocks hurtling at herself, warning them to cease. They did not. Her first children begged her to help, laying amongst the bloody forests the men had destroyed. Gaia cried for them, petting them as they searched for new homes. The humans continued on. She raged at them, growing fiercer and fiercer, upending the seas upon their towns and shaking them in her fists.

She could barely breathe now. She felt crowded and hot, weakly asking them to stop. Sol moved closer, begging to help. Lune hid behind her, unable to look upon Gaia’s broken form.

Father they’re killing me.

Time heard his youngest’s desperate cries. She begged him to aid her in discipling her unruly children. The twins heard her screams of agony across the expanse as the humans laid waste to their mother. She lay broken when the humans finally ceased. Their buildings lay in ruins, dust covering her once vibrant surface. Lune tended her, and Sol left her in darkness, unable to illuminate her blacked form any longer. She could no longer speak, her children had taken that from her. She wept dryly for them, so foolish. They laid across their mother, charred and broken as she was. Time looked away from his sweetest daughter.

Before the world had shape, it existed as endless water. 🌊 In ancient Egypt, creation did not begin with one story — but many.

From the dark waters of Nun… to the first land rising from chaos… to gods born through thought, words, and balance.

This is the Ancient Egypt Creation Story — a timeless vision of how the universe began and how creation was understood in ancient Egypt.

Ymir, the first giant of Norse mythology, stands as the embodiment of creation itself. Born from the icy void of Ginnungagap, his immense form shaped the Nine Worlds, providing the foundation for gods, humans, and the cosmos. His story weaves together frost, fire, and primordial energy, illustrating the raw forces that birthed the universe. Dive deep into the myth of Ymir and explore how this ancient giant continues to influence the rich tapestry of Norse legend.

By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done (Genesis 2:2–3). We all know this passage. It’s the conclusion of the creation story, the final note of the first week ever told. But here’s the big question: is…