Heart Seeds

Monday, February 24, 2025

Not quite awake, I watched the sky from my pillow. Clouds floated past the windows in a shade somewhere between extrovert pink and drag queen orange. Following the lead of the snoring dog at my feet, I turned my back to the spectacle and sunk into the blankets.

The analog clock on the nightstand read, 6:36a, give or take. It was Monday. Funday. My lucky bun day. My dreams, the last one at least, had almost evaporated. What was left? A flying otter. I watched him land on the back porch and snuggle into his family, twelve in all, they ranged in age from pup to white-whiskers. I didn't need to google, 'meaning of otters in dreams' to understand–I needed to have more fun, dammit! Play! Be social!

I stayed snuggled down until the clock read 6:54a. Much better, right, Archangel Raziel?

I rose to my feet.

When I was a school kid, the clock numbers mattered a whole lot more than now. The red digital numbers predicted the day to come. Three fives? I'd be dog tired by dinner, but good stuff was coming my way. 7:11? My crush would notice me and I'd get an A on that English paper. 6:36? Best stay in bed. This was decades before I would be exposed to angel numbers and numerology.

Back then, I counted everything. Steps. Chews. Breaths. If I kept those numbers even, that unlocked smooth sailing. Odd numbers? Trouble.

I've since learned where those habits originated, and honor them as coping mechanisms. They were the rituals that soothed my anxiety, helped me feel in charge of parts of my existence. Being young meant I had little to no control over food, clothing, shelter, or transportation that got me from Point A to Point B faster than my feet.

Counting stuff helped me feel a tad in control, less like a kid in charge of nothing.

As an adult, now, when I catch others commenting about how easy it is to be a kid, I clench my jaw to keep from shouting.

Being a child is difficult. They are at the mercy of adults for the entire base level of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Food, clothing, shelter, emotional needs, their bare-bones survival is in someone else's hands.

How could adults forget? Even worse, idealize childhood? At one time, they were vulnerable, dependent babies. We all were! Like puppies, our lone focus was to seem adorable enough to seed love in one, or preferably two, adult hearts. Heart seeds were an insurance policy, necessary until we, too, were grown enough to be our own guardians.

How we seeded those adult hearts is something best left in the past. It's not a topic for judgment or retrospection. We were all doing our best to survive.

We came into the world helpless, often with soul journeys that, if we'd realized it at the moment of birth, would have crushed us like a Styrofoam cup launched into outer space.

If you've not explored the concept of reincarnation, one common thread of discussion is the amnesia we agree to, a Faustian deal souls make in order to return to Earth. Put simply, we must forget in order to return.

We are born ignorant of our connection to the all, to the God within, of the innate ability to nudge light beams of thought to shape happy outcomes, unlock streams of abundance, shape paths to love.

When I first read about the amnesia souls agree to in order to be born, I was annoyed. It took me to the age of 52 to remember I forgot.

What flooded my ego first was a mental movie of the pitfalls I would've avoided with my superpowers, next I thought of the opportunities I could've sown, and finally, the heartaches I would've been spared.

I can almost hear Ram Dass joking from the Beyond, "But those are the point!"

Lately though, I appreciate the journey that is unfolding. Like a massive cleanup - akin to a house fire, but instigated by an itch to tidy up, organize, move on from a place; if I'd known going in what a slow labor life would be, I might not have begun.

The amnesia and the process of re-membering ourselves is an act of grace, of hope, of what doesn't kill you makes you stronger! - Love, Your Higher Self <3

Getting comfortable with that agreed upon amnesia has nurtured a heart seed in me for all of life. Instead of judgment, I find my perspective has shifted to see that fellow humans are doing the best they can with what they've got. Sometimes their hustles harm others, which hurts me, but I get it, too. It's a crappy con, not victimless, but they are in survival mode.

The fruits of that heart seed? Empathy. It's strange because I am an empath, which means I feel the emotions of others; whether it be a human, animal, stone or building. But the process of living without knowing all of it is connected has grown a heart seed in me, deep sympathy and compassion for all else, not that Hallmark card-level garbage, but heart chakra mana.

Being an empath is hearing every radio station at once. True empathy is listening to songs one at a time and coming away with an understanding of what each songwriter's mindset was. Not only this, but their compulsive, involuntary need to write and play that melody with those words. It was something that had to be done.

Being rejoined to the rest of me, unless there's still more to come, hurts. It hurts on the daily.

I walk out the front door and breathe in the thick fog settled over the United States right now, the collective fear, the scarcity mindset, the anxiety. In order to keep my light shining I have to use the tools that little-me developed.

What can I control now? How can I seed love now? How can I help others see the God in them through me?

It's hard. It is fucking hard.

In a recent visitation (which my old self would've told you was a dream, all the while knowing it was more than that) with my father, Mike, he showed me what he's been up to since dying. He expressed his frustration. He's finding his way after death, and what I'm learning through his candor is the process echoes the steps of grief in the physical plane.

His elevator is on the Regret floor. He regrets going so damn hard on the this-is-all-there-is-physical-world-mindset. In his life's journey, he went from serving as an altar boy to rejecting the Catholic church to recoiling at any mention of God, Jesus, Yeshua, any invisible, spiritual belief or entity.

If that was me, all in on the physical world, then I'd do what he did at the end; I'd fight like hell to grab whatever month, week, day, hour or second I could from this life. Even if zero parts of my body worked and machines were all that kept my heart beating, that's what I would do.

I get it.

He clung to the edge of a cliff face he thought fell off to nothing.

Leading up to his illness, I'm talking over a decade, my relationship with Mike was complicated. Misunderstandings grew into concrete blocks that kept us from seeing each other like we used to, as a loving father and daughter. When I finally had eyes to see that he was actively dying, even though no one was allowed to say he was sick, not to mention in kidney failure or hospice, I set a boundary.

In my sleep I approached his Higher Self. I agreed to help Mike with his dying process, but he had to choose to travel to the Beyond by his own Free Will. I felt it was not my job to drag his soul from here to there, but I could make his path smoother.

I created a karmic car wash for Mike. It was not physical. I spiritually placed a cave of crystals in the corner of the room near his bed. When Mike took his last breath, the crystals would shimmer bright, draw him to enter. If he chose to step into the karmic carwash, the crystals would help him shed anything he wanted–guilt, remorse, bitterness, confusion, whatever–and travel onward, like a curbside bag drop at the airport!

My confirmation Mike made it to the Beyond came via Spotify. I opened the app to stream music for a treadmill run and three songs played in a row. I'd never heard of two, and the third was a forgotten ditty from the 80s. They hit me square in the heart chakra in rapid fire succession. Weather with You, by Crowded House. Just Breathe, by Pearl Jam. Nightswimming, by R.E.M.

Mike had made it. He sent my eldest songs, as well, but that's their story to tell or not.

Then, Mike sent messages to me through two intuitive mediums I'd interviewed for my podcast, Curious Cat. The message was the same, "Thanks, Jenn. You made that so easy!" They didn't know the particulars, and I sure as heck hadn't posted anything about Mike or his illness or his death on socials. They were compelled to DM me the cryptic message regardless.

Yeah, I learned a bit about that end of the process this week when Spirit gave me a message to deliver. I was embarrassed. I was scared. I didn't want to return to the business and ask about the young woman that worked there whose mother needed to reach them. My gosh. But Spirit nagged at my ribs then my guts and made my ears ring until I delivered the message. Something healing and love-led can be sticky and downright messy when seen from the message-bearer perspective.

Fast-forward a year and Mike's journey was heating up. He visited me as I slept and had such pride as he showed me the add-on he'd built to the garage, his ingenious way to watch over my mom, his Sue, that still managed to respect her boundaries. She's firmly footed in Mike's former only-the-physical-world-is-real-camp.

Mike shared his frustrations, telling me of the many ways he could smooth out any rough spots in Sue's life but for those damn boundaries. I reminded him that's not his job. She is on her journey, and once she passes, I know he will walk her home.

I told him in the meantime he's welcome to charm my life, which made him smile.

I share Mike's frustration. My mother is fully invested in the physical. Mike and I shared this sentiment in silence, then he piped up, "It's not your job. This is her journey."

She's doing the best she can without him.

I'm glad for the amnesia we come into this world with, I am. I have moments when I ache for those who could benefit from a sneak peek, a mental movie to remind them they are so much more than this meat suit. Would that help them along?

For me, this life is easier knowing we set up the obstacle course before we were born, all in hopes of learning, feeling, understanding, and growing.

Like counting steps or watching the clock numbers; it puts me squarely behind the control panel of this experience, which helps me, "keep on keeping on," as Mike would say.

In a conversation with a loved one recently, they assumed because I come off as a positive person, I do not feel deeply, or worry about others, or care about the open wound we call Western Culture. I do. I cry about it. I fret. I scream into the wind. And I cope the best I can by sneaking money into the grocery carts of strangers, setting paintings in tree branches on a hike, sharing my clumsy, imperfect attempt at this life with others and ending each podcast episode with a heartfelt, I love you, in hopes it waters the heart seeds in others.