🌱 When the Seed Knows It’s Time: Ripening Into the Hum

🌱 Kin 4 – Yellow Self-Existing Seed In the language of the Mayan calendar, this is the archetype of growth with intention, the seed that holds its code in stillness until the moment is right. It speaks of patience, trust in divine timing, and the courage to push through the soil toward light. A reminder that your becoming is never late… only ripening.

Last week’s blog was about the hum in the empty space, that quiet, wordless pulse of possibility I have somehow become attuned to.

But there’s another truth wound into that realization, one that has been quietly sending roots through the dark for years: I was not ready to hear it until now.

For most of my life, I was in the soil.

I have lived as so many do; doing, surviving, keeping pace with the rhythms of the outer world, while beneath the surface, something unseen was gathering itself.

It didn’t look like much from the outside. In fact, it looked like nothing at all.

But that’s the thing about seeds.

They don’t sprout on command. They hold their code in stillness, trusting the right combination of conditions, not a day earlier, not a day later.

According to the Mayan calendar, I am a Kin 4 Yellow Self-Existing Seed.

For those unfamiliar, the Mayan calendar is an ancient system that measures time through intricate, interconnected cycles, weaving astronomy, mathematics, and spirituality. Each person is born under a unique Kin, a combination of symbols, numbers, and energies, that reflects their life’s essence and purpose. My Kin speaks of creating with intention, nurturing growth, and helping potential blossom into form.

The seed archetype teaches the kind of patience that doesn’t grit its teeth through waiting, but instead trusts the organic timing of its own unfolding.

As I near my 57th birthday, I sometimes wonder why it took so long for my voice to finally emerge. But I see now, I wasn’t late. I wasn’t behind.

I was ripening.

Over decades, every heartbreak, every joy, every moment of confusion or stillness became part of my soil. Without knowing it, I was absorbing the nutrients I would one day need to germinate.

And then, as if some cosmic gardener whispered now, the coat cracked, the sprout reached for light, and the hum became audible.

I didn’t need to study quantum theory to feel this pulse. I didn’t need to master sacred philosophy to recognize its truth. The hum was always there, but I had to be ready to hear it.

And so I understand now why, when I try to share it, some eyes glaze over. Some seeds are still in the soil of their own becoming.

And that’s okay. In the language of seeds, there is no rush.

You can’t force a seed to grow by pulling on it. You can only tend the soil, offer warmth, water, and light, and trust its timing.

Perhaps part of my work, as one who hears the hum, is simply to stand in the garden as living proof that spring does come, and the seed will know when it’s time.

Because the hum isn’t only mine.

It’s in every seed, sleeping or blooming.

We can loosen the earth, stir the soil, let water seep into its roots, and shine the kind of warmth that invites growth. We can remind those seeds, in ways they may not yet understand, that the light is worth reaching for.

And maybe, just maybe, by tending my own light, I can help another feel that subtle vibration in the empty space, he first stirring of their own becoming.

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