The Eve in Us All: a Memoir of Love, Loss, and Miracles: a Memoir of Love, Loss and Miracles

By Serene Seas

This is a book about magic. It is a guide to manifesting miracles in everyday life. Noticing coincidences, gifts, and favor turns an ordinary day into one filled with special messages just for you.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pristine Parr
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737084013

Book preview

THE EVE IN US ALL

A MEMOIR OF LOVE, LOSS AND MIRACLES

The Eve in Us All

A Memoir of Love, Loss and Miracles

Copyright © 2021 by Serene Seas

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Printed in the United States of America

Disclaimer

All book titles, songs, artists, and media referenced herein belong to their rightful owners. They shall be used for narrative purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended and no marketing will be made upon use of the elements above mentioned.

The names of the people involved and some events have been changed to protect their privacy.

Website: www.sereneseasbooks.com

Email: [e-mail]

Cover Design: awesomewebgirl

Cover Photo: Dom Aguiar

Interior Design: Farhan Shahid

Editors: Frances Lee Gonzalez Rosado & Tiffany B.

Author Photo: Walil Archer

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Acknowledgements

Where do I start? Eternally grateful to my family. You all are my greatest inspiration, the reason I keep going and if you weren’t here, I’d be wishing for you from afar. This book was dedicated to my Diamond, but all of you are precious and priceless.

To Brendan, the sage, the culmination of ancient wisdom and modern intensity. When you were a little boy you said you chose us, and I believed you. You were the start of this journey into a greater reality and I am thankful to you.

To Bianca, your sassy, sweet and loving spirit reminds me of all that is mysterious and wonderful about life. As you grow into the remarkable young woman you were meant to be I will always be your biggest fan.

To Alina, always full of life and committed to family, I wish you all the best as new chapters open for you and reveal more exciting adventures than you ever imagined.

To Bear…you’ve come so far but still, the best is yet to come.

To Marlon, always in my prayers.

To my grands, the four heartbeats and the ray of sunshine, love is not the word to best describe what I feel, gratitude and joy beyond anything I ever imagined whenever I think of you all...you chose us and we are so honored to have you.

Shout out to my mothers, my father, my sisters, my brother. Party’s on me from now until the wheels fall off.

To Taharka. Stay healthy, brilliant, and strong. You will need all that to keep up with what’s next.

To Ana R. You are the unnamed hero at the very end, a wink from the future. Your updates kept me going and helped me see this magic is not to be hoarded, it must be shared.

To the many people who read the book and gave me the courage to push to the very end: Jessica Posey, miss francis, Regina Hall. I am so thankful for your kindness, your courage, your insight and your enthusiasm. To Walil Archer, an amazing photographer with the patience of Job, you made so much easier. To AC Farley, without whom so much of my life would be drab, plain, boring and lacking in truth. I love you, cuz, you are more like a brother to me than anyone and your wisdom made this book possible. It took a team to birth this vision. Now hang on yall, it’s going to be a wild ride. I can feel it.

Contents

Copyright © 2021 by Serene Seas

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

Prologue

The Age of Aquarius

Samara

How This Book Works

January, 2020

Getting Lost to Get Found

TO S.K.

Dodging Bullets

The Way of Insanity

Adjusting

Drump

Love Masters

Fearless Love

Pass It On

Legacies

Evaporation

The Sway

Happy Accidents

Glow Ups

Money Dance

Thanks, Mom

Again, thanks, Mom 

Bad Gurl

Angels on Deck

Worship

Before Bear

Hitman

Oh, Mother

Vintage Miracles

Thrown Off

Balance

Curse Breakers

The Hole

Galaxy

Daddy

The Right and Wrong Way to Grow

Plans

Missing Something

In the Blood

He Lives

Downloads

Connected

Rest

February, 2020

Truth or Tradition

Feelings

Confirmation

Side Effects

Worldwide

Sweetness

Room for Error

Ghosted Again

Sips

February Inventory

MARCH, 2020

Chosen

Curses

Mentors

The Beginning of the End

Shutdown

Funky

Numbers

Out Here Killin’ It

Greatness

March Inventory

April, 2020

Telepathy

Testing

Power

My Twin Flame

Schmoney

Psychic Session

Strategy

Roots

April Inventory

MAY, 2020

Plots and Plans

Blackness

Fuel

Game On

May Inventory

June, 2020

Lost Love

Kidnapping

Amazon

Blinded

Vibration

June Inventory

July, 2020

Bold

Numbers Don’t Lie

Out of Nowhere

July Inventory

August, 2020

Voided

The Miracle That is Stacey Abrams

The Photo That Mattered

August Inventory

September, 2020

Gearing Up

Last Conversation

Camille’s Entry

September Inventory

October, 2020

Favored

Ode to My Twin Flame

October Surprise

November, 2020

Crossroads

Eva

Cut-off

November Inventory

December, 2020

Just in Time

Betrayal

The Great Conjunction

Confirmation

Christmas Miracle

One-on-One

The Reading 

Looking Over the Edge

Farewell

Epilogue

2020 inventory 

Prologue

The Age of Aquarius

When my grandmother learned my 17-year-old mother was pregnant with me, she had a doctor give her a potion that was supposed to kill me. It was drawing out the fluid in her womb, suffocating me to death, when I decided it was time to be born. My grandmother would help deliver me, then leave me on the steps of a church 250 miles away.

Like she could get rid of someone like me that easily.

I survived, of course. But to make it into this life, I had to fight. A part of me still loves a good fight, but while I’ve learned to put that part of myself down and to keep it tucked away until it’s needed, it hasn’t been easy.

Strange as it sounds, I appreciate my grandmother’s wisdom. Had I met her before her death, I would’ve been the truth-teller she despised, the one giving her a reason to hate me. She was a pastor’s wife and a so-called pastor herself, one who lied, cheated, and killed whenever it was convenient for her to do so. And as her granddaughter, that truth wouldn’t have escaped me. I would have been living proof of her failure on so many levels, and I’m not one to tiptoe around facts to spare someone’s feelings. Every time the moment would have pleased me, I would’ve given her a look that would’ve cut her ass to shreds with the truth, telepathically messaging: Despite what you did to me, I won! I’m here now, and the trick the devil had you play was a huge fail! Look at God... won’t He do it...

My grandmother’s decision—as treacherous as it was—doesn’t mean I’m anti-abortion. The year I was born was the first year in American history it became legal for women to have an abortion. Had my grandmother found out about me sooner, I would’ve been clinically disposed of and sent to the incinerator with the other unwanted unborn. Sad, but true, and that makes me all the more fortunate for her shitty timing. In a real way, it was a miracle.

We often forget abortion has a history— one as long as the world’s oldest profession— and with necessity guaranteeing neither practice will ever die. Many cultures have disposed of their unwanted babies, leaving them on the sides of roads or in the woods— or, as some enslaved women did, drowning them at birth to keep them from suffering in life. As a botched abortion survivor, I’m not anti-abortion: I’m anti-ignorance.

We have created this skewed view of pregnancy, making us see it either as a women’s rights issue or a right to life one. While discussing abortion with a pro-life Christian, I asked him, Have you ever met someone whose parents didn’t want them?

He paused, then replied, I know people who changed their minds and gave their lives to Christ. They raised their children to be God-fearing.

So, I ventured to ask in another way, What about the ones who don’t? Do you think it’s loving and fair to force people to raise children they don’t want? Have you ever asked a child or someone who grew up in that type of home what it feels like to be unwanted? All the fighting over the issue would stop if you all talked with the very people you say you’re speaking for.

I say this as someone unwanted and left in the cold. Being adopted at birth didn’t erase the energy of being unwanted and unloved; that feeling wrapped around me and held me tight. Even with love all around me and people who adored me, there were places their love couldn’t reach. It took me a lifetime to appreciate myself and release those toxic emotions that weren’t even mine.

Some people don’t make it. Some hear that voice— You should end it. Nobody wants you. They wish you had never been born. You’d be better off dead.— and they have no idea it might be their DNA barking orders in their head, translated from the whispered fears of their mother, sensations felt from their father, threats rippling through their blood from some long-lost relative they may have never met.

As a teenager, I had the chance to get an abortion. My best friend’s mother offered to get me one. I was about to do it, but I remembered that my best friend had severe trauma from her abortion at 15, and I knew she wasn’t pretending to be destroyed by it. It was a raw and deep wound that she blamed her mother for inflicting upon her, no matter how great the reason. I decided it wasn’t worth it. If my baby chose me, I chose her. If she wanted to be here, I would not stop her. The decision didn’t make being a single parent any easier, but I believed I had no right to resent her needs. I did what I did to bring her here, and I was going to do my very best to give her my all.

I won’t lie. It’s a challenge to bring up a child. Mine range from ages 12 to 30, so you know I have references and the receipts. I view my role as a mother to be one of sacrifice from the very beginning. I wouldn’t send my babies to daycare before they could speak. What if someone hurt them and they couldn’t tell me who it was? I knew in intimate detail how some children are treated in daycares—thanks to Maury, Oprah, and the evening news—and I had no desire to put my children in any situation that could endanger them. I took the financial hit, which cost me dearly, but it was worth every day of peace I enjoyed.

Still, did my kids appreciate my sacrifice? No! Does anyone beneath a certain age appreciate what could’ve happened but didn’t? Rarely! Besides, I spared them daycare for myself as much as for them. Had someone hurt or damaged my babies, I would’ve had a hard time not laying hands on them, and I don’t mean that in a spiritually healing kind of way. The love I have for my kids is so fiercely protective, I often called myself the Lioness. Cross the line, and I will draw blood. It wasn’t until years later, after meeting my birth mother, that I realized this idea was not my own, and I couldn’t even claim to be the first Lioness in my family. My narc grandmother also called herself a Lioness and had insisted my mother raise the child she did keep, my sister Camille, all on her own.

Having a life shaped by narcs runs deep in my blood. Despite being adopted into a great family, it was full of high-level narcs. My adoptive mother was grandiose, my father was covert, my older sister was the dark triad, and my younger brother was a little bit of them all until he grew into a flying monkey. I went on to marry two narcs and to have two children who are narcs. Narcissists are everywhere, and they always make life harder than it needs to be. That’s what they do.

I never realized how prevalent narcissism was until I stumbled upon extensive research about them on YouTube. Yes, YouTube: the world’s biggest, most badass educational portal. There is a lot of bullshit on YouTube, and it can radicalize someone unfamiliar with distinguishing fact from fiction. But YouTube also has some of the best minds in the world on there, putting you up on game, and what it’s done to expose narcs is a true service to humanity. I found out my life had been extra, extra cray-cray because I am a super empath surrounded by narcs. I was raised in a narcissistic, cult-like religion, live in a narcissistic country, and am a member of a culture and race that celebrates, excuses, and enables narcs.

What is even more outrageous is being in therapy at different stages of my life, and at no time was I ever correctly introduced to the term so I could know why the people I loved were constantly scarring me. When I searched for healing and understanding in my twenties and thirties, the mere terms narc, sociopath, or psychopath turned me off. The self-help writers I read were against labels and preached a gospel I whole-heartedly supported: Anyone and everyone can change. You don’t seek to change anyone; you can only change yourself.

This is the perfect mindset for a narc to exploit. It’s why life is unbalanced in favor of the most extreme narcs. Because I believed in this mantra for so many years, I resisted any teaching that labeled others or claimed they were incapable of evolving. According to experts, narcs are fixed in their behavior and intentions. They don’t want to be normal, loving human beings… because they aren’t. They enjoy delivering pain and have no desire to listen to their conscience because they don’t have one; empathy is for suckahs.

My resistance to the label and refusal to use sound judgment prevented me from seeing what I needed to see: narcs had heavily influenced me, and I believed their hard, inflexible, inconsistent rollercoaster love was the only love I could ever expect from another human being. But the truth will set you free, baby. And knowing that narcs are just a fraction of the population, and they all wear the same perfume, makes it super easy for me and everyone else who wants a normal, peaceful life to avoid them like Ebola.

When we pay attention, we will see a pattern: malignant narcs are currently ruling us. Most major corporations are headed by them or their close kin: the psychopath and sociopath. Their self-centered policies are doing much more than making life on Earth harder for everyone; they are actively committed to bringing about the next extinction-level event.

Loving a narc is like loving a venomous pet. You can adore, feed, and care for them all you want, but if they catch you slipping, your ass is food. Nothing personal, just know you’re not special, boo boo.

Growing up in this kind of environment was heartbreaking, but then I learned that I, too, have power. I owe it to myself to let them see how they not only harmed me but how their hypocrisy, cruelty, and selfishness cost them something precious, too. Instead of trusting others to love and appreciate them, they chose to control and manipulate. Now that I know that they know I know, I let them see how much they have lost. I let them watch as my sweetness, kindness, courage, and dedication strengthen and grow me right before I take my brilliant light elsewhere.

I am convinced we can all treat narcs to their own special magic show. We have a chance to reveal what they are missing when they choose control over compassion and believe might makes right, instead of waking up to the undeniable truth: one day, they will turn a corner— either in their health, life, or circumstances— and they will need the love of the very people they have discarded and downgraded.

This memoir is a celebration of empathy and everyone driven by it. It is time for us to take over and finally begin our reign.

Welcome to the Age of Aquarius.

Samara

In February 2019, my 27-year-old son and I started debating if reincarnation was possible. I didn’t really believe it, but I started sending him videos about children with solid claims that they had lived other lives before. Now, my son is smart, young, and full of Gen-Y energy, so I thought it would be interesting to get his take.

Ma, he began like he was talking to an irrational simpleton. This doesn’t mean anything. Kids make up stories all the time.

I’ll admit I was disappointed in his critique. Most of the time, it was the government, aliens, demons, or demons behind an alien government. Kids making up stories was a lazy conclusion to draw, not some next-level mind-blowing shit. Plus, it didn’t make sense. Who makes up a string of events that turn out to be true, with no coaching or instigating from anybody? While I wasn’t convinced, I was curious. So, I researched how skeptics explained children with these stories. Most of them had the same low-energy, dismissive response my son did: kids have wild imaginations, and sometimes, the things they make up are true.

I had two problems with the experiments where researchers proved this was possible. One, just because kids were making it up didn’t mean they weren’t tapping into something somewhere that speaks to you— that you know what you know, but don’t know how you know vibe. Two, the children in the experiments were asked to make up a story. The children claiming to remember their past lives simply told people what was happening to them. An adult trying to hustle up some fast cash could possibly make up some wild past life tales, but a kid has no such agenda. The opposite seemed to be true in the nonscientific experiments they did. Many of these children were disturbed by their memories. They did not come across as attention-seeking little habitual liars at all.

In April 2019, while listening to a Hans Wilhelm video, I decided to look up some info about him. This man had sold over 42 million books, and I had never heard of him before! I did a little more digging and came across an interview where he relayed how he told his father, who was on his deathbed, what would go down the moment he took his last breath. His father laughed— he wasn’t buying any of it— and then, a short time later, he passed away. Some years went by, and Hans was in a bookstore waiting to hear an author/medium speak when the person came up to Hans and told him his father had a message for him. According to the medium, Hans’ father had walked in with him. His father was eager to say one thing: You were right, his father told the medium to say to him, and people need to know about this. It can be confusing for some when they die, and you will perform a profound service by educating others.

That story fascinated me. I listened to it over and over again. I told my kids about it, told my friends, and pretty much blabbed about it to anyone within earshot. I was doing more than sharing information; I wanted someone to explain how this story could be faked—or accurate. How could a human being, just like any other, possibly know any of this? I started watching NDE (near-death experience) videos and found them strangely comforting. Then I learned about pre-birth planning and how we choose our mission and earth partners to aid our expansion: in this nook of the spiritual woods, there is some dispute about whether we are pulled down to the earth because we are fallen angels or trapped here by our lower vibrations. Then we evolve through what looks like a tedious, horrific process where we go back into beings worthy of inhabiting the heavenly realm. We may also be explorers, sent here to expand on behalf of consciousness towards a realm of lower and higher vibrations. The goal of the expansion is to integrate the light and the dark, release our greatest potential, and elevate human awareness on this plane. I didn’t need much convincing to know that if I had a choice, I’d choose the second option.

Who wants to be a fallen angel when you can be an intergalactic explorer?

I wondered how you could know what your pre-birth plan was when Robert Schwartz, an author who wrote best-selling books about pre-birth plans, started popping up on my YouTube feed. I bought his first book, and… Oh. My. God. It blew whatever mind I had left from years of modern American living away. What if this was true? How fun, engaging, and wild would life be if we planned all these events as learning experiences? It was so out there that I decided it was better for me to just play with the idea— don’t decide to believe it, don’t commit to being on the reincarnation train, just play with it. It was liberating beyond words.

I sent Robert Schwartz’s book to my oldest daughter, Samara, and begged her to listen to it. It was an audiobook, and I suggested that she play it while cleaning. She was battling two growing ovarian cysts and had been incapable of working for more than just a few weeks for almost a year. The pain was debilitating when it flared up. Just listen for twenty minutes, babe; that’s all I ask.

She agreed. I gave her a few days, then pounced on her. I was thirsty, as the kids say, and it was obvious. I listened, Ma, but I didn’t get anything out of it, she insisted. I decided not to push anymore. If it didn’t resonate with her, it just didn’t.

In June, I started a new job, and it was supposed to be everything I wanted. Life was going well. I’d paid for a vacation the year before, but poor organization caused us to miss the boat (literally, since it was a cruise). I decided to plan the trip after my ninety days were up. I deserved some me-time (and by me-time, I mean making all the arrangements, paying for everything, and watching everyone else have a good time between my carefully coordinated naps). I took a poll of the kids, and only one of the adult children was in: my middle daughter, Alina. Samara, who had been on so many cruises as a child that she could care less about some all-inclusive one now, gave me a hard pass.

Let’s go to the mountains, Mom; you’ll love it, she suggested.

Sweetie, you know I’m a beach girl! I loved seeing the Rocky Mountains last year, but I already technically paid for this trip. Come with us. Bring the kids.

She would not budge. Neither would I.

In August, she went to the hospital. I went to see her, and her current boyfriend was there. I was prepared to stay, but he hopped on the bed beside her and seemed to be taking excellent care of my baby. They were laughing and talking. He was feeding her and keeping her company, a true knight in shining armor.

You’re going to have the surgery? I asked for the umpteenth time.

Yes, Ma, she made a face like I’m tired of this too. There was a monthly visit to the hospital for almost a year each time her cycle came on.

Okay, I replied, taking a deep breath, relieved that this ordeal was about to be over.

That evening she called. Ma, you won’t believe this. I talked to this nurse, and she said there’s a doctor here who can do the surgery and save my ovaries. He is a miracle worker, Ma.

I wanted to warn her, use a tone that would pierce through her defenses and motivate her heart to act quickly: It’s a trap, Samara, don’t fall for it!

But I couldn’t. The words got stuck, and a voice said: As soon as you say it, she’s going to accuse you of judging her and looking down on her— speaking fear into her life. I swallowed, choked back my terror, and said, That sounds good, luv. What do you need to do?

He told me to call his office and make an appointment. He said he will do the surgery for me next month if I come in and he is here.

Next month…

Next month...

Next month...

There was a siren going off in my head. I wanted to scream, It’s a trap, Samara, it’s a trap. Don’t put your trust in this doctor! But this generation will hear what they want to hear. Then why should I get the surgery if I shouldn’t trust a doctor? I could hear her saying. I sighed. I lied and told her I was happy for her. The following day, she called.

They don’t take my insurance, she reported, seething with rage. I told them what he said, but they were very rude.

Well, that’s that. I exhaled and said as mildly as I could, Go back and let whatever doctor is there do the surgery, Samara. She wouldn’t hear of it. This was the doctor. No one else would do. I called my best friend, Chad, crying my eyes out. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say? What am I not seeing? What am I not saying?

He didn’t hesitate to respond, You’re acting like it’s your health and your body. It is not. She has the right to do with her body what she wants to do. Chad was right, but I didn’t believe him— not the part about it being her body and her right, but the part about there being nothing else I could do. It felt like I really was out of all the lovely, civilized options. All my creative thinking about healthy ways to persuade her was gone, leaving only the gangsta stuff. I could threaten to beat her ass if she didn’t go to the doctor, shake my fist in the background while she signed the consent papers, and refused to leave her side until they wheeled her into the operating room and took out the growing cysts on both her ovaries. But I didn’t believe in force, and had she died on the operating table, I would’ve lived forever with bloodstained hands.

Next month...

With September came the storms. Four hurricanes, back-to-back, were in the Atlantic, and the island we were scheduled to go to got hit bad. I had the option to postpone yet again or make the trip anyway. While I was trying to decide what I was going to do, Samara called. She had received the results of her MRI, and it wasn’t good. They said there’s a hole on my left side.

Oh. My. F’ing. God.

You need to get that checked out right away, babe. Please, please tell me you’re going to the doctor. That’s serious, Samara. It could be anything. I was trying not to panic, but inside I was howling.

I am, she assured me. Thinking about it now, something strange had come over me. Usually, I would be like, F this job! My child is sick, and she needs me! This job isn’t worth more than my kids. My partner had already told me he supported me in leaving. My job’s attendance policy was so strict, even medical emergencies were counted against you, and these were people in the medical field! For some reason, I decided to maintain my borderline perfect attendance and not go with my own child to the doctor. I only had the weekends off, and no doctor would see a new patient on the weekends. I went to her place the Sunday before our scheduled vacation to drop off my grandkids. She was in a brace, one that wrapped around her distended belly, which was morbidly swollen.

Why are you wearing that brace, Samara?

A look passed between her and her new fiancé.

The accident I was in,’ she mumbled. I frowned. That accident had been months ago. I shrugged it off, even though it didn’t sound... kosher.

I saw an interview with Kendrick Lamar, and he spoke about how his depression was linked to the pain of his position: being able to touch people around the world with his words and his work but being helpless to stop the deaths and hardships of the people closest to him— people he deeply loved. That is what loving Samara felt like. She had seen how far I had come as a mother and had watched my own brushes with death. In her young life, she had witnessed three times that I had come to death’s door and looked over the edge, but she did not respond to my warnings or anyone else’s. I had cautioned her about waiting too late. I had pulled her coat about how medical professionals looked down on Black people, especially Black women, and how they viewed us as generally nonchalant about our health and considered us second-class patients who didn’t deserve the best care. The only thing I had not done was break down and cry and openly demand that we go to the doctor. And I didn’t do that because I needed her to want the surgery. Surgery, to me, is one of the most fragile states a human being can experience, and your mindset has to be willing to undergo that process or the outcome could be even worse than what you dealt with before.

Samara was a natural healer, but she had reached the limits of her expertise and skills. She wanted her way a little bit more than she wanted the surgery. When I asked if she was going to the doctor, she said, I have an appointment Tuesday.

It was down to the wire on decision time about our vacation. I watched the news, checked the internet, and prayed about it. If the fourth storm didn’t move towards the Bahamas by the weekend, we would go. I needed the rest, the kids were looking forward to it, and the people on the islands needed tourist dollars. I checked, and it was still churning off the East Coast, trippin’. I made an executive decision: my Black ass was taking my family on a cruise. Periodt.

That Tuesday, my last day at work, I spoke with Samara on my lunch break. She finally got an appointment with the miracle doctor, but it still wasn’t looking good. She was sobbing her eyes out, the sadness and anguish so raw, I clenched my fist and paced back and forth. Everything around me was drenched in red.

They were so mean to me, Ma. I’m in so much pain.

I felt a level of rage swell in me that is hard to describe. I cannot bear the thought of my children hurting. It’s so uncomfortable; whatever it is has to be stopped, and NOW.

What happened, sweetie? I paced in front of the office building, rolling my eyes at the sky. Why, God, why is this happening?

The people at this doctor’s office. They say he can’t see me without getting my old records from the doctor I saw before.

What kind of bullshit was this? Are you serious?

Yes, Momma. Samara wept like her heart was being twisted into knots, and mine was being ripped apart, too.

Sweetie, please, just go to the hospital and have the surgery. Please, I started to cry. I was so tired of it, so exhausted by this ordeal.

I can’t keep doing this, Ma, she sobbed. I tried so hard.

I knew how she felt. She wanted one last child with the man she loved. Just one more. She had found the love of her life. But it was not to be. That dream would no longer be possible.

The next day, I was visiting my mother when I learned that Samara was in the hospital. I was furious. Absolutely outraged. Why hadn’t she called me? I decided to let her have it. She was grown. She obviously didn’t need her mother. I got on the road the following morning. We listened to another Robert Schwartz book about pre-birth planning all the way south. They were a captive audience, and I was going to make sure I introduced them to the fascinating, potentially real world of conscious reincarnation.

By the time we got on board the ship, I felt a vague uneasiness. As I