The Butterfly, The Bird and The Burgers

(Me, trying to look calm and not drop my expensive bowls off the Grand Canyon ledge in a windstorm.)

I don’t even know where to begin except to say this: the magic is real. The synchronicities are stacking so high I don’t even try to explain them anymore. I just live inside them. And this past week? It felt like a portal cracked open in my backyard, and both our mamas walked through.

Tony, Hudson, and I had just come home from the most soul-filling weekend at the lake with our Jeep crew—sunshine, floating, tacos, good people, bruised elbows from tubing, and laughter that cracked something open in all the best ways. Hudson had a blast, Tony was warm and present, and I felt held. Like we actually built the life we used to just talk about.

But when we pulled into the driveway Sunday night, there was this little twinge of anxiety. Because for the first time ever, we had strangers renting our home on Airbnb. People we didn’t know, sleeping in our beds, using our stuff, soaking in the energy we’ve poured so much of ourselves into. What if they didn’t like it? What if they were weird? What if we had to be polite neighbors in our own house?

Well. The universe laughed.

Because the second I stepped through the gate, they were all sitting in the backyard lounge space—and the mom jumped up and hugged me like an old friend.

“You’re Jennings?! Oh my god, I was hoping we’d meet you! I just knew you’d be amazing from everything I saw. You’re so spiritual and warm and welcoming—your house has the best energy. We love it here.”

She talked fast, with that kind of joy you can’t fake. She told me they’d had the best time, found the cutest coffee shop, and felt like they’d landed somewhere sacred. “I told my husband—I feel something here. Like I belong here. I think we were meant to come.”

So I invited her and her daughter to that night’s sound bath. Last minute, discounted for them. Come if you feel called.

They did. And what happened after… was pure magic.

We shared stories. Her mom had passed away six months ago. Mine, a couple years before. She cried. I listened. We swirled the bowls, called in peace, and she said she felt something shift inside her. Like her mom was near. She bought a little fluorite heart afterward and said, “I’ll be back every time I’m in town. I don’t know how to explain it—but I needed this.”

While we were in the sound bath, Tony was outside talking to her husband, who turned out to be a chiropractor with major “cool dad energy.” They hit it off right away—talked RVs, work, life, all the guy stuff. Total vibe match. Like we could be friends friends.

Then it got weird. Good weird.

They mentioned they believe in signs from loved ones who’ve passed. That her mom sometimes sends butterflies.

“And when we got here,” she said, “this huge yellow butterfly kept circling me in the backyard. It almost landed on my shoulder. I felt like… it was her.”

And I said, “first of all, I’ve never seen a yellow butterfly of any size here, so that must be your mom. Second, this but psychic told me my mom comes to me as big white birds. Egrets, cranes, herons—always powerful, always watching. She showed up at my grand opening, circling the backyard. And I swear, she’s come back again and again. We see her often.”

And as I’m telling this story, the egret shows up in my yard. Not across the ravine behind the yard like it usually does. Not on a fence. This time, the bird lands on the roof of my backyard bar, directly in front of us—15 feet away. She just sat there. Regal. Calm. Watching us.

They stared in disbelief. “That’s her,” I said. “That’s my mom. She always shows up when something sacred is happening.”

It was one of those moments that makes you whisper to yourself: What are the odds?

And if that wasn’t enough, after all the magic and sound and tears and birds and butterflies—they brought us In-N-Out.

They came back with fries and shakes and cheeseburgers -the kind of kindness you don’t usually expect from strangers renting your house.

Except they weren’t strangers. Not really.

The next morning, we sat in the backyard again, and the mom—Mary—pulled out her Armenian coffee cups and made us espresso. After we drank ours, she read the thick drippings at the bottom of the cup like a psychic. She looked into mine and smiled.

My cup showed a giant hummingbird—large, like an egret. A quiet ache beneath my joy. Money flowing in. And the number three, again and again, like the vibration of the house, my mom’s frequency, a holy sign. And most clearly of all—my mom herself. She said she saw her face in the grounds before I even said a word.

We all just sat there in awe. First the butterfly, then the bird, now this.

Our first Airbnb guests weren’t random renters. They were soul family. We shared burgers, tears, coffee readings, crystals, and signs from our mothers. They left promising to return every time they’re in town.

Because this isn’t just a house. It’s a portal. Some homes are meant to hold families. This one? It holds spirit. The ones who come here don’t just stay—they remember.

That night, under string lights and the watchful eyes of a bird on the roof, I understood: the Lotus Moon vortex is bigger than me. It’s a place where grief and love meet, where signs still land in our yards, and where the universe delivers burgers with a side of magic.