COLLECTIONS — 2025 Harvest 🌱
Some people collect stamps. Others, coins. Me? Cannabis seeds. Yeah, I know—sounds weird to some. But there’s something about the tiny, speckled shells holding entire genetic histories inside them that just... grabs me. Like time capsules. Or secrets. Or both.
It didn’t start as a “collection,” not really. First it was just a few leftover seeds from a bag of something decent—Northern Lights, I think. Then I started noticing differences. Shape, color, size. Some were tiger-striped, others smooth and pale like bone. I kept them. Labeled them with scraps of paper. Eventually, I bought a little tin box. Then a bigger one. Now I’ve got a drawer full. Maybe two. Depends how you count.
And no, I don’t germinate them all. That’s not the point. It’s not about growing—though I’ve done my share. It’s about the potential. The maybe. Each seed could become something wild, something sticky and loud and purple as bruised sky. Or it could be bunk. That’s the gamble. That’s the fun.
Some folks get real deep into the genetics. Cross-breeding, back-crossing, stabilizing traits. I respect that. But I’m more of a magpie. I like the weird ones. The landraces with names like whispers—Malawi Gold, Punto Rojo, Lebanese Red. Stuff that smells like spice markets and old wood. Stuff that probably wouldn’t pass a modern potency test but would knock your soul sideways if you smoked it under the right moon.
There’s also the legal grayness of it all. In some places, seed collecting is fine. In others, it’s a felony. Depends on the zip code and the mood of the local sheriff. That tension adds a little spice. Like collecting outlaw baseball cards.
I’ve traded seeds with people in basements, at festivals, online forums that feel like secret societies. One guy mailed me a pack wrapped in a page from a 1992 High Times. Another tucked his inside a hollowed-out book. People get creative. Paranoid. Romantic, even.
And yeah, some of them are duds. Old, cracked, sterile. But I keep them anyway. Like fossils. Or ghosts. They were part of something once. That counts.
Sometimes I just open the drawer and look. Run my fingers over the little vials and baggies. Read the scribbled labels—“Blueberry x Afghan, 2016,” “Unknown sativa, found in Oaxaca,” “Skunk #1, dad’s stash.” It’s like flipping through an old photo album, except instead of faces, it’s smells and highs and nights I half-remember.
I don’t know if it’s a hobby or a compulsion. Maybe both. Maybe neither. But it feels right. Feels like holding onto magic. Or mischief. Or memory.
Anyway. That’s my thing. Cannabis seeds. Tiny, stubborn miracles. Just waiting for the right dirt, the right sun, the right moment to explode into something green and loud and alive.