Law of Attraction. The Secret. Abraham Hicks. These manifestation buzzwords whiz by your ears like bees feverish for pollen.
You’ve luxuriated in the sweet, gooey teachings of business experts and spiritual masters, ready to create the life of your dreams. Your New Year’s resolution was to set intentions.
Today, you’re scraping yourself out of bed, searching for your hideous — yet insanely cozy — sweater, the one you’d never wear out of the house. You need it because you made a pact not to turn your heat on until mid-November because you’re short on money. The money you’re supposed to have already manifested.
As you absentmindedly scrape the remnants of the honey off the edge of your ear lobe and fire up the Keurig, you wonder when it’s going to happen. You made a clear list of what you wanted, and have gotten to the space of feeling it. Yet, you stand staring at your vision board, dumbfounded, as your coffeemaker spits to life.
Manifesting is an art. Like all art, different mediums work for different people. I’ve tried a lot of them: Full Moon ceremonies, crystal grids, daily affirmations, visual money tracking, aligning myself with the vibration. However, I’m taking a flyswatter to the buzzwords, and adopting a different perspective on co-creating with my buddy, the Universe.
Like any art form, my process has changed over time.
Christmas, 1988: I get a globe. My sister and I close our eyes and spin it as fast as we can. We allow Fate to play too and help us pick where in the world to venture to. I keep aiming for Australia. I’m not sure why, but I really want to go there. 28 years later, I’m writing this from Australia, where I live with my ideal partner. The actual one made of honey, not the one oozing stale vinegar.
March, 2000: I decide that I want to stay in the same dorm that I live in for another year, but I need to find a roommate who doesn’t hate me enough to put an ROTC rifle target on the receiver of our wall-mounted phone (this actually happened). My roommate for the following year didn’t hate me, or did she? She went through her daily ritual of changing her pantyliner in our dorm room, while I was in there and while my 12-year-old brother was in there, visiting. We were three doors down from the bathroom. She probably wondered why I was feverishly scrubbing my tongue at the sink.
May, 2002: It’s junior year of college, and I’m suddenly boyfriend-less. I’m also highly codependent (wait, are there even different degrees?), so I have to find a boyfriend. Six months searching, aka going to parties, never on any actual dates. I happen upon the new guy, on accident, when I try to set him up with one of my best friends. Then later on, I wonder why he was so codependent and clingy.
June, 2011: Single again, I’m not ready to meet anyone new, and go through that whole process, but I do want to date. Instead of someone new, a mutual friend visits with another old friend, whom I hadn’t seen for years. Well, he isn’t new, and he has magically arrived just as I set my intentions. He must be my answer from the Universe. I move halfway across the country to date an emotionally abusive alcoholic who cost me money and nearly my sanity. Yet, I had created the relationship by manifesting from a place of fear.
August, 2013: New teacher meeting, chatting with a colleague, when travel comes up and I jokingly mention that I need to find a pilot to date for the free travel. Within two months, I’m dating a guy who works for a major U.S. airline. Although we haven’t dated for over two years, he still lets me use his benefits and fly for free, all over the world, whenever I want.
January, 2015: I hate my job, and start saving money to quit and start my own business. I don’t have a fixed amount in mind, concrete plan, or have any idea of business startup costs. I find myself staring at a five-digit bank account at the end of the school year, to get me through the first year of building a business. Why just the first year? I decided I would be making enough money to live off of after that. My bank account hasn’t hit zero, and is still greater than the total of my credit cards.
September, 2016: I’ve been in Australia for six months by now, and am staying. But I need a car, most of my savings is gone. I don’t look for a car, I just decide how much I will pay and have an idea of what it will look like. One afternoon, my guy, the one made of honey, calls me saying one of his clients has the car, at the price point I hadn’t even shared with him, in the same color family I wanted. It now sits in my driveway.
Each experience I had was the product my creation. Some days, I suckled the sweet nectar of my creations, other days I had to take a Brillo pad to my tongue to alleviate the acrid taste of the poison I’d made. As I started the process of inner work, shining light on my shadow, the outcomes have become, decidedly, more awesome.
Manifestation is like the moving walkway at the airport, but both ends of it magically move toward a common center. The trick is removing all the obstacles and hurdles along the walkway. What you want is already on your path, you’ve just got to get to them. As much as I want to, I can’t parkour around them.
Armed with my flashlight, broom and some helpful spiritual practices, I can engage in the cleanup work to get the debris off the path. That’s when the real magic of manifestation begins.
My codependent tendencies no longer exist. I own my own business, and have enough money to get by (on my way to generating unbridled abundance). And, I’ll be real: I fly around the world for free. I created all of it because I’ve taken the time to work with my shadow and clear the path of possibility.
The process is constant: Clear out my fears. Clear my self-limitations. Clear out the clothes in my closet that don’t fit or I don’t wear. Seriously, they take up space and energetically block new things from coming in.
As I clear the path, I am able to create what I want, with less need of my friend Brillo. My intentions are clearer, and come from a place of higher purpose rather than one of fear. I decide what I want, and assume that I will have it. I assume that I will be lead to its fruition. The process takes a lot of trust in my intuition, but following the breadcrumbs one by one is the only way to find out if it will work.
Sometimes what I want shows up in days, or months, sometimes it takes 28 years, like Australia did, to come to fruition. But I’ve come to a place within myself where I know that what I want already exists in my life and it’s only a matter of shedding the old to move into the new where my desires live.
Instead of waking up, looking for my sweater and gazing longingly at the thermostat, I now wake up to lorikeets and palm trees. I slather gooey honey all over my toast, luxuriating as it drips down my chin. It might be sticky, but it sure is sweet.