On manifesting
by Zoeyjane
I still have the poster board. Two large sheets of black, $1.89 a piece, wedged behind the bookcase in my kitchen that serves as pantry, linen cupboard, medicine cabinet and cookbook storage. Those squares are intended to create greatness.
Since reading Karen’s description of the why and how of her and her daughter’s vision boards, I’ve planned for Zoë and I to make them. Mine, inclusive of my 12 resolutions and images that reflect them; Zoë, things she wants to get, be and see out of this year. Phase. Life.
Finally, last night, I scheduled some time this week for them, after weeks of Zoë constantly asking me when we’re going to make our art, me retorting that she has to decide what’s going on it, and her responding “a mermaid”.
Asking a four-year old how she intends to be/see/get a mermaid will invariably lead to the same answer, time and time again: she’ll see one way deep in the ocean, of course. And she’ll go there with me.
I better get on that swimming resolution, then.
So, we shall create these four-sided, three dimensional dreams, with the hopes that if we see enough shooting stars and throw enough pennies and put our noses to the earth and push, they’ll manifest themselves into reality.
I call myself a cynical optimist.
I will always look for the best potential. I will always suggest the silver lining. I will always assume that nothing can’t get better. But I will also always think literally and about the negative, worst-case scenarios, and in straight, catastrophic lines, driving ‘what if?’ into a fiery abyss of self-torture.
This is why I haven’t taken chances. In love, in adventure, in practise. This is why a baby step can take me as much effort as a giant leap does another person.
This keeps me grounded and prepares me for the possibility of shit, because I’ve drowned in it often enough to know that it’s not the texture or suffocation that kills you – it’s the surprise that you’re surrounded, quite suddenly, by wasted remains.
Being prepared is being strong and offence is the best yada yada.
But I’ve gotta say, 2011 is turning me into one of those people who considers writing a little note, stuffing it into a tiny box, and considering it released into the universe, for said universe to make it so. There’s just too much… manifesting itself, for me to simply call it perseverance and the result of motivated, concentrated effort.
Take work. I’m flooded with it, and I’m in love with what I’m doing. So much so that money isn’t a factor in my wish to take on more.
Take money. I have some. Not much, but more than enough for the first time in at least a decade. In the bank. In a couple, actually. This is… surreal.
Take love. Zoë’s dad and I are having what some adults might call a relationship. It’s two-way. It’s not based upon sex. In fact, we probably have far less than you do. We have few arguments, now, and when we have, they’ve been resolved instead of swept under an invisible, flimsy rug. He apologizes for things that I don’t even consider wrong doing. I don’t consider nearly anything he does wrong doing. He talked, frankly, about this being a new kind of thing, different, and that he wanted to see where it could go, with us taking things slow and easy, with our individual independences and with him intentionally learning to move on from the past. He hangs onto things, you see. He’s a Scorpio.
And this is all taking place with sobriety. Nearly nine months of his, and we’ll call it 14 of mine.
This seems… functional.
For once, I’m thinking that things are better, instead of will be one day. And for once, I’m not talking about my mood disorder.
I’m just talking about life. And how it’s manifesting.
