For as long as I can remember, I’ve had what felt like a bizarre power: this strange ability to manifest my dreams. As if I can see their form in my peripheral vision, or I can sense their shape and flavour in some tactile, tangible way, and I know in my bones that this vision will come to fruition. It already feels real. It has happened enough times that the feeling is a recognisable, though not always completely trustworthy, intuitive presence. Like a reassuring guide on my trail, holding my hand as I step, eyes closed, over each stone.
The reverse is true too: sometimes ideas don’t feel real at all, and I’m unable to even imagine the universe in which they exist, which often means they never will. Just a sense of emptiness, a lack of shape or shadow.
There’s a trap with manifesting, because from the outside it looks easy. Which it isn’t, not in the slightest. But when only the wins are externally visible, it may resemble luck. And make no mistake, luck plays a part. But luck can only be a springboard if you’re ready to dive, and being ready to dive requires a great many belly flops before making that exquisite pike. The mundane reality of it is the trying and failing over, over and over again, but eventually, slowly, the cogs move, whirr to life. And somehow, as if by an alchemical force, you have spun the banal into magic.
I think the real power of manifesting is a fearless belief in your mission or vision or dream. It’s allowing yourself to tune in, to listen to it, to get a sense of it, to let it take its form, so that when you stand back, the light hits what you’ve envisaged and brings it into focus. A sculpture of the future, an organic form that you know, innately. Once you have that belief, once it has taken hold and you can see it, you are capable of pushing every fibre of yourself toward it. And when it already feels real? Well, then you’re just walking, in motion, toward exactly where you’re meant to be.