On Manifestation and the Courage to Act

I’m not entirely sure where the vision came from. It wasn’t based on a nostalgic memory from childhood, nor was it inspired by a painting or photograph I’d seen. It wasn’t located in a particular time or place, and if you asked me to describe it, I’d have a hard time recalling any concrete details. The vision would appear without invocation, and received nothing more than a fleeting moment of recognition.

All I knew was that there was a mailbox at the end of a long driveway lined with trees, and that as I walked the length of the driveway to collect the mail, I felt a visceral sense of calm and belonging.

It was another late afternoon in the Santa Monica high-rise where I sat across from my therapist, next to the box of tissues.

It was early spring 2017. I had just left my marriage after only seven months, and had been forced to move out of the newly-purchased and renovated house I’d been sharing with my husband in Encinitas, CA. I was suffering from severe, disfiguring health issues, had decided to stop speaking to my mother, and was in therapy three times a week. It was without a doubt the darkest and most terrifying period of my life.

After twenty-seven years of keeping it at bay, trickles gave way to waves, and my carefully constructed dam of false control and superficial appearances was collapsing under a constant, raging flow of newly found self-awareness. Unable to rely on my usual strategies of perfectionism, grandiosity and self-identification through external sources of value, I was, for the first time in my life, at the mercy of my subconscious. After several decades of anxiously and neurotically controlling my day to day existence, I suddenly had no idea who I was or where I was going.

My husband had refused to participate in mediation, and used the house we’d just recently renovated as leverage. After a couple months of sleeping on an extra mattress in my home office with my husband standing in the doorway begging me not to leave, I left, and moved in with my mother in Santa Monica. This was hardly the respite I was craving, and after three grueling months of confronting the unhealthy relationship I had with my mother, I started looking for somewhere else to live.

I was still in denial about losing my house in Encinitas, but I also knew I couldn’t survive without solitude, so I set out to find a place to live under the assumption I’d be there only temporarily.

I hated Los Angeles, but given that I had already started therapy in Santa Monica, and knowing my best friend was about to move to LA from the east coast, I racked my brain to try and find a neighborhood that would suit my needs, which at the time, were seclusion, privacy, and quiet.

During this period of time, I received an astrology reading. It was the first time in my life I’d sought out any kind of “spiritual” advice, but I was desperate, and open to any feedback that could help me find stability and understanding.

After hearing that I’d spent my college years studying gender and sexuality, but that I’d mostly discarded those interests in exchange for pursuing a conventional life and career, the astrologer advised that I reacquaint myself with my sexuality, both intellectually and in practice.

Several days after the reading, I was listening to a podcast that mentioned that the guy who wrote Sex at Dawn, a book I’d read and loved years prior, had a podcast. I found it immediately and started listening.

After a couple episodes, Chris, who hosted the podcast and wrote Sex at Dawn, mentioned that he lived in Topanga, and immediately, a lightbulb went off. I had visited Topanga with my mother and (soon to be) ex-husband in my early twenties, and strangely, I remember my mother saying something like “I feel like this is the kind of place you’d like to live someday.”

At that time, I was settled into living my conventional life in Encinitas, CA, wearing way too much makeup and working in marketing for natural products brands, so I didn’t give her comment much thought. It wasn’t until I heard Topanga mentioned on Chris’ podcast that I recalled this quirky, artistic town in the Santa Monica mountains on the outskirts of LA.

Immediately, I knew this was the place I wanted to live. I headed straight to Craigslist to look for apartment listings. The first one I saw looked perfect – a one-bedroom open-plan apartment above a garage, with a giant deck looking over unobstructed views. There was an open house scheduled for the next day.

When I saw the apartment in person, I knew it was perfect. I had seen several other listings in the area, but nothing remotely compared to the beauty and tranquility of this place. I filled out an application, but there were many others visiting the apartment and filling out applications, so I didn’t feel very hopeful that I’d be selected.

A few days passed, and I’d heard nothing from the landlord, so I decided to send him an email to check in. He said he was busy with other things, and hadn’t had a chance to review the applications. Another couple days went by without hearing back, so I emailed again. This time, I decided to speak openly about the difficult situation I was in, and elaborated on why this apartment would be perfect for me. The landlord acknowledged my email, but still no confirmation on whether he’d rent me the apartment.

From April 19th through May 1st, I sent him eight emails - providing more information about me, checking in, and offering several months of rent up front. I was worried about harassing him, and knew my excessive communication could backfire.

On May 1st, he finally called. He thanked me for being so communicative, apologized for the delays, and told me that he’d decided to just rent me the apartment without even bothering to look over the other applications. “You seem great,” he said. “You emailed me sooner than anyone else did, and seemed the most interested, so the apartment is yours.”

Two weeks later, I moved in.

Despite the pain and grief I was experiencing, I was elated to move into a place that I knew could provide a safe haven for me to heal.

A week or so after moving in, I walked up the long, tree-lined driveway to get the mail, and it hit me. Here I was, inside the inexplicable vision that had appeared to me over the course of my life. This was the place I’d seen in my mind. It looked the same, and felt the same. Immediately I understood that somehow, I’d ended up in the place I had imagined.

Sitting across from my therapist I recounted the experience. “I never understood what manifestation meant before,” I said, “But I think that’s what this is. I had a vision, and next thing I knew, I appeared inside of it, in real life.”

I was crying. I felt grateful, amazed, and struck by what felt like a miraculous occurrence that manifested itself beyond my control. The pain I’d been experiencing during this time in my life was accompanied by an unwavering sense that I was exactly where I needed to be. This faith — that whatever was happening was meant for me — opened up a path that would lead me toward what I would later define as spirituality — a belief in mystery, and an acknowledgement that my life had meaning and purpose beyond the mundane.

My therapist listened attentively and empathetically. Careful not to disrupt my sense of the miraculous, she added another layer. “Yes, it’s amazing” she said, acknowledging my experience, “But also, you worked hard to create this.”

She reminded me of the courage it took to leave my marriage, and to acknowledge the strained relationship with my mother. She reminded me that I intentionally sought out advice to help me understand what I was going through, from the astrology reading, to committing to seeing her three times a week.

She reminded me that I took the advice of the astrologer to re-explore my sexuality, that I found and listened to Chris’ podcast, that I followed up on my interest in living in Topanga, found the apartment listing, went to the open house, filled out the rental application, and pestered the landlord.

The manifestation of the vision was real, but the actions I took to make it happen were real too. “God” was “out there” but also, undeniably, “in here.” As above, so below. As within, so without.

My therapist and I sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, and she started crying with me.

We never spoke in depth about what occurred in that moment. It didn’t feel necessary.

People like to say that all you have to do is believe, as if life rearranges itself for those who wish for or envision something strongly enough.

But the long, tree-lined driveway didn’t appear just because I believed in it or because I could picture it in my head. It appeared because, step by step, I walked toward the kind of life where it could exist.

Belief showed me what was possible. Action made it real.