From Abraham-Hicks, via Jerry and Esther Hicks:
When people ask us how long does it take for something to manifest, we say, “It takes as long as it takes you to release the resistance. Could be 30 years, could be 40 years, could be 50 years, could be a week. Could be tomorrow afternoon.”
Excerpted from the workshop in Cleveland, OH on Tuesday, July 11th, 2000 # 698
I manifested conditions and “circumstances” in my life, long before I knew what manifestation was. When I looked for definitions, 1. and 2. in every definition are something made manifest, or the act of manifesting. Big help.
I came to understand that manifestation meant bringing to my life that which I put my life energy into wanting.
A Million Dollars, you ask? A marvelous house? A new car? A yacht, a job, a lover? No. For much of my teenage and adult life, I wanted to be taken care of, to not have to worry or struggle or grasp for any of life — I felt, by the time I was fifteen, that I’d struggled enough.
I felt self-conscious about this, most of my life, but that didn’t stop me wanting it. I was pretty sure, somewhere in my heart, that asking for someone to take care of me was never going to work. I tried a lot of different tactics.
Before I list these, I must say that I didn’t try any of this consciously — I didn’t sit down and plan any strategies. But, looking at my life with the value of hindsight, I can say without a doubt that I fought my way down the inexorable road of bad choices with open eyes.
First, I tried sex — I was, (and please excuse me, Mom, Dad,) in my first year of college I was a slut. I want to say not in a bad way, but is there a good way? Rather, I carried on my attempts to please someone enough without putting myself in a position of Hester, scarlet A on my chest. I mean after all, I got to be pretty good, though I never got anything out of it, except the temporary feeling that someone might care about me.
When that didn’t work, I took a break and married a very nice guy, who lived on the plains of Colorado, outside Colorado Springs. I was nowhere near mature enough for that marriage, or any marriage, in fact, but we did okay. The novelty of living out west, of the whole cowboy thing, was enough to keep me occupied. But I ended that, too.
Then I got into seminary, and ended up in Adirondack Park, where I switched to alcohol in a very big way. I had made friends with a couple who owned a bar in a town about 6 miles from where I worked. I wish I had the money back that I spent on Black Russians and Tequila Sunrises. I was single at this time, so sex came into play again, although I was far more discerning than I was in college. I am stone lucky I didn’t kill myself or somebody else, driving back and forth in the middle of the night, on a back mountain road that connected the two towns.
I left New York, and the churches I served there, in 1991, and moved back to Maine, where I ended up back in Bangor, (which was also the location of the seminary.) In almost no time at all, I was living with the man who would eventually become my third husband. We met in a Clean and Sober Club, where he was supposedly not drinking. I learned, after a couple of years, that he’d been drinking when I wasn’t around. Like an idiot, I still married him. Same reason — I was desperate for someone to take care of me.
My time with my third husband was primarily devoted to smoking dope and staying high — also, during this time, I started working at the hardware store, where I am still employed. He and I were very tense much of the time, which is why we smoked so much pot. I was still far too immature to be married, and so was he.
My excesses finally caught up with me in 1998, when I underwent quadruple bypass surgery, with complications galore. I stuck with marriage, even though he didn’t even want to visit me in the hospital. I went back, and he lied me into acquiescence, promising that he wasn’t drinking. Eventually, I found bottles hidden all over the house, and I was done.
This is a long restatement of some of my history, to demonstrate that, at every turn, I placed myself in positions to fail, throughout my life. I manifested misery and made myself into a self-fulfilling failure and an invalid. I look back at all of those thoughtless choices, and if I hadn’t learned, quite recently, to cut myself some slack, to forgive myself, I would still be making them now.
I have seen my sisters manifest some really wonderful circumstances in their lives, and I strive for the same goals. Once I finally got over my block, the anger and fear and helplessness of my medical self, I began to make things happen too, though I am an amateur in comparison. While I was manifesting misfortune and unhappiness, I didn’t have any resistance at all. The result was exactly what I concentrated on, each time. Now, I realize that my helplessness was my resistance, and I am learning to move it out of my way, in favor of achieving the happiness I know now is possible.
This whole long, sad story, with its happy conclusion, stands as an example of the effectiveness of truly understanding our own desires, and then focusing our energies on making those desires manifest in our lives.