TLDR: Manifesting is putting in the hard work so the magic can fill in the gaps
Part I
Last week, I stepped foot into my very first home. The one I’ve been talking about here and here and here. The one my parents built on some sand back in the 70’s on a beach where the wind blew then and still blows now.
My dad sold this house after him and my mom got divorced and after him and my stepmom got married and needed a bigger place for my new three step-siblings.
While I only lived in this house until kindergarten, the memories of it are deep, clear, and intense, as only a house can be from your most formative years. I remember my very first nightmare in this house. I remember walking up the wood staircase to ask my dad if I could get in bed with him because I was scared. No, was the answer, so I curled up on the floor next to his bed until morning, shivering without blankets and atop some grains of sand trekked in from the backyard. And even though it was sold in the 80’s, I’ve always wanted to go back.
When I’d lay out in the sun at this beach in high school I’d walk by the back patio and look inside to try to see who lived there In my 20’s I’d detour to this beach while driving to and from wherever I was at in California, hoping to catch the owner outside. I’ve even knocked on the door and left a note.
But through the years, and the many times it didn’t work out to see this house, I sort of forgot about it until those late night pings sending me to Zillow to see who owns this house and, yep, it’s still the same people who bought it in the 90’s.
This summer I got the very strong feeling I needed and wanted to go back home to see my family. It had been four years since I was well enough to travel, and while I didn’t feel well enough now, I felt the strong magnetic pull to try to make it work. So I started looking at AirBnb’s on this beach because if I’m leaving a Montana winter, I better be heading to a California beach.
I looked for months and the perfect house didn’t arrive. They were all too expensive, too sterile, too three-story-McMansion ish and so I loosened the grip on the dream. Except for every couple weeks, I’d look again. “Maybe my dad’s house will be on AirBnb this time” I thought to myself. And every time, it wasn’t.
Months went by and the “right time” to make a plan to travel never came until one day after a call with my sister, I knew I NEEDED to come home. So I booked a flight, and decided that if I was meant to be at the beach, it would work out. I decided to stay at my mom’s for the first month and had no real plans for the second month, but a beach house sure would be nice.
And again, I looked and saw nothing. I tried to make some plans with friends and they fell through. Until one day I looked and I saw a place on my dad’s beach full of vibrancy and life, color and coziness, a fireplace and a giant beach patio, that caused a calm ocean feeling in my heart. Truth, is what that is.
“This is it” I thought to myself and so I wrote them a message asking if there was anyway they could work on the price with me so I could stay a few weeks. The property manager, Joanie, called me right away and we ended up chatting about life, her career (photographer), the illness shit I got going on, my parents old house, and it felt like we were long lost friends.
Part II
And so I drove to my dad’s beach where I’d be staying for the next few weeks. I swung the door open to hear Israel Kamakawiwo playing on the Alexa Dot and some Hawaiin Original Kettle Chips on the counter next to a card from Joanie welcoming me home. It was raining and so I started a fire in the fireplace right away and breathed a little calmer and a little happier looking out the window to the vast, flat beach, and the sparkling blue water, and the islands in the distance.
I started taking pictures right away. And writing about my experiences. I looked for opportunities to say hi to the neighbors who, I knew from Joanie, were not excited that their neighbor was an AirBnb with people coming and going.
I know what the locals are like on this beach. I remember that from growing up here. They don’t like outsiders and they don’t like anyone messing up their chill vibes and way of life, so I made it a point to tell everyone I met that I grew up on this beach and that my parents built one of these houses on the sand so they’d know I wasn’t just any old visitor.
Pretty soon, I had several friends. Niko the next door neighbor who is in the entertainment industry in LA and owns another house in Costa Rica. Howard and Leigh next door who used to live in Calabassas fulltime and used their three story glass McMansion on the beach for a weekend home, but who just sold that place to live here now that Leigh has dementia. And Georgie, the “Sand Man” who drives her big ass tractor onto the sand to remove the sand that has piled up at the back of the homes due to the wind.
Joanie let me know Georgie would be coming by and when I saw her, I waved her down and we started talking. I learned about her sand removal business and how she used to own the A-Frame a block away, which used to be a little convenience store that my family and I would walk to and buy popsicles and lollipops when we lived here. I learned that her and her husband are really different…she’s more of a free spirit and he’s a more regimented, “glass half empty” type, as she described it. I learned that she has lots of grandkids and has lived on this beach for 30 years. And she learned that my parents built a house on a little slice of sand down the street and I have always wanted to go back. I told her the address.
“Oh Patty’s house? I was just about to call her to remove her sand.”
“Oh my gosh really?! I don’t want to be out of line but if there is an opening, do you think you’d feel comfortable asking her if she’d mind if I came by the house to take a look?”
“Not at all! I’ll call her in a bit and let you know.”
So we exchanged numbers. And she called me back. And let me know Patty was delighted to hear my story and while she wasn’t there, her grandson was and he could let me in.
Part III
I was nervous pulling up to my old house. I knew a 20 something grandson who I’d seen partying with a bunch of his friends the evening before when I drove by probably wouldn’t be all that stoked to have a stranger crash his party pad. I also didn’t know how to describe why I was there…
“Ummm my parents built this house way before you were born and I really want to come inside, cool?”
It would have been easy for me to not do it. I hadn’t gone inside in almost 40 years, what’s another 40? I wasn’t feeling well.
But I also knew that so many roads were leading to this moment. And that all the many times I told someone the address and searched online trying to find my way in, and now I had one, I had to take it.
So I knocked on the door and the grandson’s friend let me in.
I walked around my old home in awe of how similar and familiar it was. How the dark brown staircase was exactly the same, with thick steps and handrails.
As was the accordion door that separated the room where my sister and my bunk bed was, from the room where our future stepsister slept.
As was the bathtub and the sink in my parent’s room and window above their bed.
The living room was the same, the stained glass was all still there, the patio was the same, and the fireplace looked like it hadn’t been touched since my sister and I danced in front of it as kids.
And the little plot of sand outside, where my dad tried to start a garden, was still there too.
I walked around this house, narrating every possible thing I could remember to Patty’s grandson’s friend, saying “this is so wild,” every 40 seconds. The house felt the same, a bit smaller, but then again, I was smaller the last time I was in it too.
I don’t know what I expected, but I don’t think I thought it would be so much of the same. I thought there would be more updates and upgrades, that it would be the skeleton of the memories I had. But instead, it filled in all the gaps of my memories and let me know, definitively that yes, I was here.
I left the house, got in my car, and said “THANK YOU” to every step along the way that led me here. That was SO cool.
Part IV - How To Manifest
A few people, when I told them this story, said it was magic, or luck, and I laughed because I knew how many steps it took me to get here. While yes, there is some luck (and privilege…like that I had enough in savings to stay at this beach house) that goes into anything in life that happens, a lot of it isn’t. Meaning, that a lot of it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t taken so much action. Georgie would have removed my sand, but she wouldn’t have been the missing link unless I struck up a conversation with her, told her the address to the house, and asked her to call Patty. And as I was thinking about this, I thought about all that it takes to make some “magic” happen…
Listen to those whispers, those curiosities, those nudges
Take action
When it doesn’t work out, let it go and keep living
When the whisper comes back, take more action
Ask for what you want
When something works out, be super super grateful for it
Put yourself out there everywhere possible even when it feels uncomfy or weird, or annoying, or like too much work
When the opportunity presents itself, take it
I was on a call with my boss today who was talking about manifesting. She said “manifesting really is just rolling up your sleeves and letting the magic fill in the gaps.” And I agree. Manifesting, in my experience, is about putting in the work, taking all the steps it takes along the journey, with no guarantee that it’ll lead you anywhere, and then do that over and over and over again.
I’m curious what you’re manifesting right now (and also can we stop using that word? It’s cringey right?) And what parts you’re taking action on and what that looks like to you? I hope that this little story nudged you in a direction and please do tell me if it did.
XO
Sally
P.s. For my VIPS, you get some more pics and poems and a discussion about manifesting including how my relationship with it has changed since illness, below this paywall. I wanna hear from you!