Love, fear, surrender, more fear. The waves are coming very close together now. I’m approaching my new life. I think of the tiers of the Mayan calendar, where the even frequency becomes shorter and shorter. The particulars are astonishing. A while ago I wrote an email to the people I would call my community, asking for what I needed. Since that time everything I’ve asked for has come. The home I’ve been visualizing for years, the roomy cool, airy ground floor of a hundred-year-old house, lawn, garden, and wrap-around porch; all kinds of furniture and household goods; a lovely housemate and a good friend who will hold down the fort till the housemate arrives; even, my goodness, a lawn swing.
What I have always understood is that ‘manifestation’ has to go with positive thought, an affirmation that these things are on their way, a sense even that they already exist. If that’s so, then someone else is doing the manifesting. Me, I’m riding waves of dread, insecurity, sadness, more dread. If the power of attraction were at work, I’d be surrounded by neurotic and needy people, moving into someplace grubby and marginal, with no one to help me do it. The people around me are good and wise, patient with my anxieties, reliable, and strong.
The specificity of it all is a little eerie. Tuesday night I discover that the bed in my apartment has no mattress. In this epoch of bedbugs I’m iffy about buying a second-hand one. Then a friend of a friend calls and offers me one, no information or request having passed my lips. What is this?
Today I shuffled my cards and drew a Four of Pentacles. On the Tree of Life one might call Four the Enactment of the Decree. The Will is named at Two, authorized on the Path of the Hierophant, and Enacted at Four. In Pentacles this is enacted on the earth, in the manifest world. These things are done outside of the realm of personality.
The Four of Pentacles can sometimes give you a sense of living in a castle (occasionally a prison) you didn’t build. William Blake said (or was it Jim Morrison) “a prison of her own device”. Or, in my own present case, a castle I never built.
It’s a little scary. For some reason I’m remembering the story of Beauty and the Beast. The father blunders into the manor out of a blizzard, close to death. Invisible hands place a banquet on the table. Invisible hands pour his wine, turn back the covers on his bed. The cost? His youngest and fairest child. The resolution – the Beast asks her to cut off his head and paws, and she finds herself in the presence of the Prince. So I try and breathe, watch the banquet spread before me, through no effort of my own, and wonder “What is this palace?”