Sometimes it’s exhausting, sometimes exhilarating, to realize learning takes us through portals upon portals, doorways upon doorways, lessons upon lessons. Everyone we meet, every situation we face, is our teacher. Some are meant to travel with us long-term; others, for just a time. We unfortunately—or fortunately!—don’t get to know how long we’ll have with anyone. I recently met someone delightful who seems important in my world. Not long thereafter, I lost a dear friend and mentor. All along, I’ve continued to create art, music, and writing, and practice divination and manifestation. The intense, heady combination of inspiration and grief this season has me reflecting on how we create, connect, and make anything of merit.

Some of the ways we can get better at this thing called life: dwelling within vulnerability, paying attention to our pattern recognition, and learning to discern universal truths and cycles amid disjunctive moments. Poetry and magic alike come from emotion, recollected and shaped.

For the first time in a long time, I’ve been feeling unexpectedly hopeful, and that’s oddly terrifying. Hope is a vulnerable place. It’s far easier to stay self-contained, keep to myself, avoid trying too hard or sharing anything that might be too much. Expect nothing, and you won’t be disappointed. The reality, though, is that I know my true nature is so much bigger than nihilism. This will likely make sense to those who practice manifesting: I’ve come to understand that my true nature is cosmic. And I yearn for what brings that into alignment: big ideas, big connections, big resonances, big purpose. I’m not here to settle for less. I didn’t come this far to play small.

It’s important to joyfully live in the moment, of course. We start from the premise that we don’t know for sure what will happen—with anything. But acknowledging that we care and want to do big, real things does require action to meet the demands of that calling. If I’m called to be with someone, I need to bring my best self. If I’m called to achieve something, I need to be in a place to see it through. Maybe in each case, I’m already there, or those opportunities wouldn’t even arise—some say we’re only given chances when we’re ready. But it’s nonetheless terrifying to once more feel inspired to put myself into a place of vulnerability, to share, to create, to push my comfort level.

It’s good to have multiple modes, of course—we can’t do all of life on hard mode. I often create work that’s less vulnerable, less serious, more inscrutable. Some of the best times are surface-level moments of joy, and some of the most creative work comes from happy experiments. But it’s possible that the most important work, the work that connects us and says something personal and true, requires digging into our own vulnerability.

I’m finding that our vulnerabilities intersect in unpredictable ways, like the interference patterns that emerge in rippling waves. Some states of being are only achievable with others, yet we each bear preconceptions and scars that can make those states difficult to reach. We all have fears, but inspiration can push us past them.

A key practice in manifestation and divination alike is remembering what we already know, and making use of what we remember. I’ve never truly had everything, but I know the feeling of it—it’s the expanse of branching possibility that opens when I’m swimming in deep connection and buoyed by good feeling. I’m remembering what it’s like to have everything. I’m remembering what it’s like to want to be my best self, when it actually matters to someone. I’m remembering what I was holding out for, and it’s more than I dared to imagine. It’s also more terrifying, heh, because the act of remembering also asks us to rise to the occasion.

This life I’m leading now is arguably the product of manifestation—though to reiterate, it’s greater than the sum of what I imagined. I can only take credit for getting myself here. About 5 years ago, before I moved, before any of what brought me here happened, I wrote in great detail what I wanted in my life. I wished for it, hard. Just like Sally Owens, I wrote a description of what that might look like in such specific measure, I assumed it would never materialize. Now here we are. Was that magic? Or is directed intent such sufficiently advanced technology that it’s indistinguishable from magic? I don’t know, but it worked.

Life here on the other side of that is also more complex than I imagined. A lesson learned in 2019: Omens and signs are one thing, but then you have to do the work. A corollary I really only learned this year: Manifesting is one thing, but then you have to do the work. And even solo practitioners rarely undertake the work truly alone. We follow paths blazed by others, or collaborate, or at least commune. It’s more rewarding to combine forces—though again, it’s more complex. It takes dedicated work to imagine the path into being together. Creative intimacy—any intimacy—isn’t a practice to undertake lightly.

But sometimes there’s a spark, and the work doesn’t feel like work, and you’re left marveling. Overall, I feel dazzled by my recent good fortune.

What have I learned?

First, something obvious: We all have fears. The smallest, pettiest, most trifling version of yourself might be the one that lives in others’ imagination. But that’s not you. The worst version of yourself might also be the one that lives in your own imagination. Either way, we’re all human, and it’s best to assume good intent, unless we truly sense otherwise. We each deserve compassion, understanding, and opportunity to prove ourselves.

Coming to the work—whether that work is creative or interpersonal—from a place of fear complicates things. Your worst fear may be that I’m insincere or untrustworthy. My worst fear? It might be the mirror of that. I’m a bit afraid to be real or go too deep, but that stems from a deeper fear: that if I am, you’ll withdraw or abuse my trust; the sweet blossom of connection and delight will fade; the kind, gentle support I perceive will become unsustainable; or ultimately, this equation will reduce to “too much” or “not enough.”

So yeah, I’m afraid—to write this down, much less say any of that aloud. This is for me, but I write this knowing I’ll want to share it. In any case, I’ve done the work to know myself: I have anxiety. All of those fears have led me to hold most people in abeyance. But with anyone who matters, I vastly prefer not to hold back.

Our fears can be a gift or a shadow, depending on their origin. What’s important is this: The absence of data doesn’t stop us from subconsciously writing a story with its own internal coherence and logic. In fact, when we don’t have a lot to go on, we rely even more heavily on our intuition and narrative ability. That story in itself has the power to influence our perceptions.

We all have that power. We’re all storytellers.

The danger in following our narrative impulse is that stories take on their own form. On a practical level, in the absence of limits, I always write too long (sorry not sorry)—my stories grow viney. Such grand narratives can be illusory, castles in the sky. Yet we are by our nature narrators—and the stories we tell each other matter.

A shorthand for the necessary shadow work: “The story I’m telling myself in my head is…” This prefix recasts things a bit. The stories we’re each telling ourselves at any time may well be true. But things also may not be as they seem. Sorting out the reality from the seeming is some of the most important shadow work we do.

What’s also important is this: I honor the parts of you that bravely speak your fears, even if it hurts to hear them. I honor our soft, vulnerable parts, and I hold space for illuminating the depths of our fears together.

I am indeed afraid. I’m the kind of terrified I only get when it matters. But I’m getting better at pushing through fear. I have more tools than I used to have, for repair, self-care, separation of self, and inhabiting my own body. I try not to rest on my laurels. I try to clear the path for anyone else seeking to undertake the work. I try to stay in the moment and enjoy things for what they are.

Hope is terrifying. But I hope, nonetheless, and dwell in vulnerability.