In committing to blog about my experiences (and experiments) with conscious creation, the question is where to start. I’ve been doing this stuff for well over a decade now, and there are many tales I could recount. So I’ll start at the beginning.
My first experiment with energy, visualisation and all that malarky manifested something rather spectacular: my house. Anyone who has been to my house will appreciate that I do not use the word ‘spectacular’ lightly. My house is a thing of great beauty. The creation of a troubled romantic genius (the brother of Greta Scacchi), modelled on his house in Milan, it’s a quirky conversion of an 1880s brewery stable block. It has a 30 foot roof terrace and an excess of plumbing (four toilets, 3 baths and a shower). Though it is not enormous (certainly not for a family of six), people get disoriented and sometimes lost in it: staircases go off in different directions and doorways open on to parts of the house you didn’t expect. From the outside it barely seems to exist: there is no facade, only a small doorway in a doorway-sized wall set back from the road. But the house itself – which young visitors have dubbed ‘the TARDIS house’ and ‘the James Bond house’ – is on three levels and stretches behind the back gardens of three adjacent properties. All this magic (and let’s not forget the blessing of a built-in double garage in this parking-restricted city) is not twenty steps from Brighton seafront.
It is my dream house: I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. So how did I manifest it?
At the end of 2000 I received my divorce settlement. This, in essence, was money I’d earned as a highly paid IT consultant before I had kids, invested in the first marital home. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to pay off the mortgage on the two bedroom flat in Hove where I was living as a single mum of 3 boys. Just as well not to have a mortgage, I thought, given how little I was earning at the time, temping as an office admin for a nightclub and barely scratching a living as a poet (and associate tutor for the University of Sussex). Though what I really needed was a larger place. We were cramped in the flat. One bathroom. A narrow ‘galley’ kitchen. The three boys, aged between 5 and 9 and sharing a single bedroom, were fighting constantly. But the divorce settlement didn’t seem like enough for a larger place. House prices in Brighton were rocketing, and after paying off the mortgage on the flat there was only a little left over.
One thing was for sure. I needed a holiday. There had been the stress of the (violently contested) divorce, and just after the turn of the Millennium, a combination of circumstances had led to my hitting a suicidal rock bottom. A breakdown (during which I lost my temping work and barely held on to my university teaching) was followed by a few months building myself back to fully functional. I hadn’t had a holiday since my honeymoon ten years earlier. (When I left my husband in 1998 I took the kids for a week in Cornwall, but a chilly half-term alone in a caravan with three small boys is not a holiday). To be blunt, I wanted to go somewhere tropical, swim in the sea, lie in a hammock, and have lots of sex.
Not just any old sex. No, Tantric sex. I’d read about it during my (nearly sex-free) marriage and was determined to get some training. I googled ‘tantric sex course’. I know. You thought I was going to tell you how I manifested my amazing house and now I’m talking about sex. But that’s the thing. I manifested my house through sex.
‘Oh, right, now she’s really going off the deep end.’
No, really. You see I thought Tantra was all about sex, but that’s how they trick you. They dangle amazing sex in front you and next thing you know, you’re moving energy with the power of love. Bastards.
Tantra is actually about a Deep Soul Connection. And I didn’t even believe in the soul. Yes, I was notionally a poet, but a poet who actively banned her creative writing students from using the word ‘soul’. Only Seamus Heaney, I told them, is equipped to use the word ‘soul’. What the hell was a soul, anyway? I was raised by scientists (which is only one step up from raised by wolves). But dammit, I hadn’t read the small print. No. Google gives me a week’s tantric sex course in Costa Rica and all I can think is tropical weather, beaches, hammocks, somewhere I’ve never been before, no children, and really really good sex. The fact that my birthday fell in the middle of that week was A Sign. (Although I didn’t believe in signs then, because I didn’t believe in anything other than my material reality, so when I said A Sign what I meant was An Excuse).
This was a course for couples, and I wasn’t a couple. I did have a good friend that I had been sleeping with, on the quiet, for a few months. Nothing serious. Neither of us wanted to get tangled up in a Relationship because Relationships (we had both learned) bring pain. We were not a couple. It was Just Sex.
‘Do you want to come with me to Costa Rica to do a Tantric sex course? I’m paying. Oh, there’s a second week, Advanced Tantra, what do you think?’
Guess what he said.
And then bloody hell if I didn’t find myself on my first night in this tropical paradise being asked to look into my lover’s eyes for ten minutes. Could I do it? Could I hell. Ten seconds was pushing it. Not an auspicious start. But as a result of my monumental failure, something happened. We walked on the deserted volcanic-sand beach and had a breakthrough conversation. We started doing the exercises. And the small print thing, the thing which terrified me, Deep Soul Connection, actually happened. I had my first experiences of feeling into different kinds of energy. Looks of love vs looks of hate. Putting up energetic barriers and taking them down. The early evenings were spent on the upstairs balcony, beers in our hands, watching the moon rise over the Pacific as I struggled to get my head around the science of it. Yes, theoretically we are all (everything is all) energy. Einstein proved that. But really, how could this stuff be real? And yet I felt its reality; was experiencing it profoundly.
The second week, the ‘advanced’ week, was about using the energy of sex to manifest things you want. I’m pretty sure I hadn’t even heard of deliberate manifestation. It wouldn’t have made any sense to me. What, you imagine stuff into being. Yes, alright, I’m a writer, that’s what I do, but I mean you imagine houses and cars and career success and your dreams become physical reality?
Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it. But hey, I was in a beautiful place, I had unexpectedly just fallen in love (that’s Deep Soul Connection for you) and as a result I was open to wonder and miracles. Plus I had known since ‘O’ Level Chemistry the bizarre fact that all this seemingly solid stuff was just a complex arrangement of charged particles and known since my Biology degree that there are lots of things that scientists can’t explain… so maybe, just maybe, there was more to this universe than met the eye. I was willing to do the exercises, anyway. Here is the one that led to the house.
Step 1: go to separate places and make a list of the key things you want out of your relationship. (When we arrived we had told them we weren’t in a relationship. We wouldn’t even say ‘relationship’. It was the R-word. By the end of the first week we’d had a Tantric wedding ceremony. I know.) I remember using a lot of abstract nouns. Pretty sure that wanting to be appreciated was my number one.
Step 2: get together, compare lists and make a joint list: things you both want. We agreed on my abstracts, and his practicalities: chiefly, that would never ask him to get a job/earn money (he doesn’t do jobs) and that a child might be a possibility. We agreed that we wanted a family home large enough for all of us (my kids, my cat, his dog), somewhere with a big kitchen where we could all sit down to dinner together (like we had being doing on the retreat). We agreed that the kitchen should be the warm heart of the home, and that it should be a place where visitors felt welcomed. That it would have an outside space big enough for a table and chairs. ‘By the sea’, I said. ‘As close to the sea as this.’ Casa Punta Banco was a short stroll from the beach. ‘But it doesn’t have to have a view.’ CLANG. I said this thinking I was being ‘reasonable’, because I had no intention of leaving Brighton, knew how much a house with sea view would cost there, and couldn’t see how I would come across £1.5 million any time this century. I didn’t realise how very precisely the universe will take your order. When you say ‘hold the mayo’, it holds the mayo. But let’s continue.
Step 3: decide on an image of the two of you in that dreamed-of future, agree upon it, and then – when you are completely charged up with sexual energy – visualise it together for 30 seconds or so. ‘Completely charged up with sexual energy’ happens quite a lot with Tantric sex, because – I’m sure you know this – the sexual magic is achieved by not coming. John Mortimer, creator of Rumpole of the Bailey said (in the very year we learnt Tantra in Costa Rica):
The image we created in Step 3 was of the both of us in this heart-of-the-home kitchen, gazing out the window, him behind me with his arms around my belly, both of us feeling blissfully happy. We did the visualisation twice in Costa Rica and then flew back to a bitterly cold England in February and forgot all about it.
Forgetting all about it, it turns out, was a critical step. The biggest issue people have with making conscious creation work for them is that they stay in ‘asking’ mode and never detach from the outcome sufficiently to allow it manifest. They visualise furiously but the thing doesn’t happen. ‘Asking’ is a ‘pushing out’ kind of energy and it stops things coming in. So it probably helped a great deal that after the initial two creation moments in that magical place I returned to ‘reality’ and got on with my life. Our life, now.
That was February 2001. My lover-friend (now Tantric husband) moved in. I started looking for fractionally bigger places that I might actually be able to afford (he doesn’t do jobs, remember. We were not talking two salaries, or even one salary, because all I had was a freelance poet’s income). I didn’t know how I could actually afford a bigger place but I chose to believe it might be possible. But nowhere felt right. Viewing after viewing after viewing, and none of them ‘it’. The local estate agent got frustrated with me. He sent us to 1 Temple Street and said ‘if 1 Temple Street isn’t right, you come straight back here and tell me why not’. 1 Temple Street was amazing. It had an extraordinary basement that stretched under the road, way beyond the house’s footprint. I could have made part of that basement into a Gaming Dungeon for my sons and still have had room for a gym and a writing room and…. it didn’t feel like ‘our house’. It had a brand new stainless steel kitchen and a brand new hotel-style bathroom, both of which I would have wanted to rip out for something less ‘cold’, had I not been conscious of the waste (and the cost). So we went back to the estate agent and told him it didn’t have that certain something. We were looking for something different. Quirky. Warmer. Maybe something with lots of wood. He said
‘I’ve got just the place. We’re not even advertising it openly because it’s…. it’s unusual.’
‘Does it have 4 bedrooms?’
‘No, but you could taken an extra room off the garage.’
‘It has a four-car garage’.
Pause for breath while I take that in. A garage would save me easily 20 minutes a day: the 20 minutes I spent looking for/walking to/walking from a parking space. Months of my life if you added it up. I barely dared hope for the next one.
‘Is there a study?’
‘You could convert the sauna room.’
‘It has a sauna? Where is this place?’
He showed us. It was right by the sea.
‘Why is the price so low? What’s wrong with it?’
‘Go and have a look.’
We went and had a look. The minute we stepped through the front door we turned to each other significantly. We hadn’t seen any of the house, but we could feel it. This was the place. Looking around the rooms only confirmed the decision that was made the second we stepped across the the threshold. We made an offer on the spot.
Why was this amazing place affordable? Because it looked like nothing from the outside and people want frontage. Because what was once a stable block in a brewery yard is now a bizarre-looking building in the middle of a car park. Because walking up to the front door, or walking around the building, every step is on someone else’s property. Because the man who had built it as his own private love nest had sunk into a broken-hearted depression and the kitchen wasn’t finished. Because at the time, the huge building overshadowing it was semi-derelict and the hang-out of criminals and drug-addicts. Because the main thing you could see from the master bedroom suite was a burnt out car. You can’t have everything.
Or, if you don’t care about any of that stuff (and realise that in the future, the building next-door will either be refurbished or replaced with something smart because seafront property is worth a bomb), you can. After a bumpy buying process (which is a manifestation story all of its own) we moved in to my dream house in May 2002.
I’ll stress again, we had totally forgotten about that visualisation. And then, a few weeks after we moved in, I was washing up at the sink as dusk was falling one evening and my husband came up behind me and put his arms around my belly and we stood there gazing half out the window and half at our faces reflected there and it fell upon me like an avalanche:
‘This is it!’ I said. ‘The house we visualised! Here we are, standing just as we’d pictured! This is the house!’
Everything about it: the big kitchen at the heart of it, the first room you walk into when you come in, and from to which everything else connects (like arteries and veins); the warm feeling its wooden interior gives out, this big family home so very close to the sea….. and…
‘It doesn’t have to have a view.’
Boy, does this house not have a view. It takes not having a view very seriously. The windows on all but one side of the house are opaque as a condition of planning permission.
The only view from my house is this:
I laughed so much I was actually in pain.
Lesson: don’t write your limiting beliefs into your dream. Dream big, even though you don’t know how on earth you’re going to get there. Let the bloody house have a view!
Now your turn. Have you consciously created anything, large or small? And did you write in any limitations/conditions that also came true? Or are you interested in conscious creation but having difficulty with it? Let me know in the comments!
Want to get better at consciously creating good things in your life? Click here to subscribe to my mailing list and get my printable 1-page resource guide “6 Touchstones of Conscious Creation”: everything I’ve learned about conscious creation in 15 years boiled down to the essentials in a printable one-page resource guide.
NOTE: Credit where credit’s due: our fantastic tantra/manifestation teachers in Costa Rica were Pala Copeland and Al Link. You can find out about them and their courses (including home study courses) here.