By BoJenn
Manifesting is not a word.
It is a wind, a fire, a root — an ancient force that coils in the marrow of every soul, as old as the first breath of the first oak.
All are born carrying it, though most wander their lives as sleepers beneath the green canopy, never hearing the whisper of its leaves.
The Bards sang of such beings in veiled form:
Sidhe who dance between worlds, witches who weave the moon into cloth, stone-keepers who shape the tides, and bright or shadowed messengers from beyond the stars.
These were not mere tales, but guarded truths — for the path of the manifestor was never meant for careless hands.
I have seen the living ones.
Some sit in the high seats of kingship, crowned in gold or crowned in influence.
Some appear nightly in the fire-lit glow of the scrying screen.
Some dwell quietly at the edges of villages, working unseen changes in the weave of life.
One walks the earth now who is a master of bending the strands — twisting truth as though it were a willow wand, until even the pure waters run clouded.
He casts his vision before his chosen ones as though it were prophecy, and they drink without question.
Yet his roots sink not into the World Tree; his craft serves the dimming of the light, not its return.
But not all who shape reality turn to shadow.
Many begin in smaller groves — shaping the soil of their homes, the circle of their kin, the harvest of their own spirit.
These are apprentices of the Green Art, yet their touch has not yet reached the fullness of the Nine Realms.
To walk the full path of manifestation is to pass through four groves, each with its own guardian:
The Grove of Awakening — where the mist parts and you hear the oak speak your true name. The Grove of Claiming — where you lift the staff of your will and say, This power flows in me, as in the rivers and the stars. The Grove of Living — where every breath is an enchantment, and your days are the weaving of sky, soil, and spirit. The Grove of Becoming — where there is no longer a you and the magic, for you are the magic, as the oak is the acorn, and the acorn the oak.
When you emerge from the fourth grove, your branches will rise high enough to break the hold of the reckless sorcerer.
You will stand not to rule, but to restore balance — planting seeds of light in the darkened earth.
This is the vow of the true Druid manifestor:
To match the shadow in strength,
but to turn all power toward the healing of the land, the people, and the soul of the world.
My Art
Manifesting is not a thought, nor a wish, nor a dream.
It is a movement of the soul — a living current flowing through every being who has ever drawn breath.
All are born with it, yet only a few awaken to its call. And of those, fewer still learn to shape it into a force that bends reality.
The ancients disguised them in stories: fairies who spun gold from air, witches who stirred fate into a pot, angels who descended with words that shifted history, and shadowed beings who whispered chaos into mortal ears. These were not mere fantasies, but echoes of a truth too dangerous to name openly.
I have seen the real ones.
Some stand upon thrones. Some walk unnoticed in marketplaces. Some speak from glowing screens into the hearts of millions.
They learned their craft in the temples we call churches, in the rituals we call entertainment, in the silent mimicry of another’s power.
One walks among us now — a conjurer of lies so skilled that truths shatter and rearrange themselves at his command.
Before his followers, he lays visions as though they are prophecy, and they kneel to the reality he weaves.
He does not seek to capture all of humankind — only enough to tilt the axis of awakening away from the dawn.
But not all manifestors weave shadows.
Many shape smaller spheres: their homes, their loves, their fortunes. They are apprentices of creation, their reach not yet spanning the whole of their destiny. Those around them sometimes falter, for they have yet to drink from the wells of understanding and experience.
To manifest in fullness is a path of four gates:
Awakening — the moment the eye within opens. Claiming — the act of saying, This power is mine. Living — weaving the unseen into the seen with every breath. Becoming — when the magic is no longer a tool, but the very substance of who you are.
Pass through the fourth gate, and the magic no longer visits you — it is you.
Then you will rise, not to dominate, but to dismantle the throne of the reckless conjurer and sow light where he sowed shadow.
This is the destiny of the true manifestor:
To rival the dark master in power,
and yet choose to create a reality where all may drink from the well of goodness.
And to add, the topic of manifesting can run full circle and around a few hundred times as it changes and grows small or larger with each person who tells their own version and it usually begins with the first fairy tale ever remembered by a child who grows up into the creator. Some are big, and some small, and sometimes, nothing at all.
My Art
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 