A Brilliant Manifesting Story And My Love Of Laura Ingalls Wilder

I had the entirety of a post of over three thousand words written for you, my dear lovely friends, and lost the totality. When I realised there wasn't a cat's chance in hell without claws of finding it, I must admit I got the morbs for a moment. However, I now feel sufficient, so let me get on with the post.

First, allow me to share a lovely manifesting story. I have thousands; however, it is very tricky to share all of them. Yet, I think you would like to hear the one about my daughter Zoë Kennedy. Zoë Kennedy rang me a week ago and asked if I would manifest for her. As a child, I took her to The Phantom of the Opera in Orlando, Florida, and she loved it so much it created an affinity for the broadway musical, and she eternally wished to go to the one in New York City. In February of 2023, the musical will end permanently, embarking on Zoë Kennedy to see it beforehand. Unfortunately, she had no financial means of getting opera tickets, airfare or lodgings. So, I said I would manifest for her, we hung up the phone, and I performed the visual technique before state akin to sleep I use from Neville Goddard. 

The manifestation took a week to materialise. Zoë Kennedy called me last Friday and said she was gifted round-trip airline tickets to New York, two tickets front row mezzanine to Phantom of the Opera and that she and Ethan's friends that live in New York invited them to crash at their flat for free for their week's visit. She said, "Mummy, thank you so much; you're magical!" She was so excited, and I am thrilled for her in turn! I love hearing success stories when I manifest for others. It thrills me. It costs nothing and is available to everyone to create their reality. 

I was a late bloomer growing up. However, when it concerns my love of Laura Ingall's Wilder, there is no question I have an immense fondness for her. As many of you know who've remained avid readers of my blog know, I grew up with two parents in the home. My father stayed in a constant state of slosh til I was eleven (No worries we’re very good now). My devoutly religious mum was a stay-at-home mother. I have no complaints; my mother sheltered me to the degree that she kept my siblings and me in church three times a week and two solid weeks when there were revivals and church activities. (Of course, as you know, I was Pentecostal until seventeen and later became a Mormon until I left theology altogether at forty-three.) 

My mum, a stay-at-home mother, was rather keen on us children being very smart, which meant reading was essential. So when I was young, I looked forward to the book fair order forms. Do you remember them? Before the fair even happened, the excitement commenced with the order forms. I would scour over it for hours, dreaming of all the books I wished to order. I would mark them in pencil at first, then in pen. Money in our home was plentiful at times and meagre at others, depending on spending habits that month. I believe many folks come from backgrounds that were not episodes of Little House on the Prairie having fathers like Pa. Perhaps that was the appeal as a little girl.

My father was in the home during my youth; however, he wasn't an emotional role model; in truth, I developed trust and men issues that would expand considerably for decades. In many ways, I raised my children with similar functions. The female figures (mothers) I remember being raised amongst were not respected, including my mother. The men ruled the roost. Today my independence and desire to be a powerful force in the female facet of this generational society is highly due to feeling downtrodden. My standpoint on ladies' value, being adored and respected, is vital. One shan't get it contorted; I find the role of a man in society (and in the home) quite significant too, yet there is no one above or below; we are all one. Men have their place, as does woman. They both work beautifully together when on equal footing. Many parents in the seventies (when I grew up), I believe, tried their best and were well-intended; that's all I can hope for, and I will continue onward. I refuse to reference my circumstances as perpetuating grim stories of my lot unless diving to depths of understanding and presenting logic facilitates growth. Too often, that state of woe is when too much emphasis is placed on victimhood memorialising. 

To try and fill in the backstory about Laura Ingalls Wilder, I'll have to take you back to when the fixation first began. I've spoken briefly in other posts about my neighbours from childhood that lived down the lane. They lived as close to the little house on the Prairie in real life, not by their desire to live old-fashioned. I know it was their poor mindset mentality, yet I never viewed them in that manner. I loved the sentiments when I'd feed (wood they cut themselves) Kate's 19th-century stove. They didn't have indoor plumbing; instead, they had an outhouse, gardens, a stream for water sources, fruit trees, and farm animals. I didn't particularly appreciate watching the slaughtering of the pigs or killing the chickens; however, knowing how food was obtained created newfound respect for it. I know it's a part of real life; however, i am a sentimental fool and wholly sensitive. As I would make my way to my neighbours nearly every day, I would also look forward to watching Little House on the Prairie. I was not only fascinated with the storylines, but I was more intrigued by intentionally focusing on the little house and barn, how they dressed and what everything looked like as a whole. I was enamoured with it, obsessed. I checked out the entire series of books, and as soon as I read through them, I continued that strategy over and over. I then began mimicking Laura; the schoolchildren thought I was mad, though I didn't care. I've always held a disposition of heaped delusional confidence. 

I would surround myself as much as possible (mainly my clothing) by emulating that historical aspect through my junior high school days. i recall my friend Cindi (she was very modern, and the boys were quite fond of her) said to me often, "Raquel, you need a makeover. You're such a pretty girl, but you wear those old clothes so no one can see how attractive you are." 

I never cared she said that; in junior high, however, I succumbed to the peer pressure when my cousin (who was much older than me) said I needed to get with the times and going into high school, I needed a fresh new look. I surrendered. Often surrendering occurs in youth because insecure youth want to fit in; I wasn't secure enough to stave off the new school and loads of teenagers, nor did I want to be rejected. I yielded. I would teleport into Laura Ingalls's ways for decades in and out, trying to return to that feeling when a little girl but never gaining much footing. I was constantly battling my true self and what I loved and felt comfortable with for many years.

I didn't have the luxury of having a mate that supported my fondness for nostalgia, olde timey ways, antiques or history. I was ridiculed for it if you want the truth. I look back and honestly feel it was a cloaked structure of vitriol. Mistreatment can be masked for lengthy periods when physically concealed; it's the subtle behind-closed doors of continuous verbal poking. In hindsight, I justified the abuse because he wasn't outright punching me; I assumed there was no abuse. I had seen my father abuse; that was no question. However, it took on a different appearance as an adult. When I began to question such matters, I repeatedly heard I was mentally ill, crazy and needed help. My family has a history of mental illness. That truth was weaponised against me. I am very far from mad.

My apologies; this is not a victimhood post, yet I wanted to catch you up with my past life and where I came from and to make you aware I am not ashamed. The truth sets a person free, and when one remains vulnerable, there are no defences. No defences, and no one ever will possess an advantage of leverage. I live by this truth well-fixed.

I have not an ounce of animosity towards those that have been unfortunately unhealthy to me; I am Indifferent, life is, and I know the universe has a karmic vindication debt of retribution. I believe greatly in the boomerang effect. Let's end this post with the inclination that on any given day, I wouldn't fancy them an invite to tea. 

Most affably yours til my next swim, Raquelxxx