Laying the Tracks: How I Manifest Without Mental Imagery (or Nostalgia)

I can’t picture what’s coming. I don’t see my past. But I keep building — brick by brick, page by page. Without vision boards or memory reels, I move through faith in action. This is manifestation for those of us who feel, listen, and trust without a map.

“You have to live spherically — in many directions. Never lose your childish enthusiasm — and things will come your way.”

— Federico Fellini

Act One: Resonance, Not Rehearsal

Under the Tuscan Sun (2003), inspired by the memoir by Frances Mayes, begins as a story about place and healing — but becomes something more metaphorical. Frances doesn’t map out her future. She doesn’t use a vision board or speak affirmations into a mirror. She buys a crumbling villa in Tuscany on impulse, in a moment of desperation and quiet hope.

That villa becomes a metaphor for her own life, gradually revealing itself over time. She doesn’t visualize every step that leads her there. She simply takes one step, then another. There is no blueprint, no clear outcome. What she has instead is a feeling — a flicker of instinct. And along the way, she rebuilds the house brick by brick, relying on the expertise of others: local workers, new friends, and strangers who show up at just the right time.

Together, they restore something that once seemed unliveable. Frances doesn’t get exactly what she imagined. She gets what’s real. What fits. What grows with her.

This is the closest I’ve seen to how I manifest.

I don’t picture the future. I don’t replay my past. I live with aphantasia, which means I have no mental imagery, and with severely deficient autobiographical memory. My mind doesn’t hold scenes, faces, or movies.

And yet, somehow, I’ve lived a rich life.

I was drum major in an elementary school marching band.

I earned a Bachelor of Commerce and an MBA.

I learned French in my 30s.

I’ve held senior leadership roles in public service.

I’ve volunteered, mentored, and helped build programs and systems that last.

I never saw it coming in pictures. I just followed the feeling. I listened. I stayed open. I moved forward without knowing what the outcome would be.

Not because I’m broken. Just because I experience the world differently.

I’m not a glitch in the system. I’m part of the design — one flavour among many.

And yes, there’s gelato in the film.

Act Two: Manifestation Without the Movie

Most manifestation advice assumes you have a movie theater in your mind.

“Picture it.” “Visualize the outcome.” “Feel it as if it’s already done.”

But for those of us without visual imagination — that’s not just hard. It’s alienating.

A recent PsyPost article covering research published in eLife found that even people with aphantasia show decodable brain signals associated with mental imagery — even if they’re not consciously aware of them.

So maybe we’re manifesting in a quieter language — Somatic, symbolic, nonlinear.

For me, manifestation doesn’t look like a highlight reel.

It feels like:

A vibration in my chest when something’s aligned

Words that echo across conversations

Goosebumps as confirmation

A “yes” I hear in my bones before my brain catches up

I don’t build my life from vision. I build it from resonance.

Act Three: Where the Ladybugs Find You

In one of the film’s most tender moments, Katherine — a bohemian actress drifting through life with wild elegance — tells Frances a story:

“When I was a little girl, I used to spend hours looking for ladybugs. Finally, I’d just give up and fall asleep in the grass. When I woke up, they were crawling all over me.”

That’s it.

That’s manifestation for the neurodivergent, the nonlinear, the presently tethered.

We don’t chase. We listen. We prepare the field. We lie down in the grass (sometimes from exhaustion), even if we don’t know what’s coming.

And this is where we need to have faith.

Not the kind that demands a plan or a timeline, but the quiet kind that trusts the arrival of what’s meant to come — even if we don’t know how.

Later, when Frances is on the verge of giving up, Katherine says gently but firmly:

“So go work on your house, and forget about it.”

It’s both a challenge and a blessing. Keep building. Stop obsessing. Let life come.

Sometimes, the ladybugs arrive without ceremony. But they arrive.

Act Four: Brick by Brick – Architecture Without Vision

In the film, Signor Martini tells Frances:

“Signora, between Austria and Italy, there is a section of the Alps called the Semmering… They built a train track over these Alps… before there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They built it because they knew some day the train would come.”

That scene captures how manifestation looks for the non-visual: building the tracks first and trusting the rest will follow.

For me, manifestation happens through grounded ritual — faith expressed in tools, intention, and presence. I don’t see it before it comes. I build toward it anyway.

I do my writing in the morning, before the noise of the day. It’s how I place myself — how I begin.

I reach for a black Moleskine, its cover soft with use. I write with a Tiffany & Co. silver pen, a gift from my mother when I finished graduate school. These objects hold weight. They carry meaning, memory, and care. They remind me that showing up matters.

This is my practice:

Anchor in a Feeling, Not a Scene I begin each morning by writing down how I want to feel — safe, grounded, inspired, useful. That feeling becomes my compass. My actions follow it.

Notice What Repeats I track synchronicities. Phrases I hear in multiple places. Ideas that echo. They go in the margins of my notebook, like clues from the universe.

Act Without Evidence I write down one thing I’ll do that day to move forward. Not because I know it will work, but because I trust the gesture.

Trust the Detour When what comes isn’t what I asked for, I take note. Often it’s better than what I imagined — though I didn’t imagine it at all.

Build the Tracks Anyway Each act of writing, each choice I make, is a track I’m laying across my own inner landscape. Not because I know where it leads, but because I trust something is coming. That I will meet what I’ve made space for.

I move consciously through my day. I guard my energy. I release it through movement — yoga, walking, music, sometimes silence.

These are my tools. They are not visual. They are sacred.

This is what it means to manifest without a movie. To build from presence. To believe that one day, the train will come.

Act Five: The Final Scene — Proof in Presence

At the heart of the film, Frances breaks down. She confesses to Martini:

“I bought a house for a life I don’t even have! There are three bedrooms here — what if there’s never anybody to sleep in them? And the kitchen — what if there’s nobody to cook for?”

Then, more quietly:

“Because the thing is, I still want things. I want there to be a wedding, in this house. I want a family to cook for. And children. I don’t want to live all alone in this big house.”

Martini reassures her later, noting that all those things she named — wedding, family — have already happened in her villa:

“On that day… you said you wanted there to be a wedding here. And then you said you wanted there to be a family here…”

He points to the wedding of Pawel and Chiara, her best friend with child, the tables filled with friends eating and drinking. Frances already has what she wished for — without realizing it.

There is also a tender moment: a man she once helped — a writer she critiqued — reappears unexpectedly. Soft, unforced, kind. It’s not a grand finale romance, but it suggests possibility without pressure.

She didn’t chase him. She built the space instead.

And just like Frances, sometimes the most profound confirmations arrive not through striving or planning — but in stillness and belonging.

At the wedding held at her villa, Frances reclines quietly on a lounger in the courtyard as the celebration winds down. She has spent the film building, hoping, holding on. And now, for a moment, she simply rests.

Then Ed, the American writer she once critiqued, appears — unannounced, unhurried. He doesn’t bring a grand gesture. Just some broken Italian. He steps forward and removes a ladybug from her arm.

It’s subtle. Gentle. Entirely unexpected.

A gesture of presence. Of care. Of possibility.

At the end of the film, the villa’s long-dry fountain — once broken, ignored — springs to life, water flowing freely across stone.

No climax. No reward. Just the quiet arrival of something long in motion.

And perhaps that’s what manifestation really is: Not forcing. Not demanding. But realizing that the journey was already underway. That the tracks were always being laid. That your presence was always enough.

The ladybug. The writer. The water.

Not signs that she earned it. But reminders that she was never alone. That something was always coming. And now, it’s here.

And This Is How It Lives in My World

I’m still building. I don’t yet know what awaits.

Maybe a partner will come. Maybe I’m building for myself.

What I do know is this:

My life is the terrain. I am the train.

Every morning I rise and begin again: black Moleskine, Tiffany pen in hand — the tools that tether me to myself. Given by my mother, held with care. They’re more than objects. They’re continuity.

I start with how I want to feel — that north star — and I fill the page with intentions, boundaries, affirmations. These tools, these motions — they are sacred. They lay track through the unknown.

I guard my energy. I move it through walking, yoga, breath. I note synchronicities, shift course when needed, act without proof of outcome.

These aren’t just habits — they’re part of the infrastructure I’m building.

Like Frances and her villa, I’m laying foundations I can’t yet see the full drawing of. And sometimes, like her ballroom of laughter and a simple, unwritten romance, life fills the space before I expect it.

So I keep building. I keep believing.

Be it for shared dinners or a deeper sense of belonging — or simply for the self I’m meeting along the way — I’m building in good faith.

One day, I — the train — will arrive. On time, out of time, or precisely when it’s meant to. But I’m here. Laying track, crossing terrain, embracing the ride.

Editor's Note: This piece was originally published on Medium.com.