The Behind the Story
I stood in the presence of an old Hopi elder. The cameraman I accompanied to Hotevilla, Arizona, had just completed an interview with the elder and left the room. I had been holding a large light reflector during the filming, and was about to leave, when the elder caught my attention and motioned me closer. It was a dream of mine to visit the Hopi, but never occurred to me that I might actually meet a traditional elder who held onto and lived by the old ways. Yet, here I was, alone with one.
Less than a week earlier, I had been on a movie set in Ashland, Oregon. One of my best friends was a publicist for the movie, and asked if I would visit her because she wanted to introduce me to someone. That someone turned out to be Kent Romney, a cameraman, and he was temporarily leaving the set to complete the final interviews of a documentary film. He was on his way to Hotevilla to interview members of the Hopi, including several elders. I asked if I could tag along, perhaps carry camera equipment, and that’s how I happened to be at Hotevilla, one of five villages on Third Mesa in northern Arizona.
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The elder’s eyes and mine locked. We shared a moment in silence, and then a generous smile rose on the aged man’s mahogany-colored face.
“Dear,” he said. “This is not the first time we’ve met.” His dark eyes were warm and kind. He continued. “You know that vision quest you did?”
Of course I remembered, and thought back to the vision quest I’d done eight years earlier. I had carved ten days out of my busy life and dedicated them to venturing into the wilderness and being alone; fasting, praying and meditating; drumming, dancing, and creating ceremony, all in an attempt to call in a vision that I hoped to God might provide some clarity and answers for my life. I was desperate to understand who I was and what direction to steer my life.
“Yes,” I answered, wondering how on earth the elder knew that I’d done a vision quest.
“That was me,” he said with conviction. “I was the one who came to you.”
Now, I’ve come to believe that anything is possible, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t shocked and confused by the elder’s first words to me. I recalled the vision that I received late one night. I’d memorized every word and detail of the little man who visited me in a vision. He’d identified himself as Oliver. Was the elder saying that he was Oliver? Is that what I heard? Really? Wait. What? How could that be?
“You know me as Oliver. Thank you for coming, True. We have much to talk about.”
My thoughts were spinning and my heart pounding. I felt inwardly disheveled, like I had just dropped a tray, and my sense of reality was strewn about the floor. I looked into his eyes, seeking something to anchor me. His eyes remained on me, warm and steady, and his smile grew.
“I don’t understand,” I confessed.
“Well, you see, when I was a lad and had come of age, I was presented two ways I could help my people. I was given a choice. I could become a medicine man or I could choose to be a shifter and move from place to place. I was clever enough to know that medicine men can be up all night and could see I would get no rest, so I chose to be a shifter, and it’s been a fair decision. This is how I came to visit you.”
“You’re Oliver?” I asked.
“Yes, and you know that book you wrote? It is not time to publish it. You’re not ready. The world is not ready, and there is information you do not have. You will know it when you do. Confirmation will come. You can add the additional information and then publish.”
I was stunned. How could the elder know that I had written a book….this book?
The morning after receiving my vision, I took a hike. It was during this short hike that a story filled my mind. It played itself out in its entirety as I walked, and I quickened my pace, eventually running back to my campsite, grabbing a pen and journal, and outlining the bones of the story. Upon arriving home from my vision quest, I began hearing a voice. I heard it as I slept and watched two individuals interact in a story that progressed nightly. Upon waking, I would roll out of bed and scramble to keep up with the stream of dialogue I was receiving. This continued for seven weeks, and at the close of that time, the original draft of Anasazi Vision was complete.
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This was a wholly new experience for me. I’d heard of such things, and experienced spurts of inspiration when writing poetry, but nothing like this. This dialogue was clear, consistent, and communicated in full paragraphs. Interestingly, the voice wove several of my own personal experiences into the story, and the tale became an intriguing tapestry of events that I experienced either via the voice or in real life. The scenes of the book came as a series of experiences I interacted with nightly as I slept. I entered the book’s scenes and interacted with the characters, like virtual reality. Awake or asleep, I was living the literary journey unfolding in front of me. What’s most interesting—and I must admit I enjoyed this immensely, is that the voice, which became my companion for nearly two months, was friendly, caring, and communicated as if you and I were enjoying a conversation. And, it was patient with me as I tried to keep up with its pace. When our exchange ended, I sincerely missed its presence.
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Kent and I remained in Hotevilla for a second day of interviews with tribe members. I met with the old Hopi elder again, who guided me through a rudimentary understanding of Hopi ways, traditions and customs. He escorted Kent and I to Prophecy Rock, to the spring that provides water to the village, and to his field, where he practices the ancient technique of dry-farming. He sketched images and symbols that made no sense to me at the time. He told me I would understand their meaning later, and that more information would come in the years ahead.
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I went on with my life, all but forgetting the manuscript until the pandemic, when I detected information surfacing that belonged in the book. By late 2023, the most significant piece of information was acquired, and the sketch now made sense. It was then, that a dear friend told me of an upcoming cosmic event that involved Third Mesa. I took it as a sign that the time had come to rewrite the manuscript; to change the protagonist from a man to myself, add the additional information, new chapters, and publish it. What you are holding in your hands is a decades-long collaboration from both sides off the veil. As you will read in the second book, Return To Third Mesa, the voice came to me again, briefly. My experience of the rewrite was as different as one sibling is from another. And yet, every bit as remarkable.
I knew nothing of the Ancestral Puebloans or the Hopi before this book took me on a deep dive into their worlds. In the years leading up to my vision quest, I’d done two personal retreats and was no stranger to spending time alone. I was living in Portland, Oregon, having wound up there after graduating college and, the truth is, I was a about as lost as I was found. The “found” part of me had a fresh degree in journalism, but the majority of me was as lost as ever. It took six years to earn my degree because I played hopscotch with majors—a direct reflection of the hopscotch I played with my life.​
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IMy family was deeply religious, and though it served me well growing up—helped lay a foundation of faith, standards, and, much to my parent’s relief, steer me clear of partying, promiscuity and prison, I began to question everything as I entered my 30s. I wasn’t sure the direction organized religion laid out for me was the direction I wanted to go. I wondered how much of my life I’d adopted and how much of it was intrinsically my own. Something was festering deep within me. I had to know what I believed—not what I was told I believed. Thus, began the great unraveling of my life.
I know everything happens for a reason and, in hindsight, I’m grateful I took the time to yank back the curtain and see what was guiding my life, but it was damn scary at the time, and I wasn’t alone during my years of searching. I was mother of four children, and they rode my coattails, hanging on through the ride as I endeavored to clean and learn to read my internal compass….and do right by them. I was also a recent widow, grieving a man I deeply loved, and having very few tools to navigate the murky waters of grief. I joined the Army National Guard. It seemed the logical thing to do. Religion and marriage had sheltered me. I was clueless of what I was capable of. I’d taught fitness classes, but had few marketable skills. Entering the military was the toughest thing I could think to do that had no backdoor or safety net. I‘d either grow up and grow a set of legs to stand on, or forever wonder what I was made of. It was the right decision for me, and started me on a path of personal and spiritual growth, education and opportunity.
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decade later, I thru-hiked the Pacific Crest trail, a 2,663 mile “long trail” that stretches from Mexico to Canada, following the crests of nine mountain ranges. I hiked 2,300 miles of it, 1,200 miles of it solo. Looking back, it was my time on the PCT that helped me build a history of resilience and perseverance with myself. I didn’t know it then, but I’d need every bit of it. One of my greatest challenges was still ahead of me, which is where this story, called Anasazi Vision, begins.
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