By the time I was woven directly into this aspect of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, I had essentially lived in my car for four years. I’d made myself homeless in 2013 to follow the directional visions that said: “Go here. Now,” “Go there in two weeks.” I made such a dramatic choice to follow the visions because that was the only thing that made sense to me at the time. In addition, I couldn’t not go. There was nothing within me that could deny what was presenting itself to me; not a cell in my body argued with me though my mind certainly did.

My life has never been manicured or neat; there's never been a five-year plan, no education plan, no career path. None of that that we’re supposed to have to plan our future. I’ve never had a dream of what the future might or should be like. There was no dream job, no dream wedding, no dream guy, no ‘this is what I’m going to do when I grow up’ dream. There were a few times as a kid when I’d have an idea: That I’d jump off a swing and fly forever, rescue all the animals in all the zoos, be a fireman one day, a mechanic the next, but never a plan with a capital P.
That no-plan living has helped guide me as the spiritual world I’m steeped in has unfolded in ways that absolutely could not have been planned for. When I had my first mystical experience when I was 12 or 13 years old, I never-ever would have imagined where I am now. 

While in the back yard looking up at the sky I saw, and then was immersed in, a bright, color-filled light that brought an immediate sense of safety. I told my mother I saw an angel because that was the only way I knew how to describe something that was definitely visible, but not actually describable, that sort of emanated from the sky and was pretty. There weren’t wings, there were no clouds to part and it wasn’t singing but what else could that possibly be?
I remember being entirely confused when, to commemorate the occasion, my mother placed a poured-concrete figure of an angel on a tree stump where I had my vision.  That cold lump of grey concrete was visible and tangible but in no way, form or fashion, resembled what I saw. And, then, I never really thought about it again until more strange and unusual things started occurring around me in the fall of 2007. As those other things became more strange than that initial childhood experience, it fell again to the wayside of my brain. Then, in 2015, I had my next experience with that angel-but-not up close and personal when I was integrated with The Winged Ones.

So when I had the first directional vision, I went. I trusted the synchronicities that supported it, even though it made little sense to the little girl in me that was scared other people wouldn’t like me. Then I had more visions and synchronicities and kept going. Things became focused on Indian Country when I met Pat Kennedy in January 2014 and he sent me to the Marias River Massacre site in the middle of the Montana winter. That encounter included other people along the way that helped me know that no matter how uncomfortable I was, it was the right way; plan or no plan.

By the summer of 2017, I could feel something percolating in the ether related to my involvement  in Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women but I had no idea how it might unfold. When it showed up in September 2017, I’d had so many experiences that led me to a level of exhaustion I didn’t know possible. I’d been pushed past my limits of people-ing, of trust in These Ones around me, and poverty. I felt like I’d been given the runaround by Poundmaker, Crowfoot, Shingwauk and Big Bear and I was pissed.

When the Navajo cop sent me that missing person’s flyer, all I could think was ‘not my circus, not my monkeys’. I wanted nothing more to do with things that would tax all my being and not offer anything in return. I was done.
I learned quickly, though, that I was only getting started. Half a dozen people began sending me unsolicited emails that began with something like, “I don’t know why I’m supposed to tell you this”, “I had this dream but it’s for you”, “Someone told me to tell you…” Every message was the same, countering my reluctance with, “Oh, you’re going.” A former client with whom I hadn’t had contact in years reached out to tell me she needed to channel my “Posse.” Their message was, "Go NOW!" Followed moments later, when I asked if I'd have help on the ground, "You're on your own."

 

Within 10 days I was in the Phoenix, AZ, metropolitan area. Within four days of my arrival I was at the FBI office. Within twenty-four hours of my interview there, I was under surveillance, though I wouldn't know it for many months, because I couldn’t have possibly known the information I shared without being part of what I came to call The Fuckery. I learned of things within those four days that I was not ‘supposed to know’.

My naïveté led me from an interview at the FBI office straight into the mouth of Deep Shit a few hours later, though I didn’t know it until about the last 30 seconds of a conversation with a revered community member, when I was certain that I was going to fall out of my flip-flops.

I went into the desert in September 2017, working with many others who supported me, thinking I would be there 7-10 days. It was well within my wheelhouse to bring a disappeared woman home in that time. I, and the others with me trusted the information we were given and the years of living in that trust created the foundation for me.

It was also within my wheelhouse to be walked, dragged by my nose, directly into a spiritual set-up the likes no one has ever heard of at this scale. I just didn’t know it until I left the desert seven months later alone and terrified.