In 2009, something happened that changed everything.

What follows is the story I have carried close for fifteen years. It became the living compass that has guided every step of my work since that night.

It began in an ordinary hotel room in Louisville, Kentucky.

My husband Thomas and I had driven up from Nashville to help our recent college graduate move back home the next day. I had been working through A Course in Miracles daily for about six months and had brought it along to read before bed. We turned out the lights and lay down to sleep.

And then something extraordinary happened. For the next three hours a vivid, movie-like scene began playing out in front of me — colorful, luminous, completely alive. I had never experienced anything like it. The room was dark, and I could make out the shapes around me — the desk, the lamp, the reading chair — in shades of black and gray. I kept raising my hand to my face, touching the nightstand, reassuring myself. I was awake. And yet at the same time, I was seeing these beautiful, full-color, vivid scenes unfolding clearly before me. 

The first scene was like a farmers' market.

It overflowed with beautiful, healthy, organic produce — abundant and alive. I somehow knew, with a certainty that went beyond thought, that the farmers who grew this food did so because it was their deepest passion. They loved being outside, connected to the earth, the seasons, the act of nurturing and harvesting and offering something genuinely nourishing to their community. Those who arranged the produce in the market did so with joy. Those who cooked it — in homes and in restaurants — chose quality ingredients with care, experimenting lovingly, bringing their very best to every meal.

The scene shifted.

I saw the houses where people lived. They were not large or opulent — but they were so incredibly beautiful. Full of light. Thoughtfully, lovingly crafted. Built not merely to meet needs, but to help people thrive — mind, body, and spirit. There was a conscious intention woven into every space: to create connection, sanctuary, and a living relationship with the natural world.

And then broader still. 

From food to buildings, from furniture to clothing, from education to childcare, from science to medicine — everything was offered with the utmost love and care. Those caring for infants and toddlers did so because that was their gift and their joy. Teachers taught because teaching was what they were born to do, and children spent much of their time learning outdoors — reading, writing, mathematics and science alongside empathy, kindness, intuition, energy, and reverence for animals and the natural world. New knowledge and discoveries were freely shared. Medicine was truly holistic — caring for the whole person, proactive rather than reactive, honoring both traditional and alternative modalities as equally valid expressions of healing. 

Everything — everything — was done with love.

Around 3am, my husband woke up. He moved quietly toward the bathroom in the dark, trying not to disturb me. I softly said, "I'm already awake — you can turn on a light." He did. He took one look at me and said “What are you thinking? We have to get up in just a few hours!” I hesitated to share, because I didn’t want him to diminish what I had just seen. He sat down on the edge of the bed beside me, and gently said he would only listen — that he wouldn't say a word.

So I spent the next thirty minutes sharing everything I had seen. I wish we had recorded it, because there are details I can no longer fully recall. When I finally finished, he was quiet for a moment. Then he asked: "Do you really think we'll see that in our lifetime?"

I was still for only a moment — still soaking in the warmth of what I had just been given, not yet in my analytical mind. And then my whole being — heart, body, and mind together — said yes. I may be eighty when it happens. But yes. I was filled with joy. And then, almost immediately, with something more somber — because the realization followed like a quiet wave: to get from where we were then to that would require immense change.

In the in-between, it would be hard. It would be frightening. We would likely witness the collapse of systems we had long relied on — in government, in education, in healthcare. Things would have to fall apart before they could become something new.

But I also felt, rising up beneath the anxiety, a deep and steady determination. I was going to strap on my seatbelt. Because I was absolutely going to be part of this ride.