A small room in Huntsville, Arkansas. A reclining chair. A tape recorder. An elderly woman with a yellow legal pad. The client lies back, eyes closed, and the woman says in a calm, grandmotherly voice: go back to the time and place your subconscious wants you to see. And the client begins describing a world that has nothing to do with Arkansas. A chamber of light. A council of beings without bodies. A planet in trouble. A call for help. A choice to forget everything and descend into a body on a small blue world about to tear itself apart. Her name was Dolores Cannon, and across nearly fifty years she recorded thousands of these sessions. What stopped her — and what I cannot stop thinking about — is that strangers who never met, who lived in different countries and held incompatible beliefs and had never read the same books, kept describing the same cosmology, the same events, the same three waves, in the same language.
