I want to tell you the backstory of how I came to write Eris: Sacred Feminine Force of Evolutionary Astrology.
Checkpoints on the Highway
In the fall of 2001, I was living in Scottsdale, Arizona—a sunny, somewhat sleepy suburb north of Phoenix, comfortable and predictable. Life felt stable. I worked as a freelance computer technician, fluent in both Mac and Windows, fixing digital chaos for others. It was practical, grounding work—a world of logic and service.
One afternoon, I got a call from a woman in the small desert town of Carefree, further north, where there seemed to be more Saguaro cacti than people. The name itself seemed to hint at a paradox: the stirrings of awakening mixed with the shadow of crisis.
Her home was unlike anything I had ever seen—and I had seen a lot. I grew up in the old, wealth-encrusted suburbs of northern New Jersey, where architecture ranged from colonial-era buildings to ultra-modern houses perched along the first line of mountains with a view of Manhattan. After college, I spent my early adulthood traveling through France and England with my family’s antique import business. I wandered through hundred-year-old stone cottages and medieval chateaus still brimming with remnants of centuries past. But this house was unlike any I had ever seen. It had been built around 12-foot giant ancient granite monoliths, the Earth’s bones that formed the walls, standing upright from the floor. The house didn’t just sit on the land; it grew out of it. The air pulsed with something ancient, sacred, and alive.
While I worked on her computer, the owner told me she was in close contact with the Hopi people and that they had granted her permission to build on that sacred ground. Then she showed me a message they had recently shared—a prophecy from the Hopi Elders. She read it aloud as I worked, and the words filled me like a seed being watered.
“You have been telling people that this is the Eleventh Hour. Now you must go back and tell the people that this is the Hour. There is a river flowing now, very fast. Those who cling to the shore will suffer greatly. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water. The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves. All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.”
—Hopi Elders’ Prophecy, June 8, 2000
Something inside me was suddenly awakened, a vibration coursing through my being that I couldn’t quite identify—an intuition that both my path and the world’s were headed toward a new horizon.
Before moving to Arizona, I lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico. My years there were challenging yet luminous: as a young technician trying to make a living, I was surrounded by the red earth and crystalline air of a city that feels more ethereal than solid. I left reluctantly, telling myself Phoenix offered better prospects. But Santa Fe never stopped calling me.
Then came 9/11.
I grew up around people who worked in those towers—classmates, friends, neighbors, familiar faces. Even two thousand miles away, it was a personal event. I felt the collapse of the Twin Towers resonate deep within me. The morning unfolded like a slow nightmare—smoke, silence, disbelief. For a brief moment, the five boroughs of New York and the three surrounding states of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut became one great, grieving heart, responding to the nightmare as a single community.
A few nights later, I had a dream. I saw military checkpoints along desert highways—soldiers stopping cars, scanning papers, fear hanging in the air. I woke up drenched in sweat and turned to my wife.
“We need to return to Santa Fe,” I said. Half-asleep, she whispered, “If one of us finds a job there, we’ll go.” Within days, she received an unexpected call from someone she knew in Santa Fe offering her a position. Just like that, the river had spoken. When we listen to the flow of life within us, life begins to unfold differently, not without turbulence, but with a sense of invisible guidance.
Santa Fe called me home, and I’ve lived here ever since. The world I dreamed of that night has slowly taken shape—a landscape of surveillance, division, and fear. Yet Santa Fe remains a sanctuary, a place where the veil is thin, and the land still breathes its ancient wisdom. Over the years, my life here has transformed. I became a certified Evolutionary Astrologer, now working with clients worldwide, and after years of study, vision, and revision, I published my first book: Eris: Sacred Feminine Force of Evolutionary Astrology. Eris—the planetary body discovered in 2005—disrupted the old astronomical order. Her arrival dethroned Pluto and compelled science and astrology alike to redefine what constitutes a planet and, by extension, what gives life meaning. True to her myth, Eris arrived as both disruptor and revealer, exposing illusions and exclusions that have shaped collective consciousness. Since that time, her influence has only grown.
Between 2026 and 2030, Eris will form nine exact squares to the United States’ natal Pluto—creating nine gateways of societal reckoning. This sequence, unmatched in its duration and intensity, indicates a collective confrontation with the shadow of power itself. Looking back, I see the Hopi prophecy as not just about individual lives; it’s a planetary lesson. The river they spoke of is the same current Eris now embodies: the unstoppable flow of evolution through crisis. Those who cling to the shore will suffer, for the tide is already rising. Maybe this era calls for us to let go of the shore, trust the current, and see ourselves as part of the sacred unfolding of history. After all, we are the ones we’ve been waiting for. What follows is the story of that river—its celestial tides, its earthly effects, and the nine gates through which a nation—and possibly humanity itself—must pass.
