Another Kind of Flying Dream

This was a different take on flying dreams. It’s actually a segment of a large dream sequence but this part had me smiling.

So the dream heavily featured my father- and mother-in-law. Both are deceased with my MIL passing a few years ago and FIL passing in 1991, shortly after his retirement at age 65. I had a good relationship with both.

They were young in this dream and their physiques reflected their younger selves. In this dream, there was a point where they announced to my wife and I, “We’re no longer driving. We’re going to fly everywhere from now on.”

O-kaaayyy. Their announcement left their daughter and I with multiple questions. How were they planning to do this? Jump on airplanes? And what did they mean when they said —

Well, even as we were wondering about these and other aspects, my in-laws produced am airplane. Think a small Cessna. Piper Cub. Single prop. High wings. Red and white. It was clear now that they intended to fly themselves. Which defied expectations. Neither had a pilot’s license when alive. Neither had even flown many times.

But, okay. There was an announcement then that we were going to the grocery store and they were flying us. My wife and I are in the airplane with them. We’re still discussing what’s planned and how this is possible but we take off. But I’m challenging my wife, how are they going to take us to a store? So many obstacles exist, right?

My wife and I are in the back. But we’re seated backwards, facing the rear. I turn around to see what’s going on and realize, they’re going to fly down the street. Below the overpass. Past the buildings, trees, and wires.

Holy shit!

The aircraft’s rotation, yaw, and pitch are all wrong. At one point, we’re between a set of telephone wires with the aircraft nose pointing straight up. My wife and I are giddy with laughter about the affair. But they’re calm and casual up front. The in-laws land the aircraft in the store parking lot. And park us between cars.

Segment end.

The Porthole Dream

My late mother-in-law dominated one of my dreams last night.

I was on her ship. To my knowledge, this woman never owned a boat, never mind a large ship.

While I’d been with her, visiting, I was preparing to leave. Outside the ship, I was aware that it was heavily storming. Large waves rocked the ship. Winds howled. Sheets of rain fell from black iron skies.

I needed to go, to catch my flight, to go home. But first, well, there was the matter of my laundry. Done washing, I needed to put them into the dryer. I couldn’t open the dryer, though.

Men came to help. I gathered through conversations that they were my mother-in-law’s brothers. Appreciating the assistance, I managed to get the wet clothing into the dryer. Now I needed to get myself ready. Needed to shower and shave.

I went into the bathroom. A porthole was open. Ocean water came nearly to the porthole, terrifying me. “This should be closed,” I said to myself. I felt that I couldn’t close it without permission.

Leaving the bathroom with a backward look at the porthole, I encountered my mother-in-law in the hallway. “I was thinking, Mike.” (She’d always called Mike, her and her husband, although I went by Michael with my wife and the world.) “There’s no reason for you to go to the airport to catch your flight. You can catch it here.”

Although some part of my brain in the dream protested, I’m sorry, but we’re on a ship, that’s not possible, I said, “Are you sure? Is that possible?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother at all. It’ll save you time.” She walked off, as was her habit, as she finished her comment.

“Great,” I answered, then went after her. “There’s a porthole open in my bathroom. I think it needs to be closed. The water is about to come in. We could get flooded.”

“Okay, go ahead and close it,” she replied.

Happily, I returned to the bathroom and closed the porthole. I felt much better about that.

“Your flight is almost here,” one of the brothers told me.

I wasn’t ready. “Okay,” I called back. After rushing through my shower and shaving, I dressed while hurrying out to empty my clothes from the dryer. They needed to be packed. I had my suitcase at hand. I was thinking that the flight was early. I was thinking, how can the aircraft land on ship? Was it going to land on the sea? I was thinking, how can it land in this weather? I was thinking, I want to pack my clothes neatly but I need to get them into the suitcase and get going. I was thinking, there’s so much to do, and I feel so rushed. I was thinking, maybe I shouldn’t go now.

Shirt not properly tucked in, wet hair uncombed, suitcase open, clothes half in it, I declared myself ready to go.

Dream end.

The Food Offer Dream

Dreams last night were like I was watching through a kaleidoscope. Not much stayed with me.

One section I remember was a stylish, older woman asking me if I’d eaten. Post Malone’s song, “Circles”, played in the background. We were in a très modern house. Before I could answer her, she said, “You look as if you’re famished. We have very good food here.”

Before I replied — I was thinking that I’d politely turn her down — a tall white man with gray hair and matching goatee entered from another hall, to my right. She introduced him as my chef and said that he would feed me. The man said, “Yes, I make wonderful food, everyone says so. Tell me, what would you like to eat?” He was not dressed as a chef, but wore a black shirt under a light gray sport coat.

At that point, I said, “I’m not hungry,” but the woman at the same time said, “I’ll leave you two to it.” She left.

The man said, “Here, come this way, my kitchen is just here.”

I said, “I’m not hungry.”

We rounded a corner. A large kitchen was to the left. Dark, glistening counters were filled with plates of food. The man gestured toward them. “What would you like? Just help yourself. If you don’t see anything that you want, I can make it for you.”

I was still taking in the food. Besides the kitchen, a breakfast bar was covered with food. Past that was a well-lit dining room, with a table and buffet heaped with food. I saw roasts, turkeys, grapes, and bowls of fruit.

The man said, “Are you a person who likes to stand up or sit down when you eat?”

The segment ended.

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Another that I remember was a montage of my late mother-in-law saying, “I suppose.” That was like her catchall phrase. Do you want to eat? Would you like Chinese food? Do you mind if we do x and x? To almost every query, she replied, “I suppose.” That’s all the dream segment was: her saying, in various ways, at different ages and settings, “I suppose.”

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