Air Bus

(Saturday, June 21, 2014, Summer Solstice)  I’m standing in the middle of Marigold Terrace, a street I used to play on when I was a child. A coworker comes by to tell me it’s time to get ready for our flight.

I’m a bit panicked. I thought the flight was leaving the following day. I run home (my childhood home on Monroe Street) to do a quick load of laundry and pack. I have two hours to get to the airport.

I enter the bedroom I share with my two sisters, both of whom are in the room. My sister Jo is irritated with my usual lack of planning. For many years of my life I had difficulty with time and calendars. Jamie is much younger so has no criticism of my character flaw. I dig through dresser drawers and the closet to find enough clothes for my extended trip to Europe. Cullan has just returned from a trip; he used my suitcase and my carry-on bag (with pockets for my red Chuck Taylors) and hasn’t returned them to me so I have to locate my baggage too.

The scene changes and I am boarding my flight with my coworkers. We are flying on a huge air bus with multiple levels and rooms. I think infinite levels and rooms. Karimah from the dream conference is there, and maybe Duane. The passengers are from many countries and cultures.

I take my seat and buckle in, preparing for take off. The interior of the cabin looks more like a movie theater than an airplane: it’s very spacious and I am seated far from the windows, in the front row.  The huge plane takes off effortlessly but once in the air it pitches and rolls rather dramatically. I have to get used to the motion, however, as this is how the plane behaves for the entire flight to France.

When we are well underway, I unbuckle and am “free to move about the cabin.” I head toward a light-skinned young black man seated in a corner next to a kiva fireplace (!). He is delicate and pretty, in a Denzel Washington kind of way. I sit next to him. He is so soft spoken I cannot understand him. I put my left ear next to his right cheek and still miss most of what he is saying to me. Finally I perceive that he has Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He is showing me two children’s books that have been written about the disease. I tell him my godmother died of Hodgkin’s when I was eight years old. Perhaps he is the author of one of the books, I am not sure. I want to comfort him. He is deeply sad.

Day notes:

My dreams of rooms with wood panels and floors seem to take place inside the Mother Tree. This Air Bus seems like the Mother Ship.

Marigold: Mary’s Gold. Flower of creativity and passion. “The Latin name for the European marigold was calendula, which derives from the Latin word calendae ‘the first day of the month.’ The word has also been translated as ‘a little calendar or little clock.’ The name was appropriate since the flower bloomed throughout the entire calendar year and provided monastery gardens and altars with a constant supply of golden blooms.”
http://languageofflowers.blogspot.com/2008/11/october-flower-marigolds-or-calendula.html

“Marigolds are known as the “Herb of the Sun” and are symbolic of passion and creativity. The Welsh believed that if marigolds were not open early in the morning, then a storm was on the way. Marigolds have been used as love charms and incorporated into wedding garlands. Water made from marigolds was thought to induce psychic visions of fairies if rubbed on the eyelids. In some cultures, marigold flowers have been added to pillows to encourage prophetic or psychic dreams.”
http://livingartsoriginals.com/flower-marigold.htm

Marigold is a favorite flower for Mexican/Aztec Day of the Dead ceremonies.
http://www.softseattravel.com/Marigold-Day-of-the-Dead-Flowers.html

Finally, the marigold is also sacred in India.

The dream takes place in the present time but in a past location. The sister closest in age (time) to me is still exasperated with my ability to manage time.

I fly with my coworkers, many of whom seem to be dreamworkers of my acquaintance in waking life. We fly east, the direction of the rising sun, the direction of awakening, over a great body of water. The sea of the unconscious.

I have an intimate conversation on the flight with a younger man, not unlike my conversation with Robert on the flight back from San Francisco. We sit on a low bench connected to a kiva fireplace. Perhaps a psychic clue about my trip to Santa Fe in September to do past-life work with Sabine Lucas. Robert talked of moving to Amsterdam and I seem to have some kind of past-life connection to the Netherlands; perhaps that will come to light in Santa Fe. Yesterday Cullan was wearing golden orange (the color of marigolds) bike shoes from the Netherlands (Lake brand).

There is an old wound from childhood that needs healing. In my eighth year I experienced tornadoes, floods and the death of my favorite aunt by lymphoma. Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is supposed to now be a treatable disease but my dental hygienist Lynn died of it last year. I grew up with her; she lived one street over from Marigold Terrace.