Flying dream

The hardest part about trusting intuition is resisting the urge to force a meaning before it's ready

Sometimes I have flying dreams.

In this one, I was walking along a ridge with two people — the head of school where I worked and the board chair. I was adjacent to their conversation. Not quite in it.

At a certain point, I just touched my feet off the ground. And took off.

Hovered just above them. Then gently separated and glided off to the right.

It was the spring of 2022. My oldest had applied to boarding schools and been admitted to two. I was struggling at work, but things hadn’t reached a breaking point yet. My kids were enrolled at the school where I worked — their tuition was part of my compensation. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want to disrupt them.

I was stuck.

As I soared away from the ridge, I looked down and saw my grandmother’s yard.

The house in Andover, Massachusetts, where I used to visit her. I recognized the patio, backing up on a bird sanctuary. I recognized the Japanese lantern she kept in her garden.

My grandmother was there. Sitting outside, painting.

She noticed me the way you notice someone you’ve been expecting. No excitement. No words, even. Just — oh good. You’ve come. Join me.

I don’t have a memory of touching down in her garden. I just remember touching off from the ridge and seeing where I was to go.

A few weeks later, I brought my daughter to Andover for a revisit day. It was still COVID — they wanted the kids but not the parents. So I dropped her off and went for a walk in that same bird sanctuary that abutted my grandmother’s old house.

I had a friend who was dying of brain cancer. She was in the last days of her life. I was thinking about her.

And as I walked, a butterfly appeared.

It was perfectly lit. I was alone on the path in this place that has always been sacred to me — my grandmother’s everyday walking trail, where she threw a ball for her dog, where I walked behind her as a child, stepping in her boot prints when there was snow. The butterfly stayed with me. Just hovered there. Like I could tell it anything and it was there to listen. It felt so strongly like a visitation. Maybe my friend. Maybe my grandmother. Maybe both.

I didn’t know what it meant. Just like the dream. But what I felt — in the dream and on that path — was the same. Warm. Loved. Seen. Held by something I couldn’t name.

My daughter decided to go to Andover. I thought — oh, maybe that’s what the dream meant. Maybe the butterfly was telling me this was the right place for her. Maybe my grandmother in her yard was a blessing on my oldest child’s future.

I wanted that to be the answer. A literal interpretation. A clean meaning I could hold on to.

But that’s not how it usually works. At least for me.

I didn’t know what the flying dream meant. I didn’t know what the butterfly meant. But I knew how I felt. Warm. Loved. Seen. Held.

And I had to be content with the feeling, even without knowing the meaning.

Which — if you know me — is not easy. I like to plan. I like to understand.

And yet, some things don’t reveal themselves on my schedule. I’m learning that the truest thing I can do, sometimes, is pay attention and stay open. Not rush to interpret. Not force a meaning just because the not-knowing is uncomfortable.

Another post-it in my collection says, “If you’re paying attention, much is being revealed.”

Easier said than done. But I’m working on it.

🕊️

SAM

We have one at our house now, too