For decades I have recorded and then tried to interpret dreams; I recommend the practice
Tuesday 23 December 2025 at 14:49
Visible to anyone in the world
Dream: I'm with two others, let's say a friend and a sound engineer. We've unexpectedly got a week off, and, impromptu, I say, let's go to Hydra. It wasn't the iconic Greek island, but it was an island off mainland Europe in the Mediterranean. They like the sound of this - I know the place, I say, having been there before. I even called an old contact from the island who is keen for us to do the trip and will make the arrangements once we get there. We're in a hurry, so we charter a helicopter. For reasons unknown, we go in two. Something about them buddying up for the trip; either way, we land, ok, on the roof of the travel agency I remember, and climb down to find the guy. He has long gone, I'm told, which I find odd. Maybe he had dementia- I indeed spoke to him. But no trouble, there's a new group of agents in his place, and I'm waiting to put my request to them: rooms for three, inclusive—an apartment. The first agent is dismissive.
Then I have to retrieve my bag, which one agent tries to hold onto, thinking I'm trying to steal it. I take umbrage and decide to head off and find somewhere myself, soon after I double back. I'd best do this through an agent. This time, a third, older travel agent has the measure of me, takes my details, and, with the first call, secures a place. She also mentions the mainline as an alternative and suggests Hadfield, did I know it? I did. It's all coming back to me. I'd spent a summer there and had subsequently made plans to stay through Christmas. I'd made friends with a local family. She then says she has found somewhere on the island. A modest, quirky lady runs the place, but it ticks all the boxes. Each of the attributes of the guest apartment is written on a gift label, like 'tickets,' which she hands me, saying I shouldn't get too demanding about the need for 'birds,' as they won't be there all the time and not until later in the morning. I am dismissive, smiling and saying it is the least important of my expectations. I suggest I take a look. I assume the other two have gone to the bar.
Jung:
This dream arrived with unusual clarity and momentum. It carried the vividness and narrative coherence of something experienced rather than merely imagined, leaving a strong afterimage on waking, like stepping out of a cinema into early-morning air. The urge to write it down was immediate and pleasurable, not driven by anxiety but by a sense that something alive was still unfolding.
Rather than approaching the dream as a puzzle to be solved, the response was to stay with it through a process of spiralling: returning repeatedly to the experience from different angles—affect, memory, orientation, continuity—without forcing interpretation. What follows is not an explanation of the dream, but an account of what has emerged through attending to it.
Summary of what has come from the dream
The dominant feeling in the dream was one of excitement, rooted in recognition rather than novelty. The journey's spontaneity, the ease of arrival, and the sense of knowing the place all contributed to an experience closer to coming home than to going on holiday. The absence of a familiar figure did not destabilise the journey; instead, it was accepted as part of the journey's passage, without diminishing the place's solidity.
As the dream was revisited, urgency revealed itself as capacity rather than escape—a sense that staying, settling, or continuing was genuinely possible. The island did not present itself as a temporary destination but as a place where duration could be imagined: living there, working, becoming local, remaining beyond the bounds of a short visit.
Although the dream began with companions, it gradually resolved into a calm aloneness. This was not experienced as loneliness or loss, but as a natural condition for orientation. The experience of being guided—through agents, arrangements, and remembered routes—felt practical and trustworthy, culminating in accommodation that was sufficient rather than idealised. Beauty, lightly symbolised by birds, was present but no longer demanded a schedule.
Through spiralling reflection, the dream expanded sideways into memory: earlier periods of staying in places long enough to belong, of working and living rather than passing through. These memories arrived not as nostalgia but as recognitions—confirming that such modes of being had already been lived, not merely imagined.
Perhaps most striking was the sense that the dream had not closed. It felt possible to return to sleep and continue it, as though the psyche had paused mid-movement rather than reached an endpoint. On waking, this continuity introduced both reassurance and mild trepidation: a feeling that the day ahead needed to be met consciously, with attention, rather than rushed or avoided.
Overall, what has come from the dream is not a message or directive, but a re-orientation: toward inhabiting rather than travelling, toward continuity rather than interruption, and toward trusting the unfolding of place, memory, and time without demanding immediate meaning.
For decades I have recorded and then tried to interpret dreams; I recommend the practice
Dream: I'm with two others, let's say a friend and a sound engineer. We've unexpectedly got a week off, and, impromptu, I say, let's go to Hydra. It wasn't the iconic Greek island, but it was an island off mainland Europe in the Mediterranean. They like the sound of this - I know the place, I say, having been there before. I even called an old contact from the island who is keen for us to do the trip and will make the arrangements once we get there. We're in a hurry, so we charter a helicopter. For reasons unknown, we go in two. Something about them buddying up for the trip; either way, we land, ok, on the roof of the travel agency I remember, and climb down to find the guy. He has long gone, I'm told, which I find odd. Maybe he had dementia- I indeed spoke to him. But no trouble, there's a new group of agents in his place, and I'm waiting to put my request to them: rooms for three, inclusive—an apartment. The first agent is dismissive.
Then I have to retrieve my bag, which one agent tries to hold onto, thinking I'm trying to steal it. I take umbrage and decide to head off and find somewhere myself, soon after I double back. I'd best do this through an agent. This time, a third, older travel agent has the measure of me, takes my details, and, with the first call, secures a place. She also mentions the mainline as an alternative and suggests Hadfield, did I know it? I did. It's all coming back to me. I'd spent a summer there and had subsequently made plans to stay through Christmas. I'd made friends with a local family. She then says she has found somewhere on the island. A modest, quirky lady runs the place, but it ticks all the boxes. Each of the attributes of the guest apartment is written on a gift label, like 'tickets,' which she hands me, saying I shouldn't get too demanding about the need for 'birds,' as they won't be there all the time and not until later in the morning. I am dismissive, smiling and saying it is the least important of my expectations. I suggest I take a look. I assume the other two have gone to the bar.
Jung:
This dream arrived with unusual clarity and momentum. It carried the vividness and narrative coherence of something experienced rather than merely imagined, leaving a strong afterimage on waking, like stepping out of a cinema into early-morning air. The urge to write it down was immediate and pleasurable, not driven by anxiety but by a sense that something alive was still unfolding.
Rather than approaching the dream as a puzzle to be solved, the response was to stay with it through a process of spiralling: returning repeatedly to the experience from different angles—affect, memory, orientation, continuity—without forcing interpretation. What follows is not an explanation of the dream, but an account of what has emerged through attending to it.
Summary of what has come from the dream
The dominant feeling in the dream was one of excitement, rooted in recognition rather than novelty. The journey's spontaneity, the ease of arrival, and the sense of knowing the place all contributed to an experience closer to coming home than to going on holiday. The absence of a familiar figure did not destabilise the journey; instead, it was accepted as part of the journey's passage, without diminishing the place's solidity.
As the dream was revisited, urgency revealed itself as capacity rather than escape—a sense that staying, settling, or continuing was genuinely possible. The island did not present itself as a temporary destination but as a place where duration could be imagined: living there, working, becoming local, remaining beyond the bounds of a short visit.
Although the dream began with companions, it gradually resolved into a calm aloneness. This was not experienced as loneliness or loss, but as a natural condition for orientation. The experience of being guided—through agents, arrangements, and remembered routes—felt practical and trustworthy, culminating in accommodation that was sufficient rather than idealised. Beauty, lightly symbolised by birds, was present but no longer demanded a schedule.
Through spiralling reflection, the dream expanded sideways into memory: earlier periods of staying in places long enough to belong, of working and living rather than passing through. These memories arrived not as nostalgia but as recognitions—confirming that such modes of being had already been lived, not merely imagined.
Perhaps most striking was the sense that the dream had not closed. It felt possible to return to sleep and continue it, as though the psyche had paused mid-movement rather than reached an endpoint. On waking, this continuity introduced both reassurance and mild trepidation: a feeling that the day ahead needed to be met consciously, with attention, rather than rushed or avoided.
Overall, what has come from the dream is not a message or directive, but a re-orientation: toward inhabiting rather than travelling, toward continuity rather than interruption, and toward trusting the unfolding of place, memory, and time without demanding immediate meaning.