Understand My Dreams basa"d

Dreams oats

Found 151 dreams containing oats - Page 7


Explore a collection of the latest dreams shared by our community. Discover common themes, intriguing narratives, and unique symbolism. From vivid adventures to thought-provoking scenarios, these recent dreams offer a glimpse into the subconscious mind and may even spark insights into your own dream world. Browse the "Latest Dreams" to find inspiration, connect with others, and delve deeper into the fascinating realm of dreams.

I was roller skating with people, no one specific, in a city. We came to a bridge, and the gate came down as the bridge was about to go up. sitting on the road in front of me was a woman and a 2 or 3 year old, wearing winter coats. As the bridge started to go up, the road separated (as it should do ) and the baby fell backwards into the water. The woman tried to grab the baby and missed, so she jumped into the water. I watched, debating whether to jump in or not, don't think I did jump in--then I woke up. I only saw the backs of the people so no idea who they were.

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Paratroopers are falling from the sky i realize it is an invasion then cut scene. my dad and i are hiding he says wait here and runs off. then a shotgun comes around the corner and i grab it. as i grab it burns my hand. after words i proceed to pick up a heavy machine gun and shoot at the man ciming towards me. he looks at me smiles and says that it doesn't hurt. the scene cuts again and a goats head gets cut off and thrown in a bee hive like tunnel and i zoom out and dozens of cones like filled with goats heads. the scene cuts again and a child picks one ofd the heads and asks if it can be reattached and i say no its either the head or a toy. this is all i can remember.

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I was traveling through the Middle East, a rare sight of a woman alone with her children. Everywhere we went, small children with large, dark, haunted eyes would watch my son and daughter as they laughed easily, teased each other and tried to talk to one another in Arabic from a small red phrasebook. One day we sat on a hot, dusty, crowded train. As the vista flashed by outside the window, a young boy, close to the same age as my son, sat across from us with his father. He watched quietly, seriously, as my children giggled, poked at one another and pointed out goats, mountains and beautiful rolling dunes awash in browns, soft pinks and ochers. My daughter turned to the boy and spoke a short phrase to him - "Hello; how are you?" - and suddenly he smiled, huge brown eyes lighting up and his face transformed into that of a beautiful and carefree young man. He began to answer when his father, eyes flashing, gave him a sharp reprimand in the universal language that every parent understands, the tone conveying words I understood in a language I could not. The boy cast his eyes downward. I looked at the man and attempted his language. "I'm sorry and it is not my business yet...why is it not alright for our children to speak with one another?" He looked at me and, with a small sigh, said "Our children are not the same." I said, "We are not wealthy people; you have no reason to dislike us." He barked a short laugh and said, "You, wealthy? You have riches. We -" he pointed at his breast, "we have wealth. We have the wealth that comes from true knowledge of our Creator, of our thousands of years of history, of our struggles. Of our losses. Of our families, of our heritage, of our culture. Your children have riches. Riches of the promise of a future. My son has wealth. But the promise of a future...?" He raised his arms heavenward in a fatalistic gesture and slowly turned his head to look out the window of the train. His proud face looked resigned yet strangely at peace. I woke up with tears running down my face.

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