This morning, I woke up with a beautiful dream, one that felt both deeply personal and spiritually uplifting. In the dream, I found myself back at the AmaJwarha homestead, a place I’ve called home since 2018. Though it’s a relatively recent chapter of my life, the homestead has already woven itself into my heart in a profound way.
As I walked through the familiar space, I heard beautiful music emanating from behind my grandmother Maxaba’s house. The sound was enchanting, unlike anything I had ever heard before, so I followed it, drawn by its warmth. When I arrived, I was greeted by a group of young people, faces I didn’t recognize, but their energy was welcoming. They were singing in harmony, a choir of voices blending seamlessly together.
Without missing a beat, they invited me to join them, saying, “We’ve been waiting for you.” They made space for me in between them, and together we began to sing. The song they were performing, “modimo o refile, sebakanyana se, le motsotsonyana o,” resonated deeply with me. While I may not fully understand every nuance of the translation, I believe it means “God has given us this space and time.” In that moment, singing alongside them, I felt the truth of those words flood my heart.
The dream was powerful, almost as if it was a reminder—a reminder to appreciate the space and time we have, to embrace the connections that form unexpectedly, and to recognize the gifts that are given to us in both the waking and dreaming worlds. But as I reflect further, I find myself asking: What could the music in my dream possibly symbolize?
Music, in many cultures and spiritual traditions, is often seen as a form of communication with the divine. It can transcend words and carry emotions that are too deep to express otherwise. In this dream, the choir was not just singing, they were inviting me into a space of unity, belonging, and purpose. The act of joining them felt like an invitation to embrace my own role in a greater collective, to add my own voice to the chorus of life that surrounds me. It felt as though the music was a reminder that we are all part of something much larger—our lives are interwoven with the lives of those around us, and together, we create something beautiful.
The lyrics of the song, "modimo o refile, sebakanyana se, le motsotsonyana o," "God has given us this space and time," seem to reinforce this theme of gratitude and purpose. The music in the dream reminded me to appreciate the present moment—the time and space I have right now. It was a reminder not to take for granted the opportunities I’ve been given, to recognize the power and beauty of the present. In a world that often rushes forward, this dream felt like a pause, a gentle invitation to reflect, connect, and appreciate.
This wasn’t the first time I’ve dreamed of music. Back in August, I had another deeply emotional dream, one that took place at the Amanxasana homestead, on my mother's side of the family. In that dream, I was walking up a mountain when I began to hear beautiful music playing, the kind of melodies you might hear on a Sunday afternoon on Metro FM. As I walked, I realized the music was coming from a radio, and the presenter on the airwaves announced that the songs were dedicated to me by my dad. The emotion of that moment overwhelmed me, and I woke up crying, touched by the deep connection I felt through those songs.
Much like the music in the AmaJwarha dream, the melodies in this previous dream carried a profound message. It was as though my father, through the music, was sending me a message of love, encouragement, and support from beyond. Music, in this instance, felt like a bridge between the living and the spirit world, a way for my father to connect with me, even though he was no longer physically present.
Music in dreams often serves as a symbol of emotional resonance, of things unsaid but deeply felt. The fact that I woke up crying after hearing the dedication in my August dream speaks to the deep emotional impact it had on me. Music, in this case, was not just a form of entertainment—it was a vessel for emotions, memories, and connections that were beyond words. It was as if the melodies were tapping into something deep within me, evoking feelings of love, loss, and remembrance that I had not fully processed.
Reflecting on both of these dreams, I can see a pattern emerging. Music, in my dreams, seems to be a spiritual language, a form of connection that transcends time, place, and even life itself. The choir at the AmaJwarha homestead invited me into a space of unity, purpose, and belonging, while the music at Amanxasana seemed to serve as a message of love and encouragement from my father. Both dreams remind me that we are never truly alone, that we are connected in ways we may not always understand, and that there is a deeper meaning to the moments we experience, even in our dreams.
Dreams like these serve as gentle invitations to reflect on our lives and the ways we are interconnected. Even in places and with people we may not have known for long, like the AmaJwarha homestead, there is a sense of belonging and unity that transcends time and space. In both the choir at AmaJwarha and the music at Amanxasana, I felt a deep connection, as if I was exactly where I needed to be.
As I reflect on these experiences, I’m reminded of the power of community, music, and gratitude. It’s a reminder that even when we feel unsure or disconnected, there is always an opportunity to join in harmony, give thanks for the time and space we have, and open our hearts to the melodies that guide us.
Happy reading bangani.
