From the moment Dexter first barrelled toward me like a runaway train, I fell hopelessly in love.

Two years old, sixty pounds, and sporting a white coat of fur as radiant as Arctic snow, this English bulldog had been waiting patiently for a new home at a rescue shelter outside New York City for three months. But as we spent the afternoon playing together under a blue summer sky, we both knew his days as a pound puppy were over. After I signed the adoption papers, he launched his huge salmon-pink tongue into a flurry of kisses across my face.

Dexter and I were inseparable for the next nine years. Our companionship spanned five Manhattan apartments, three boyfriends, and countless adventures — from daily hikes through the forest of Inwood Hill Park to an autumn road trip to Cape Cod, where we felt like the last two creatures on Earth while exploring Provincetown's enchanted dunes.

English bulldogs are notorious for having a raft of health problems, the result of a century and a half of breeding practices that prioritized appearance over well-being. Dexter, however, was a paragon of health — until one day, he wasn't.

A stubborn bladder infection in January 2020 became the first sign that Dexter's body was giving out. At 11 years old — beyond the breed's standard life expectancy — his immune system was no longer a reliable shield of protection, and neither antibiotics nor holistic treatments improved his weakened state. By mid-April, it was time to show Dexter the ultimate act of mercy and provide him with safe passage from this earthly plane.

Death already felt omnipresent that spring, the sinister perfume of plague wafting through the air as a novel coronavirus unleashed waves of devastating grief around the world. But whereas many were forced to experience the untimely deaths of loved ones, I had the chance to honor with peace and calm the last breaths of a sage elder — one who had shared with me a deep wisdom, who had enriched and expanded my capacity for love and was now ready to become part of that all-encompassing love that sustains the universe.

As we waited for the veterinarian to arrive for an at-home euthanasia (who was decked out in a hazmat suit for the safety of everyone involved), I wanted nothing more than to share one final moment of tender beauty with my bully boy. Lying together on the ground of our bedroom with light pouring across his face, we listened to Gustav Mahler's song "Urlicht," finding comfort in its mystical vision of the eternal light that awaits us all.

Before Mahler composed any of his 11 titanic symphonies that frequently shake the walls of concert halls, he had already become a prolific composer of intimate art songs, known in the German-speaking world as Lieder. Many of these were settings of texts from Des Knaben Wunderhorn (The Boy's Magic Horn), a compendium of German folk songs and poetry published in the early 19th century.

Among the poems in that collection was "Urlicht" (Primal Light) — a Totengebet, or prayer recited at the deathbed of a loved one. Mahler was no stranger to such scenes of grief. Eight of his 13 siblings had died in childhood, and his mother and father passed within months of each other a decade before Mahler began work on this song.

Against this backdrop of loss, the composer must have felt a profound connection to the opening lines of "Urlicht":

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O little red rose,
Mankind lies in greatest need,
Mankind lies in greatest suffering,
How I would rather be in heaven.

In Mahler's setting, the singer beseeches the little red rose with a rising three-note motif, which blossoms into a solemn chorale in the brass like a choir of angels calling us to prayer. And as the poem traces the journey of a single soul toward heaven, the song's central section takes on a more assertive character:

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There I came upon a broad path,
Then an angel came and wanted me to turn back,
Ah no! I refused to turn back.
I am from God and will return to God,
The loving God will give me a little light,
To light my way to the eternal blessed life.

In that moment of transcendence, as the singer envisions the entry into heaven they so long for, the music grows increasingly expansive. The three-note figure that began the prayer now climbs ever higher, summoning a celestial serenity as we arrive at the poem's final word — life.

Mahler later found a home for "Urlicht" as the fourth movement of his Second Symphony, also known as the "Resurrection" Symphony. A heaven-storming work for large orchestra, choir, and vocal soloists, Mahler's symphony travels through emotional landscapes of funereal sorrow, hushed nostalgia, and overwhelming terror in its first three movements for orchestra alone. But as the opening line of "Urlicht" arises from the decaying shiver of a gong that ends the third movement, we are ushered into a new, ethereal world. Here Mahler's spiritual journey progresses from the death of one individual to the resurrection of all humankind, culminating in the choir's hymn of enduring love and faith that brings the work to its ecstatic conclusion.

"It is no judgement, there are no sinners," Mahler wrote of his Second Symphony and its heartfelt vision of humanity. "None is great, none small. An overwhelming love illuminates our being. We know and are."

One of the most gratifying aspects of adopting dogs is witnessing their powerful resilience firsthand. From the moment they set foot in their new homes, they seem to no longer consider the fear and abandonment they've endured. Instead, they embrace, with grace and nobility, the warm energy of their new surroundings almost immediately.

Although I never learned the circumstances of Dexter's life before we met, I made it my sacred duty to offer him the life he always deserved, built upon a foundation of compassion and love. Not once did he have to experience the world's cruelty or the division shredding the fabric of humanity. Instead, Dexter knew only the humble rituals of our daily life — each walk, homemade meal, and belly scratch a symbol of my commitment to serve as his devoted shepherd. Together we created a cocoon of tender, faithful companionship I wish everyone in the world could experience.

And now, five years after his death, mankind still lies in the greatest need and suffering. But thinking of Dexter, and the Urlicht that guided him into the great beyond, reminds me every day that the overwhelming love awaiting us in the eternal life can also be found on this earthly plane, as long as we keep our hearts open to receiving such an exquisite blessing.

Take a listen …

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Lorraine Hunt Lieberson, mezzo-soprano
San Francisco Symphony
Michael Tilson Thomas, conductor
(Follow along with the German text and English translation.)

There are so many incredible recordings of "Urlicht" — including meditative performances by Janet Baker, Maureen Forrester, and Christian Gerhaher — but the one that comforts me most, and the recording Dexter and I listened to five years ago, is that of Lorraine Hunt Lieberson.

Longtime Shades of Blue readers may remember meeting Lorraine when I shared her recording of her husband Peter's Neruda Songs here in early 2024. She's best known for exquisite interpretations of Baroque music, but her readings of Mahler are just as divine. "Urlicht" holds a special place for all of us who loved her artistry so dearly, as Mahler's Second Symphony was the final work she performed before her death from breast cancer in 2006, at the age of 52.

I'd love to hear about your experience with Mahler's comforting prayer of love and light. Let me know — either by replying to this email or sharing a comment below.

(And if you enjoyed your time here today, how about tapping that little heart below? 👇🏼)

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