The Twelfth of Never

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Mother’s Day came and went in a lovely, loving haze as our 12 ½ year old German Shepherd died the very next day. I was held in a field of loving appreciation by my husband, son and daughter on mother’s day, and again as our dog died in our collective embrace.

A few days later, I visited my mom’s grave and created a small Mary garden for her with a peony – her favorite flower – as the centerpiece that a small Mary figurine holds. It was a sweet way to companion and be present to mom.

My spiritual direction training has taken me into the mystery of ‘conscious love’ and I find myself dwelling more and more in love’s mystery. A beautiful place to be still and know the ground of all being.

Serendipitously, one of my mom’s favorite Johnny Mathis tunes happened to play this week. I found myself remembering a time long ago in late summer when she and I were in her room and she was listening to the song appreciatively. Every time I hear the song, I think of her and that deeply connected moment. And now, the song enters into my heart as a spiraling wave of conscious love. Suddenly, the lyrics are about her love for me, my love for her, and the love of all the people who fill my life. So creatively, imaginal (ly) it becomes a divine love song too. A divine energy exchange piercing realms.

The song unfolds as follows and here is a link to Johnny Mathis singing it:

You ask how much I need you, must I explain? 

I need you, oh my darling, like roses need rain.

You ask how long I’ll love you; I’ll tell you true:

Until the twelfth of never, I’ll still be loving you.

Hold me close, never let me go.

Hold me close, melt my heart like April snow.

I’ll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom;

I’ll love you till the clover has lost its perfume.

I’ll love you till the poets run out of rhyme,

Until the twelfth of never and that’s a long, long time.

Hold me close, never let me go.

Hold me close, melt my heart like April snow.

I’ll love you till the bluebells forget to bloom;

I’ll love you till the clover has lost its perfume.

I’ll love you till the poets run out of rhyme,

Until the twelfth of never and that’s a long, long time.

Until the twelfth of never and that’s a long, long time.

 

 

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