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| Photo by Burk Praël |
We didn't get married to "tie the knot"; we'd been living together for a few years, already, and the knot had been well and thoroughly tied the moment Markus stepped off the bus and came over to where my friend and I were sitting waiting for him. He was hiding behind his eyelashes and shaking my hand with a kind of adorable, gentle fear. We went on a vacation we called our "Jellymoon" eight months later, and introduced each other to our families as quickly as possible. We met as kids, basically, at 19 and 26, and we helped each other grow up these past 29 years.
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| Photo by Ruben Fleming |
But in 1999 we got married, to bring our families together, officially, and to mark our spot in the passing of time. And a beautiful party. That was the idea, but it became so much more than that. In trying to arrange things, we made choices that were meaningful to us, or to the people the involved. The friend who had introduced us was our officiant, and we wrote our own vows. Of course we had to hire a legal officiant, as well, but she allowed us to do the most meaningful parts of the ceremony with our friend. All of the music, photography, food, cake, beverages, bartending, decoration and even table rentals were provided by friends and family. The wedding was hosted by our neighbours--a gargantuan gift that meant we could be married in not only the place I grew up, but also where we would eventually return to raise our children.
As I write this now it strikes me how much (much more than I can list here) was a gift from those who loved us. Somehow I was too busy to notice this during the planning stages of our wedding. It wasn't until just before the ceremony, when I was getting dressed in an upstairs bedroom of our neighbours' home, that it hit me. I was feeling rather sorry for myself, dressing alone for my own wedding, with no time to put on the French manicure I had practised. And I looked out the window and saw the hundred-plus chairs beginning to fill with guests. I watched people file in, sometimes hugging each other; sometimes looking vaguely lost, and all sitting down to wait for... me. Suddenly my nails didn't matter. I was more concerned with the makeup running away in my tears. I've longed for a community all my life, and at that moment I realized I had one.
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| Photo by Julia Roemer |
Looking at these photos now I feel nostalgic for our innocence. Despite the revelation I had, we were SO young; so oblivious to the life that awaited us, and that's a great thing, because our innocence allowed us to live and learn in the moment. So many of these people have been lost to us, in the twenty-five years since that day. I'm glad we had that day to cherish without knowing there might ever be loss in the future. We've struggled and built and grown so much, as individuals and as a few connected families. Our community has changed, for sure, but the heart of intentional connection that I noticed on that day is still here. And it's what holds our hearts through the challenges, and allows us to keep showing up for our family and community in whatever ways we're able.
We don't have the capacity to host a big party this year, but I think if we did that would be the best way to celebrate this day: to honour and celebrate the intertwined communities that we're so grateful to be a part of.