Or, What I Learned About Having a Wedding in My Backyard This Weekend

When I said last year to two young people that I love, “Of course you can have your wedding at our house!,” I didn’t know that I would develop a new affinity for  farmers and ski resort owners.  Because by the end of April, my fate would rise and fall on the whims of meteorologists as unseen and capricious as any ancient god.  (I spent the last five weeks checking three weather websites daily.  Sometimes twice a day.  OK.  Sometimes more than twice a day.)

I didn’t know that even in the heart of suburban New Jersey, you could marry a man from Southern India in a ceremony of spice and sound, color and color upon saturated color, spirit profound, primal, and familiar, and the beauty of love made so stunningly visible.  Plus Indian food so good I almost cried.

I learned I could be a wedding planner, but only for a bride and groom of such kindness.  I learned that I could lead a wedding rehearsal, but to be honest I already knew I was pretty good at telling people what to do.  I learned that I could be a wedding officiant — who knew how easy it is to get ordained online?

I learned how much fun it is to have a big white tent in your yard.  It makes it easy for people to find your house and it’s cool and shady the morning after for coffee and bagels and lingering with family on their way home.

This Monday morning I still see the bride in her red and gold sari, her henna-ed hands, the priest’s orange robes and his palms yellow with turmeric, the groom’s magnificent turban, his mother s eyes huge with love and pride, yellow and orange and read and white flower garlands, rice cascading off their heads . . .

I see her uncle on a ladder hanging white tulle and giant white paper flowers, the threat of rain sliced away by the sun as the groom’s brother arrives in a rush, beautiful wife and two-month old twins in tow, I see red rose petals on my driveway, her mother’s tears, chocolate cake on her Vera Wang dress . . .

I see them on Sunday morning, husband now and wife, ordinary people again but still shiny with love and with hope.  And I keep that love and that hope with me after they go with their gifts and the leftover cake and her bouquet of white roses still fresh . . .

I keep it with me that afternoon when I toast pine nuts and slice oranges to put in a salad to bring to a memorial service for my friend Cyd — a woman much too young to die –whose calm and generous spirit soothed me and whose wide smile cheered me during a hard time.  I keep it with me when I cry for her husband and daughters and family and friends and for myself, all of whose lives will be less bright without her.

I keep it with me when I read about the 50 victims in Orlando, whose light and love and beauty were butchered by madness, ignorance and hate.  I keep it with me when I think about their families, whose grief for their brothers and sisters and husbands and sons and daughters gone too soon like Cyd must surely be sharper for the horror.

What I learned from having a wedding in my backyard this weekend is that you can do everything in your power to do and rain can always come and love can be a shelter no matter how bad the storm.