Our wedding day was a fantastic metaphor for our relationship. Perhaps this is true for all couples. David and I are thinkers and planners, over-thinkers and over-planners if I'm being honest. And we're talkers. We never met a problem that couldn't be solved by talking it to death. In our minds, the best path to our dream wedding was one paved with lists, how-to books and lots and lots of talking. This was never more clear to me than when, during the reception, David's gregarious Brazilian uncle happily clapped us on our backs and said he'd seen a hundred weddings of two hearts but never a wedding of two minds. Not exactly the stuff of Hollywood romance, but terribly romantic to us.
The night before Wedding Eve we were, of course, running late. At close to ten that evening, we were jamming the SUV full of baguettes and cheeses, ribbons and wedding finery, all squeezed in amongst six sloshing buckets of flowers. The last vestiges of light in the summer sky had long drained away, leaving slivers of dusky blues on the prairie horizon that cloaked the Canadian Rockies in the distance. Soon we were heading west toward Fernie, B.C., a quirky and stunning little ski town just over two hours away. We arrived, exhausted but exhilarated, at the beautiful Timbers ski chalet, a sprawling log home tucked snugly into the pines.
The next day was packed with logistics of picking up and dropping off, arranging and discussing, but we took a moment first to fling open the doors and curtains to enjoy our coffee in the mountain air. Just outside the great room's picture window, mountain bikers glided past on the ski lift, their feet dangling just inches away.
Slowly the guests began to descend upon the little town. They came from everywhere--Missouri, Oregon, California, Arizona, Brazil and Alberta. We, made introductions, caught up after months, or even years, of being apart, and sipped our wine. Everyone pitched in--snipping and arranging bright simple bouquets of flowers for the tables, tossing salads, warming pans of lasagna. Faint sounds of music drifted in from the front lawn where a handful of friends and family practiced their songs for the big day. A few extra guests overheard them and decided to wander outside and join in. It was lovely.
Just before sitting down to our meal, a quick rehearsal of the ceremony on the back porch helped us prepare for the day. Despite the awkwardness of being the center of attention and the anxiety of having our friends and family together for the first time, I took a moment to look around at our small group--just twenty-some people--who had traveled so far and made such an effort to join us. Our dream for them was that they would leave Fernie feeling they had been a crucial part of something wonderful. Could the carefully-crafted and overly-orchestrated itinerary slipped under each of their bedroom doors somehow make it happen? All we could do now was laugh a little and pray.
Slowly the guests began to descend upon the little town. They came from everywhere--Missouri, Oregon, California, Arizona, Brazil and Alberta. We, made introductions, caught up after months, or even years, of being apart, and sipped our wine. Everyone pitched in--snipping and arranging bright simple bouquets of flowers for the tables, tossing salads, warming pans of lasagna. Faint sounds of music drifted in from the front lawn where a handful of friends and family practiced their songs for the big day. A few extra guests overheard them and decided to wander outside and join in. It was lovely.
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