The Verdant Spiral.

Photos by the incredible Jason Arthurs

It's hard to know what to say about this. Our ceremony, I mean, the twenty-some-odd minutes that bound us to each other for life, under a gray sky that threatened rain, the breeze rustling through my new husband's hair. If I think hard enough, I can remember every single thing about it: holding my dad back one quick second so I could gather my skirts; saying "Hi! Oh, hi!" to everyone as we walked down the aisle; our officiant's little daughter, swathed in airy pink sequins, plopping herself down on the grass in front of us so she could see. How handsome all the groomsmen were, lined up in their Johnny Apple shirts and black suits. How, after all the running around of the morning and nerves and Champagne, all I wanted to do was hold Michael's hand.

So we did just that, in front of 117 of our dearest, and had the ceremony that I think only we could have. That is exactly what we wanted. When we started planning this circus, we wanted two things: a great party, and a ceremony that made some people scratch their heads, but that made everyone happy. We do not have any sort of organized faith in our lives, which on one hand is freeing for us, but it sent us into open waters when planning our wedding ceremony. We wanted it to be serious but not solemn, and sincerely funny. We wanted to acknowledge the darkness and light of marriage, and our readiness to take it all on.

So in the end, we borrowed a little from the Anglican ceremony, exchanged rings with Jewish words, and used a little New-Yorkese for good measure. Our friend Leo serenaded Michael with that song from "Coming to America," and I almost collapsed from laughter before I even walked down the aisle. We asked Michael's nephew and our friends Katherine and Erik to read selections that encompassed what we want for our marriage, and for others as well. We asked our friend Dan to officiate, knowing that he could light the way for us, and he did. His wedding homily included our RV of Love (it's a long story,) the New York Public Library, and Emmylou Harris. It was perfect.

We wrote our own vows, and I will freely admit that Michael's were better than mine. They were funny and humble and fierce, and after he finished, I looked out at our guests and said, "Those were really good!" Because they were. He is really good.

My knees knocked the whole time, but I felt so grounded, so there. I giggled at almost everything; most of the pictures I've seen so far are of me with my mouth wide open, double-chinned, laughing. All of our guests laughed too, and from what I could tell, they were having fun. Who has fun at a wedding ceremony? We did.

After a benediction from our loved ones and a nod to legality by Dan, we were married. We kissed, and it felt like a first kiss, but with the blessings of familiarity and a long-won adoration. A grand cheer erupted from our guests, and then we floated back across the velvet grass to the James Monroe statue for pictures. I looked at Michael, and he looked at me, and we slapped each other a high-five. I saw his hand in mine, all shiny with his new wedding ring. And then we felt raindrops on our shoulders.

But that was just the beginning.


Our readings were "The Gift," by Hafiz; a selection from "The Birdcage," by Elaine May; and from "Our Passion for Justice," by the Rev. Carter Heyward. I'm including the last two below in the hopes that they help others find the building blocks of their own ceremonies.

"The Birdcage:"

My cemetery’s in Key Biscayne. It’s one of the prettiest in the world; lovely trees; the sky is blue; there are birds. The one in Los Copa is really shit.

What a pain in the ass you are. It’s true, you’re not young and you’re not new and you do make people laugh. And me, I’m still with you because you make me laugh. So you know what I gotta do? I got to sell my plot in Key Biscayne so I can get one next to you in that shithole Los Copa so I never miss a laugh.

We’re partners. You own half of my life and I own half of yours. But what does it matter? Take it all. I’m fifty years old, there’s only one place in the world I call home and it’s because you’re there. So take it. What difference does it make if I say you can stay or you say I can stay? It’s ours.

From "Our Passion for Justice:"

Love, 
like 
truth 
and
 beauty,
 is
 concrete.
 Love 
is 
not 
fundamentally
 a 
sweet 
feeling; 
not, 
at 
heart, 
a
 matter 
of 
sentiment, 
attachment, 
or 
being 
“drawn 
toward.” 
Love 
is 
active, 
effective, 
a 
matter 
of
 making 
reciprocal
 and 
mutually 
beneficial
 relation 
with 
one’s 
friends
 and 
enemies.



Love 
creates 
righteousness, 
or 
justice,
 here 
on 
earth. 
To 
make 
love 
is 
to
 make
 justice.
 As
 advocates
 and 
activists 
for
 justice 
know,
 loving 
involves 
struggle,
 resistance,
 risk. 
People
 working
 today 
on 
behalf
 of
 women,
 blacks, 
lesbians 
and
 gay 
men,
 the 
aging,
 the
 poor 
in 
this 
country
 and
 elsewhere
 know 
that 
making 
justice 
is 
not
 a 
warm,
 fuzzy 
experience. 
 I
 think
 also
 that 
sexual 
lovers
 and 
good 
friends 
know 
that 
the 
most
 compelling
 relationships
 demand
 hard 
work, 
patience,
 and
 a
 willingness 
to
 endure
 tensions
 and 
anxiety 
in 
creating
 mutually 
empowering 
bonds.

For 
this 
reason
 loving
 involves 
commitment.
 Love 
is 
a
 choice 
—
 not 
simply,
 or 
necessarily,
 a
 rational
 choice, 
but 
rather
 a 
willingness
 to 
be 
present 
to 
others 
without 
pretense
 or 
guile. 
Love 
is
 a 
conversion 
to 
humanity 
— 
a
 willingness 
to 
participate
 with 
others 
in 
the 
healing
 of 
a 
broken
 world
 and 
broken 
lives. 
Love 
is 
the 
choice 
to 
experience 
life 
as 
a 
member of 
the 
human
 family, 
a
 partner
 in 
the 
dance 
of 
life, 
rather 
than 
as 
an 
alien 
in 
the 
world 
or 
as 
a 
deity 
above 
the 
world,
 aloof 
and 
apart 
from 
human 
flesh.