Our daughter got married.

A simple enough sentence, yet there was nothing simple about it. How do I adequately recount such a thing? I could go through a chronology, but, meh. I could describe the event itself, how it was so moving, so unexpected, so not to plan. I could tell you about the whole weekend, we did this, we saw them, we went here. Or, I could reduce the experience to the obvious: we spent nearly 2 years planning; we wrote a lot of checks. We laughed, cried, strategized, negotiated, scheduled, designed, shopped, fretted, and laughed some more.

All of those accounts would be true, normal and expected even, yet none could communicate the reality of just the process, much less the actual experience—how it felt.

From the get, bride and groom said they wanted something meaningful. Something personal, something resonant, something inclusive. Connection. Boy, did they get that. Start to finish, it was a magnificent celebration. They were magnificent, too: genuine, warm, welcoming, real. They had a fabulous day.

I had a great day too, though it was a different kind of day, different from theirs (obviously: I was not getting married), and also different from my own expectations.

Throughout the months of planning I had been afraid I would overlook someone, so I promised myself I would connect with every guest. Still harboring guilt and regret from my own wedding 34 years ago, during which I utterly failed to speak with all of the special people who changed their lives and schedules to be with us, opting instead to accompany friends on the dance floor (how could I have been so careless? so unthinking? so rude?), I resolved to correct that now.

So, I had no intention of dancing at this wedding. I expected I would have FOMO for that, knowing the joy of sharing the dance floor with my kids, nieces, and nephews at the 2 recent family weddings. But no matter. Our guests were working hard to be with us and I didn’t want to miss any of them.  

As we put the plan together, I prepared my expectations for the day. I figured I would be moving pretty much non-stop, unable to spend deep, long times with anyone; I would have to forego longer chats and be satisfied with brief moments. I could do that.

I prepared to be a little distracted, too, always to have one eye and ear on management. Rather than lingering, laughing, leisurely posing for photos, this was a working event for me, my goal being to field all questions and surprises so that our daughter and her groom could just live the day. Yes, we hired a day-of coordinator—thank heavens!—but I was still one of the hosts and the default brain behind the operation. I knew I would have work to do. I was more than OK with that: that was the gig.

None of this left any room for dancing.

There were a few particular people I knew I wouldn’t have enough time with, including our siblings, siblings-in-law, and honorary siblings, as well as our beloved nieces and nephews. My step-mother, too, who could only be here for the ceremony and reception: with pre-programmed regret, I accepted that I would have little to no time to connect with her. So what do you do when you can’t linger with the people you love? Introduce them to each other and hope they find commonality, dream they find connection or companionship, or even that they make new friends.

It’s rich, I know, all of these grand social designs coming from an actually shy person who is terrible at small talk, awkward about introducing herself, and nearly paralyzed in gatherings where I don’t know people. Invite me to a party and I will not mingle. Include me and I will be truly delighted!—and then find a safe pocket and remain there.

Throughout the weekend though, I was proud of myself. At the Friday night welcome party I went to every table, every group. “Hi, I’m Anne. I’m Sarah’s mom.”  Easier because I had a purpose—and a title, let’s face it. I was not the host that night but did have some kind of status and my showing up was not unexpected. So yeah, a win there.

Saturday was not that simple. The morning began with my busy head (hello, 3 am), and saw me cooking breakfast, setting up the hair and makeup people, managing parking, pressing the venue coordinator for some logistical zhuzhing, loving my hair, hating my makeup—all before leaving the house.

Frank and I got to the venue 3 hours before the wedding and the venue coordinator met us with “we’ve got some weather coming.” Not the words you want to hear with an outdoor ceremony.

We got to work, and never stopped moving. I adjusted tables and fought with the florist. I helped Sarah get dressed and tussled about when to wear the veil. I rearranged a ton of chairs. I modified my makeup with a Q-tip and a prayer and had my picture taken.

And then, in the course of 15 minutes, we moved the ceremony indoors. (Of course it would rain during the ceremony time. Of course that would be the only rain of the week.)

We met the fabulous rabbi, smiled as the groom and his mother wept through the ketubah signing, and intercepted another misdirected vendor, all while our kid’s viola welcomed guests into the new digs. The indoor space was gorgeous but wouldn’t accommodate a lot of seating so I made decisions about which folks would sit, as Frank and a couple others dragged wet chairs in from outdoors. Foregoing all negotiable items, including the chuppah, we arranged the required wedding artifacts in some kind of aesthetically pleasing order. At last, with our guests gathered either on the main floor or poised to watch the ceremony from the gallery above, I took my place with the wedding party.

And then . . . the astounding marriage ceremony. In this unexpected space, all pomp and pretense stripped away, bride and groom took their place at the front of the room while 150 people surrounded them in a collective, 3-dimensional embrace. The wedding was the most personal I have ever witnessed, almost intimate. Their connection was palpable, their adoration of and commitment to each other radiating out of them and soaring into that upper gallery.

The ceremony contained several traditional Jewish elements, all hand-selected by or personalized for Sarah and Harrison. Our friends and our kid gave them a beautiful song. Along with a reading by an uncle, I had been invited to speak and joyfully shared my thoughts, not even screwing up. And just like that, they were married.

Next, some group photos, then re-herding guests out of the reception tent so we could maybe stick to our original party schedule. (Ridiculous, and I don’t know why I bothered. Maybe trying to regain some semblance of the plan we had spent months crafting? Anyway.) We cheered as the newly married couple rejoined the crowd after some private photos, and I watched helplessly as inches of dirt and mud encrusted the hem of Sarah’s stunning silk dress, a perfect reflection of this astonishing day.

The reception began and Frank and I got busy, visiting each table, sincerely thanking every guest for being with us. My heart swelled as Frank turned Sarah around the dance floor, the joyous payoff from our weeks of dance lessons. We danced the Hora, heard toasts and the blessing of the challah, and marveled as the newlyweds took their first spin together. Then the DJ led us all in an anniversary dance, inviting couples to the floor to honor our years married. By the end of this, everyone was on their feet. Amazing.

Surely now it was time to sit, to visit, and to seek out those special souls whose company I craved.

But then the DJ dropped the first song and the room exploded, me with it. As if igniting a cosmic rupture, the music burst the day open wide—and I was deep inside that vortex, unable to leave the floor.

I wasn’t alone. The DJ was magical, leading us from one spectacular groove into another, no duds, no sags, no breaks. I was engulfed in a steaming, sweating mass, moving with a primal urgency, body and soul splitting open, all of the day’s tensions, doubts, frustrations, and joys erupting into the sky.

The photos would be wretched, and I knew I would despise and regret them, but boy, did I need to move. I hated myself a little too, just like 34 years ago, knowing I was slighting our guests, our treasured friends and family, abandoning them to the frenzy of the music: our siblings, forgotten; my stepmother, abandoned; my mother, alone. Well, except for the times they were out there with me. But I. Could. Not. Stop.

Thankfully, Frank continued to be the host that I no longer was, visiting, listening, connecting. I remained lost on the floor, whirling and pulsating with every beat.

I had no intention of doing that. I didn’t expect to need that. I didn’t expect to be possessed by that.  

So.

Our daughter got married. That’s how it felt.

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Photo by Kniley Photography