We are gathered in the spacious great room of a home, and the mountains are right there through the large windows, peeking in and out as the clouds lift after a night and morning of heavy rain. It is a somber gathering; the sadness another guest in the room, milling around the standing bodies. This is a young community, and their open faces reveal various levels of grief, discomfort and pain. For all of that, I sense the strength and length of deep, sincere hugs, this is close community. I feel slightly dizzy as I make my way through the room to begin my welcome.

We are gathered for a service of remembrance for a small baby, and the fireplace mantel behind me holds precious photos and a teddy bear, a vase of roses and candles. I read from the words I’ve been preparing all week. The words I choose speak of unconditional love and a sweet, peaceful presence.

I am working to keep my emotions in check, so others don’t have to. I want this to be a container, a place of support and comfort for the family. These things I also say. I’m trying my best, with all the skills I have, and I’m just hoping it is enough.

I’ve prepared a ritual for the service that involves beading hand-painted glass beads on to a braided ribbon. It is to be our gift to the baby, to help her cross to wherever her journey is taking her next. Everyone has a bead, and the braid is to be passed around the room from one person to the next.

I signal for the music to begin, and prepare for a time of quiet reflection.

I offer the braid to her parents, and they oh so slowly and tenderly thread each bead. Then they rather reluctantly pass it on. And so it goes, the braid passes to the grandparents, and the aunts and uncles, all of them young, and some of them brand new parents themselves. On to the next the braid moves unhurriedly, gently. It is lovely.

The gathering is even larger than we had anticipated, and although there are enough beads, I see that it is taking much longer for the braid to pass through the room than I had prepared for. As more beads are added, the braid gets heavy, and I notice people reaching out to support the beaded end while another does the threading.
I see we are barely through a quarter of the room, and I think about what there is left to do within the ceremony. I begin to think I have made a critical error in planning. There have already been tears. A little sobbing, even, when we listened to the exquisitely tender rendition of the baby’s last hour, courageously offered to us by a warm-hearted NICU nurse.

I sense fatigue, and I am worried for the parents, who have been wrung out by all of this. I think I need to move things along. I motion to the young woman in charge of the music to turn the volume down a bit, and I read a poem that had been planned for after the beading ritual. I finish, and look up as the friends continue to string the beads. I can see that it is becoming more difficult as it passes through the crowd, the ends fraying a bit. I squirm a little and I try to think what I could do to help this along. The braid is barely through a third of crowd. I skip ahead and read the note of thanks, it feels out of place.

I am definitely out of sync, and I realize I am afraid of the sacred space I have worked so hard to create.

But evidently I am the only one. As I scan the group, I can see that somehow, everybody has already figured it out. They are taking the offer to put their silent blessings into a single glass bead seriously, and as they stand shoulder to shoulder they seem willing to bear this quiet.

The music plays softly, sun floods the room. The windows, which are open, waft in a clean, fresh breeze. All the snuffling has stopped, the tears dry on our cheeks, and it seems another visitor has stepped into the room. The barest breath, a whisper of peace.

I see one couple struggle with the bead and the braid, and I pay attention. He keeps at it. It is hard. He tries again, and again. His partner holds his arm and watches and doesn’t offer to take over, to do his job for him. She just waits at his side. It is hard, but it is his job to do. As my eyes pan the room, I realize we are all doing the same thing. Being in patient, present silence.

No one is restless. No one is giving off signals that they’ve had enough, that they want out, that they wish this difficult service would be over. They stand, they wait, they breathe.

At that point, I settle down, and I put my hands in my lap. I, too, am helpless to change or alter or make any easier this situation. I rest, finally, with the others, in sun-filled room.

Finally the last bead is added. The nurse who had been with the wee one after her last breath, the one who had so lovingly told us her story, slipped on the final bead, and handed what had become a gorgeous necklace to me.

I tied it together and we all admired it collectively. It was heavy. It was white and gold and pink, and it glittered a little in the sun. The gift we were offering to the small one, lovingly, patiently, slowly assembled, was now complete.

The room had become a tranquil oasis. I set the necklace on a table that was spread with rose petals. In that moment I understood that the spirit of that calm, sweet baby had transformed our space and our hearts.

It was an extraordinary gift. And I mean the one that was given to us.

The first week of July, the first week of my first full summer as a wedding celebrant, and I’m feeling pretty ready. The week’s ceremonies are all written, approved and typed up on good paper, and the hand-made keepsake copies all nicely bound and ready for delivery. I’ve practiced with my new hand-held microphone, and I have my outfits, with the scarves that don’t clash with the bridesmaids, all picked out. Not exactly laid out on the bed like the first day of school, but pretty close. All I have left to do, since hubby is out of town, is to sit down for three days and sink into my planned retreat to write the next batch of fall ceremonies, because July is about to come in like a lion.

Too bad about the patch of water I notice on the carpet in the hallway, which quickly turns into a little flood in my kitchen, which turns into a bulldozer in my front yard, tearing up the garden, the grass, the whole yard in search of a broken sewer main. Too bad about the three days that go up in smoke, or down the drain, or whatever metaphor is appropriate to my now addled and anxious brain.

If it’s not the sewer, it’s something else; that run of bad luck, that chain of events that is sent to test us, or to break us, or maybe isn’t even sent at all, but just happens.

Thank goodness for the weddings. Thank goodness that during that first awful week, in the middle of my panic attacks, immediately after the bouts of self-pitying sobbing, I had weddings to show up for, that I had something to remind me what I really needed to focus on.

And what a week it was! The wind was ferocious up on Tunnel Mountain. It was warm, but the wind came in hot gusts from four directions, and knocked down the newly-decorated plinths, the tables, and sent my book and glasses flying, not just once, but several times. The gorgeous little flower arrangements were put back in their boxes and out of harm’s way. The little cue cards we were using for the readings flitted like butterflies just out of reach. Hairdos were toast. The tent that had been promised to the violist, to keep her and her instrument out of the sun, laughed and flapped in the gale, and refused to be part of the wedding at all. Surely this was an awful situation. Surely this was a bride’s nightmare.

The bride didn’t seem to notice. Her smile was unstoppable. Her gown was delightful, sweeping and dancing across the meadow. Her groom was grinning. Their kids were laughing and happy, though they accepted their family tokens with great solemnity. And the violinist, whose husband sat beside her to steady the music stand, played the most exquisite music from beneath the shade of an old Douglas Fir.

The next day, the wind had stopped. All the fluffy white clouds had been driven away by the wind, and the skies were wall to wall blue. The sun was shining. Well, not so much shining as bearing down, beating, flooding with heat and light,  the park where the white wedding chairs were neatly placed in rows. It was 31 degrees and there was no shade. Not a tree, not a bush, not a drop of shade. Surely this was a nightmare. I mean, the wee babies that were part of the processional. The grandmas. The young kids. It was much too hot for everyone.

Except the bride didn’t seem to notice. And neither did her guests. They were attentive, and responsive, and they breathed in the smoke of the sage that the groom’s mother smudged us with. They took the hand fasting ribbon when it came to them, and they gifted it with their best intentions before they passed it along. The groom definitely didn’t notice. He only had eyes for her, and his eyes were brimming with tears most of the time anyway. And when it was all over, when those guests could have run for the shade, they stood a little longer, because the wedding party –  the bride, tall and elegant in lace, and her very happy groom in his Black Watch kilt,  and his friends and the two boys in their kilts, and the girls in their long black gowns – all lined up against the blazing backdrop of Rundle Mountain. And that was something to see.

I came home from those weddings to a kitchen that was out on the driveway, with the carpet all torn up and heaped into pile to go to the dump. I also came home to a husband who said, “it’s only stuff”, and “we’ll figure it out”, and, “sorry you had to deal with everything”, and, “how did the weddings go?” I came home to a partner who had said some twenty-five years ago, “for better or worse”.  It was a good thing to come home to.

I don’t know what will happen next week. None of us do. But I do know that we’ll still laugh, and we’ll probably cry (I will most certainly cry) and we’ll deal with it.

We’ll lean on each other, and we’ll figure it out.

The wolf willow is out, and the river is high. The evergreens have pushed out electric green tips, and the deciduous leaves are still fresh and full of moisture.   Ladyslippers and orchids and the pale blue columbine have all made their appearance. It is June in the mountains, and we are all breathing deeply, trying to soak in the moment. This is the season we’ve been waiting for.

It will be gone before we know it, everyone is saying the same thing, the day after the Solstice and I’ve heard it ten times today, “it’s all downhill from here”. Except it’s not. The truth is we stay high like this for the next six weeks, and all the alpine flowers will bloom in their annual progression, and the clouds will come and go, but the sun will be high, higher than everything, unencumbered by the south ranges.

And this year, for the first time in my life, it’s full-on wedding season. This summer, I’ll be officiating at weddings on mountaintops, in gazebos, by water, at the golf course, in the big hotels, on grassy meadows. My couples (yes I think of them that way) are busy, attending to the last details, trying to finish things at work in order to take a few days or weeks off, preparing  lists of “Things to do in the Rockies” for visiting friends and family.

They too, are breathing in the first days of this summer, the summer that will always be for them, remembered.  “2014” is printed on all their invitations, forever marking this as the year they were married.

No matter what kind of ceremony is planned, these days the transition from unmarried to married can be a bit subtle. Subtle, and powerful. Frankly, all of my couples live together now, and are already deeply engaged in committed relationships. But the amount of intention and reflection and consideration they are bringing to their ceremonies is humbling.  Some of my couples have been thinking about their vows for months,  wanting every word to convey just the right meaning.

Ready or not, they will soon pledge those vows, and name their commitment. They’ll  stand face to face in front of a few people or a few hundred people, and they’ll do it with tears, or without, with strong voices that waver with emotion, or with a quiet, private, confidence. They’ll read their own words, or they’ll listen to mine, and nod and say yes. I do. I will. Absolutely. They will either trust themselves at that moment, or trust in the partnership, to help them live into their promises.

And after that, they’ll let out a sigh, whether you hear it or not, because from that point on it’s all downhill. Except that it’s not.

There are the rings to exchange, and the signing to do before the pronouncement – the moment when they face their guests and hear me repeat the words husband and wife. There’ll be champagne and toasting and  hugging, not to mention the photos, all those poses and all that smiling, and the eating and drinking and dancing. And, finally, then, they’ll close the doors on the day, and look at each other, really look at each other. They’ll be facing the same beloved one they slept with last night. And yet. The warmth of the day will last for months.

The summer will pass, because it always does, and the year will wax round.  As the leaves lose their moisture and change colour, and drop into sleep, “my couples” will be living out their first full year of marriage. So much living  to be done. So much learning, and growing. All that ebb and flow, and it won’t be easy. But it will be good. The work, of living into those vows, will bring the season around again. And this time next year, the anniversaries will begin.

Oh, what fun we had! Oh, how cold it was! And how stunning the mountains when they peeked out from behind the clouds. And how determined the bride and groom were to showcase their beloved mountains to guests who traveled from overseas. They were heartfelt, and happy, and we built a marriage cairn with rocks that were brought across the miles, and from close to home. I can’t stop smiling, thinking of it all. Congratulations Andrea and Jason, and thank you for your fearless rendition of Augusten Burroughs’ beautiful poem.

When I started this blog I was worried about my audience, and thought I needed to appeal to my “ideal client” and all of that. Since my business includes weddings and funerals, and any rite of passage in between, that covers a lot of ideal people. I’ve been a little self-conscious. You know, you post something about a Death Café, and the brides don’t like it too much. You talk too much about vows and tulle, and the baby boomers glaze over.

The truth is, life is messy, and full of love and loss, every inch of the way. There is no such thing as a major life event that doesn’t contain within it the whole shootin’ match, the entire spectrum of beginnings and endings:  dreams, potential and farewells. What I noticed this week, as I walked some length of a lifeline through ceremony, is how much we share, at whatever stage of life we’re at. I also noticed, (no big surprise) that my clients change me. So I write this blog the way I’ve always written in my life, not so much because I have something to say, but because I need to figure out what just happened.

First thing Monday morning, I married a young couple at the Banff Springs Hotel. This was a joyous occasion. They were teenage sweethearts, who had met at an ice-cream shop and began their relationship nine years ago to the day. They were well suited to each other, they had already tested their relationship, and they adored one another.  And still, the tears! Her father, in the hotel lobby, minutes before he walked his daughter down the aisle. Wiping his eyes, which were already tearing up, he admitted to me that he didn’t realize until that minute that he was losing his little girl, and handing her over to another man. Of course, the absurdity of his statement was also apparent, as she was well grown up and had been with this fellow for many years. Still. The ceremony cemented an understanding, and helped him face the passage of time and meaning.

Later, when we mentioned and brought to mind the parents and grandparents now passed, there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd, which was comprised of the very closest friends and family.  Once again, the sensation of the wheel of time, and our precious part in it, was shared among all the family and friends, and the room was thick with emotion.

Mostly though, there were smiles and laughter, as in, when the bride raised her eyebrows “so high”, when her groom spoke of his pride at this particular skill of hers. The groom look as pleased as punch in his new grey suit. The bride’s confident and powerful recitation of her vows only cracked when she said “the father of our children”. Hope, love, and Orange Juice, all before noon.

The rest of the week, with the help of a community of friends, I walked a place of more sorrow than joy, as we planned and prepared a memorial service for one of the brightest human beings on the planet. This particular community turned a raw and snowy spring day into a riot of colour, with pots and pots of daffodils, tulips and irises. The cavernous school auditorium was transformed into a garden, and there was music and singing, and words to lift our very heavy hearts.  The function of this ceremony was to give us a container; a space for our grief for a time, so we could feel held and embraced by the love that guided our friend’s life.

I noticed as we collectively remembered her ever-present smile (in the face of great challenge), the atmosphere in the room was light, and I felt my own heart soar. To truly bear witness to an exceptional life was inspiring beyond circumstance. In the midst of grief, I noticed myself re-dedicating to life, surprised once again by the middle road we walk between winter and spring, hello and good-bye.

The week rounded out with a trip to the winter wonderland of Lake Louise, where I met the couple from Florida and their twin girls, who were there to renew their vows after ten years of marriage. The big loss this time was luggage that didn’t arrive, which meant the brand new suit and dress also didn’t arrive. But this couple took it in stride, shopped at Cross Iron Mills on the way from the airport, and carried on with their plan.

The ceremony was intimate: just me and the family, and the photographers (and my friend and her guide dog as witnesses).  We were in the empty ballroom at the Chateau, which of course, felt a bit like a castle in a fairy tale for girls who had never seen snow before. When I told the couple’s “love story” to them, I was reminded that days before I had addressed my friend’s grown children with the words, “We know ourselves through our stories.”

These six-year-old girls hung on my every word, and they were especially delighted when their “entrance” was announced within the story – the day they were born, when their parents knew their job was to stay together because they were a family. When the groom read his vows aloud, his daughter looked at him like he was Prince Charming – her mouth rounded in a small “o” of wonder and pleasure.

The girls added their own words to the story within the ceremony, sharing what they love about their family: “My mom and dad take care of me when I’m sick. They take us on trips.  My family gives me cuddles and kisses.” When they stood in a circle and smiled at each other, I sensed this moment would imprint on all of them, and become one of those treasured memories.  No tears this day, just some heartfelt words of thanks for love recognized. And poodle hugs.

It was a big week, and my heart is swelling with gratitude for the “clients” that I was privileged to work with. Because of course, they weren’t clients at all. They were teachers. That’s an ideal I can live with.

It’s not always easy to explain what a personalized or custom ceremony looks like, because each one is unique to the setting, the needs and intentions of the couple. When I work with a couple to create a custom ceremony, I take the time to get to know them, and they take the time to consider the symbols and relationships that they bring to their lives. It is creative work, and unearths some lovely surprises and meaningful connections. As much as I like to think I bring something to the couple, I find their ideas and visions to be inspiring and uplifting.

Today I performed an intimate ceremony for a second marriage, which included immediate family members. It was bitterly cold outside, and as I drove in to Calgary, the radio announcer assured me the temperature was minus 40 with a wind chill. But things were toasty warm inside the couple’s new home, with a comfy chairs pulled up to a cheerful fireplace, and the coffee table set with an elegant blue tablecloth and fresh white candles and flowers.  The mantle was adorned with a pair of carved dragons, two delicate stone eggs, two custom designed rings in their boxes, and a metal disk covered in pink  flowers.  Large sparkling amethysts and carved and raw stones evidenced a rock hounding passion that has been passed from parents to son.

There were six guests, the people who were “home” to the couple, who had met online 18 months earlier: three sons (one of whom joined via Face Time from Afghanistan), and three living parents. The fourth parent was brought into the room by the presence of a lit candle in the shape of a dove.

I had prepared a script, as I do, which was written in consultation with the couple over the last two months. It contained their love story, several poems and readings, and a house blessing. The three of us had collaborated and come up with a beautiful ceremony that spoke of their love, the gratitude they felt at finding one another, and their commitment to living toward their best selves.

As we started the ceremony, I tried my best to keep to the script, but I noticed there was a good deal of improvising as the ceremony proceeded, mostly in the form of additional kisses. I had to stop the proceedings a couple of time so we could find and use the Kleenex. (Note to self, keep some tissues up my sleeve) There was laughter and a bit of fumbling over the candles, but in the end, the family candle burned brightly, and the connection in the room was palpable. The bride and groom successfully recited their vows by heart, and all of us were touched by the deep sense of presence and sincerity in their words.

The bride’s wedding ring had been designed by the groom. A hammered river, representing the journey their blended family was taking together. Five yellow sapphires, collected by the groom when he was a teenager, had been selected by himself and the boys in a careful, collaborative effort.

As a final blessing, I offered the words of D.H. Lawrence, with his poem, Fidelity.

Man and woman are like the earth, that brings forth flowers

In summer, and love, but underneath is rock.

Older than flowers, older than ferns, older than foraminiferae,

Older than plasm altogether is the soul underneath.

And when, throughout all the wild chaos of love

Slowly a gem forms, in the ancient, once-more-molten rocks

Of two human hearts, two ancient rocks, a man’s heart and a woman’s,

That is the crystal of peace, the slow hard jewel of trust,

The sapphire of fidelity.

The gem of mutual peace emerging from the wild chaos of love.

I believe it’s a sin to try and make things last forever

Everything that exists in time runs out of time some day

Got to let go of the things that keep you tethered

Take your place with grace and then be on your way

Bruce Cockburn

Over the years, I have taken part in writing groups, mostly with women. The pattern shifts a bit with each group, but there is usually a time of talking, (a lot of talking) and then a time of writing. We talk because it seems like the most natural thing in the world to do. We are women, and we like each other, and we are very, very happy to be out of the house, and not working. Because we are in a circle, and because we have come with an intention, (to write) the conversation usually takes an intimate and eclectic turn. We take turns “checking in”. How are you? Becomes a real question, for which we expect and listen for an answer. No polite smiles here. We wait for the answers, which spill like fresh picked fruit on the tablecloth of our conversation. The answers contain stories of our husbands and our children, our struggles with identity and work concerns. Over the years, we have decades of ages and stages, plumbing the depths with tears, laughter and mutual commiseration.

When we are done with the talk, we write, gathering the ripest bits and letting our unconscious selves sort the flavours and colours. We are always, without fail, reluctant to write. We’ve learned to make a joke of our reticence, watching the stalling techniques, and shucking off our fear anyway, knowing resistance is a fine gauge of commitment, a necessary precursor to the dive.

We write because all of us like to write, and writing has helped us make sense of our own lives, unraveled some of our messes, and made clear a connection that on many occasions has seemed like a lifeline. For all our unique and particular content and style, we are so much the same.

Once we talked about mothering, and dancing, and what it means to step into a place of growth. When the time for aw shucks is gone. When the time is right to step forward and take our place, to own the ground taken. Here is an excerpt from that evening’s writing:

Kim is coming in to a second stage with her dancing. Not a beginner anymore. Beginner mind, maybe, but not beginner. Realizing it’s time to embody the trade she has spent time gaining skill experience and expertise in. She admits that this time it is different. Now she is dancing from the afterward of motherhood.

What an empowered, confident place to dance from. Knowing from the tips of her wings to the depth of her root chakra – it’ll never be about just about her again.  Our children teach us that magnificent lesson. Maybe that’s where the word mother comes from. “Me” joined with “other” forms a new being, a woman who can never think of herself in quite the same way as she did when she was a maid. A woman connected to the future, and linked to the past by ancestral generations of men and women birthed before her.

The dancing doesn’t end, but the way we dance changes. I watch my own mother, now in an assisted living home, learning, in many ways for the first time, to breathe in each day as it comes; a gift wrapped in the colours of sadness and sunshine. Even as she points her toes with a new step, and twirls with an attitude of ‘I am not gone yet’, one hand arcs back to me, and she says, “I’m proud of what you are doing.” Leaving me to lead the next round.

We are a link in the chain, and our work, our big and holy work, will not be completed in our lifetime. We will work hard in our time, but when the time comes, we must learn to pass the torch to others; to those who will dance forward. And may they learn as well to take their time and place, with grace.

I’m brand new at my job. In a middle age kind of way, with a lot of water under my bridge, all the diverging and improbable paths having led me to this place of being a Marriage Officiant and Funeral Celebrant. I arrive at this crossroad somewhat patched together, surprisingly coordinated, and unexpectedly, down-to-the shoes comfortable.  It’s as if I’ve slipped into a new-to-me outfit from the consignment store, and it fits like a dream. I walk out of the store and I feel like a million bucks. If I don’t go bragging about where I got it from, people will just assume I always look like this – you know, the label, the fit, the colour, all working. But whenever anyone compliments me on an outfit, I feel compelled to tell them the truth. Why can’t I just learn to say thank you?

Same with the job. I keep blurting out  – I’m new at this. When someone asks for my business cards, I have to fumble for them, and don’t I say it again with a shrug of my shoulders and a shy smile, I just got these.  Not so much to excuse myself, more because I can’t believe my luck. The outfit. Silk. Really, really nice cut, and designer made.  Why can’t I just show up, polished and professional, oozing confidence, wagging my wrist in a way that vaguely alludes to the hundreds of ceremonies, the thousands of satisfied couples that stand behind me? Calmly assuring to the fresh-faced couple in front of me who want so badly to make the right decision about everything related to their wedding day that I am without a doubt one of those perfect decisions.

Because if I did that, I’d miss this moment. The moment before I’m an expert. I’d miss being fresh, too, and excited, and perfectly aligned with the couple in front of me: a little unsure, giddily happy, and frankly in love. So pleased to have found this partnership. So honoured to be asked to participate in life’s important events.  Poised on the creative edge, that raw moment of knowing that something beautiful will spring from the conversation between the three of us, but not absolutely sure what it will look like.  Committed to go where we’ve never been before, to come up with something unique and memorable, for a day that will live in their memory for their lifetime.

The (few) couples I have met so far are on the same kind of steep learning curve as I am. At the first conversation, they are newbies, having made a phone call or two to confirm the venue, maybe the photographer. (Booking a marriage officiant is one of the those important, early decisions)  Over the next few months, they settle in as an engaged couple, slowly gaining confidence about what their day will look like, and why. Getting to enjoy each other better as a creative unit, designing their future together. By the time I stand beside them, some time from now, and listen to them speak the vows they wrote together after months and months of thought, we will all feel pretty relaxed and confident. In a butterfly and bird-song sort of way.

And then in a blink, it’ll be over. No longer fledglings at the getting married business, they will have plenty of advice for their friends about what to do and not do for a wedding. And just when they relax into being experts at getting married, the newly-wed beginning beckons, urging them to release into another “not knowing”.   And so it goes. Life is not the straight uphill climb I imagined it to be when I was twenty. Instead, I have found life to be a series of spirals, a circling breath around beginnings and endings, learning and letting go.

I have for much of my life, lived into the future of “when I… and once this…and after such and such…I will be…” These days my challenge is to be here and now, fully present to the next breath. Learning to let go of the need for expertise and knowing, and open instead to whatever Life asks of me next.

Naturally I use my vast wisdom to remind my couples to try to be present to this time. To pay attention to the months approaching the wedding, and drink in what it means to be fully “engaged”.  I encourage them not to hurry away the months to the wedding, but to enjoy the process. Which is my way of reminding myself not to get too far ahead of myself, or distracted by the ideal future where I’ll be confident and capable, with many, many weddings under my belt.

So here I am.  Brand new Marriage Officiant, booking weddings for 2014. Ready to exhale, at another opportunity for an unexplored beginning. With that thought, I breathe out, but not before I take a twirl in gratitude.

A few weeks ago, I worked with a couple who wanted an “unplugged wedding”. They had heard of the trend, in which the couple ask guests to not only turn off cell phones, but to put away cameras and phones completely for the ceremony. The idea is a return to “sacred space”, an opportunity for guests to be participants rather than observers. This couple got the idea completely. They wanted their guests to be fully present for the ceremony they had designed and planned for months. They were looking forward to making eye contact with their friends and family as they walked up the aisle, not with the back of an IPhone or a camera lens.

This was a gorgeous couple who chose to be married outside, in one of the spectacularly beautiful locations in Canmore. A perfect photographic location on a clear sky day in mid-September. The trees just tinting yellow. The mountains with a fresh dusting of snow. The girls’ dresses a rich teal blue. It was not an easy thing to do, to put away those cameras.

But this couple made sure I announced that they had hired a photographer (the fabulous photographer Christina at Funky Town Photography -www.funkytownphotography.com) and that they would share photographs with all the guests as soon as possible.

Which left everyone available to just be at the wedding. Hard as it might have been for some people, what a difference it made to us up at the front. Looking into the audience, making eye contact, sharing smiles, nodding back as a few of them teared up, caught by the poignancy of the vows or the image of a daughter or son looking about as fully awake as a person can look. Even though the backdrop was stunning, and the visual elements were grand, this wedding ceremony was all about feeling. And for this couple, being able to feel the connection with their dear friends and family heightened their own experience, and made the day perfect.

I like idea of an unplugged ceremony a lot, and I will recommend it to other couples, who want to highlight that sense of connectedness with their guests.

On the other hand.

The following weekend we celebrated an intimate wedding with about 20 guests in a small renovated historic house. Cameras, phones and video were out as the wedding party pranced up the aisle, and they stayed out throughout the service. I have no doubt some of the photos were live tweeted to Ireland before the champagne corks popped, which means there might have been some texting going on as soon as the couple kissed. And yet. There was a deep sense of connection and engagement, and there was no doubt in my mind at all that these guests were totally and joyfully in the moment for this wedding.

In fact, not only were the guest present riveted on the service, but thanks to the miracle of Skype, and a laptop placed on a piano bench, family on two continents watched as well. The bride’s father in Siberia, and the groom’s daughter in England had front row seats for the entire ceremony, and then were taken throughout the house (the laptop weaving room to room by whoever picked it up next) so friends and family could say hello and raise a glass during the champagne reception. It was a marvelous adaptation to a difficult situation – family unable to attend the wedding, and it pulled the family together for an important moment.

To plug in, or unplug – another opportunity to reflect on what suits you and your intentions for your own wedding day.

I was driving back to Canmore from the city last week, and offered this young guy a lift. Mid-twenties, smack in the middle of that time of life. A long-term relationship just ended, with new job choices to make, he was heading to collect his damage deposit, his car, and the last of his belongings. About to move away from the town he and two generations before him had called home. He said he felt like he had just jumped off a cliff.

It was one of those precious September days; clear, warm, and more summery than any day in July. Sun poured into the car, and we opened the sunroof to enjoy the heat soaked breeze. It didn’t feel like fall, there was no crisp impetus for change. The day begged for a return to a summer that was already slipping away.

My traveling companion had a stomach in knots. He felt like puking, he said. He acknowledged it was emotion roiling around in there, and he could even name it – grief, fear, worry, perhaps regret. No room yet for excitement or hope. It was as physical a manifestation as anything, and it hurt.

So we talked. Not about the big future out there, beyond the front ranges, or the wonderful potential waiting on the other side of the divide. We talked of the possibilities available in the next hour. This was his one and only day of departure. It was, it occurred to us, the symbolic threshold between his youth and a yet unimagined future. I wondered out loud what it might be like to create a simple ceremony before he left town. What it might be like to write down on a piece of paper, perhaps, one thing to let go, that has served up to now, and then release it into the river. The river that flowed east, away from the direction he was moving.

A range of emotion passed over his face, but I registered two things: surprise that comes from an unexpected and completely fresh insight, followed by the faint beginnings of a smile.

I opened the email some hours later. “I’ve just finished my ceremony,” it said. “It got my heart racing. It felt good. I watched the paper travel away and sink under the water. After that a big osprey flew by in front of me and skimmed the water and landed across the river from me. It felt symbolic. It was a beautiful experience.”

A simple act of ceremony, in a complex world.

It’s easy to make a suggestion. What’s harder is to act, to follow the goosebumps when they appear, and take the step of faith forward that roots us in the here and now. What’s not easy is to let go of the unknowable future, and return to this moment.

As I write this, on the very brink of launching a new business, and what is surely to be the next amazing chapter in my life, on another still sunny day in September, I have butterflies in my stomach, too. Wondering what, and who, I’ll meet across this great divide. Wondering if I’ll be up for the task. Worrying, and wondering and imagining what’s next. My mind awhirl with thoughts and to-dos.

My young friend said in his email, “thanks for everything”.

And now I am thanking him. For his willingness to step into an unfamiliar place. For the action he took that inspires my action today.

I’m on my way down to the river.