> jumping into life.


I think of spring as a tumbling, a box tumbling down a hill with its contents bouncing out, one at a time: the colored haze on the trees, sugaring time, then the trout lilies, the robins, mud, frogs - it starts slow but builds - fiddleheads and ramps, green grass, red-wing blackbirds, rhubarb, asparagus, daffodils, warmth - each tumbling one after the other, arriving in the landscape with a gasp and a quiet thump. The tumbling slows as summer comes on - strawberries, peas, fireflies - and finally the little box comes to rest at the bottom of deep summer, in static green, cool ponds, and bounty.

Fall begins as subtly as spring, with a hint of color on the hills that can't be seen straight-on. But it doesn't bounce. It just - well - falls. One day you wake up and summer is over. The trees do their flamedance, and then it is finished, it is now, when everything has gone umber and sepia, darkened silver and still shot with gold - the aspens that are the first to gain their green and the last to let go their leaves, still shining - the cornfields half-stubbled, half-skeletons, and the heart wrings itself dry in anticipation of winter.

A dry thing doesn't freeze. The heart must keep carefully dry at this time of year, keep its toes out of the puddles of memory, keep its eyes on the horizon of now. Fall is no time for meloncholy, despite the invitation in every leaf. Keep boyoued on joy, keep fattened on love. Fall is the best time to get married: bright, grounded, aflame.



Still married!



Yup, we're in a porta-potty.

Courtesy of my dad.


Already it seems so long ago. What I remember most is his face all screwed up trying not to cry, the wind tugging at my veil, soft autumn sunlight.

All morning I'd felt as though I'd be sick - in a good way! - but once I started walking down the aisle, grass and fallen leaves, it was pure peace, pure joy. At sunrise I'd sat and searched my heart for a moment of hesitation, and found none. Only a feeling like expanding wings, a feeling like sky. Then there we were, with the wind and the sunlight and friends and family, and his face all screwed up trying not to cry.

In all, it was perfect. If I had anything to change, I'd add a few dear friends who were unable to come; otherwise, banal as it may be, I must say perfect.

We'll be heading up to Montreal in a few days for our honeymoon; maybe I'll be able to give a better recounting when we get back. And thank you, everyone, for your kind wishes and congratulations - you all are wonderful.




I can't remember what the tragedy was, exactly, but it was tragedy that brought me back to him, finally. It was living in the city, my edges raw, and the news story of one more death, one more murder, one more piece of universe based on hatred, and I picked up the phone and said yes to love.

This is a funny time to be getting married. The world as we know it is ending. It feels hyperbolic
to say, but I think it's true: the ice caps, the markets, the end of cheap oil. Who knows what the world to follow will be like. A good part of the money we thought we were going to buy land with has disappeared. At the moment we have no jobs and no solid prospects and no plan that extends beyond January. But the cliché is true: at least we'll have each other.

For the rest of our lives.




Um, I'm getting married in a week.