Ten months to the date from when the Bohemian and I got married in the taro patch on the Garden Isle, I’m dreaming of a second wedding. As in, I’m having a dream in which we are in New York city readying ourselves for another wedding ceremony.
In the dream, it’s understood that the Bohemian and I are already married. For some reason, we’re doing an encore, as friends gather, dresses are donned, and the excitement builds with the approaching big day.
The build-up is a familiar feeling, as I still recall the eight months of to-do lists I amassed during the process of planning our real wedding celebration. I was involved in every detail, from the table cloths to the candle count. The Bohemian and I even grew the kale that was served at our buffet.
But in this dreamy New York city wedding, our big day had come and I realized I knew nearly nothing of the event. As I readied myself for the ceremony, it dawned on me that I had no idea where we were getting married.
When I asked someone (some unfamiliar character that seemed to be in charge, quite possibly the officiant) he told me that we were to be wed at St. Michael’s church. Now, in my entire life, I’ve spent all of five hours in NYC. And though I have no knowledge of such a place, I’m sure there is at least one St. Michael’s church in that city. In the dream I am surprised. The Bohemian and I are not religious. We don’t even go to church. As time moves closer to the ceremony, I’m wondering, “Why aren’t we getting married in Central Park?”
I wake with the odd feeling of being on the precipice of one of the most important events of my life, but completely ignorant of its detail. Disconnected. Out of control. And the fear that by leaving it in the hands of others, it won’t feel like my own.
I’ll admit, I’m a bit of a control-freak, though I’d like to think I’m a fairly effective one. Except when it comes to controlling my control-freakishness. It’s such a habit. And one with a good defense for sticking around. It gets stuff done, gosh darn it.
As a woman who was single for the first seven years of my son’s life, some do-it-yourself patterns have been engrained. But my son is nearly ten now, adventuring to stretch his wings. And I’m married, with a helpful partner, who is often there in quiet support if I’d just settle down enough to let myself be bolstered.
Life’s just one big event that will allow you all your planning. But it gives the final check-off, or, perhaps, just wads your list up altogether.
I don’t want to get married at St. Michael’s church in New York City in a dress I didn’t choose. But I also don’t want to try to box my life into the confines of my limited list of to-do’s. I want room for the unexpected, pleasant-kind of surprises. That’s where the magic lives.
In my waking world, I’m finding myself somewhere in between holding on and letting go. Sometimes it’s flowing like an inspired melody. Other times, I’m tripping all over myself.
I guess it’s all playing out in my dreams. My fears of letting others take the lead, only to find myself going down the wrong path. But I guess that’s the risk of love in the concrete jungle. Just a part of life in the big city.
Simply curious, an online search brings me to the website of one St. Michael’s church in Manhattan. Apparently, a rather historic one known for its Tiffany glass and pipe organs. It’s been standing since 1807 and seems quite welcoming.
This Episcopal church has a website, which kindly states, “We are a community of great diversity seeking to offer God’s radical hospitality to all who enter our doors. Wherever you come from, whatever your age, whomever you love, however you believe, you are always welcome here.”
Nearly two months after our wedding day, I finally soak our whites. Work at the bright purple stains that had dropped on the Bohemian’s shirt from the surrounding java plum trees. Gently massage the dust and grass out of the hem of my dress.
Hanging to dry, side by side in our living room, they seem to have some life left inside the fabric.
This pair seems happy. Shoulders rubbing, his sleeve resting at her hip. Formal wear, yes, but these threads are relaxed. Just hanging out…but they’re ready.
Ready for what occasion, I don’t know. The Bohemian’s practical, he’ll wear that shirt again. Me, I love that dress, but I’m not sure when I’ll find an instance when I could slide it on again.
Tying up more loose ends from our wedding day. His shirt goes in the closet with everyday wear. My dress, it’s zipped up tight in its own special bag, still scented in rose and lavender sachets.
Preserving the remnants while we stitch new days. As usual, I’ll be following the Thread.