We said our “I do’s”, just as the sun went down behind a peak. 

We’d slept alone the night before at two separate trailheads, and each woke before dawn. We hiked in alone that day, making our way up mountains and through valleys and across meadows, on trails that were, fittingly, sometimes hard to find.

We wanted to confront fear, to push ourselves, trusting that the other person would meet us there. We wanted to feel strong and accomplished and ready to do this life together. And we wanted to perform a ceremony for two in a place that was beautiful and hard to reach.

Isaac built an altar and a ring of stones to hold the evening’s fire, and we created a chuppah out of a canopy of sky. We circled each other seven times, reading a stanza of Mary Oliver’s “Sometimes” as we did so. We read words shared by friends, on loving beyond fear and amidst the chaos, on risking vulnerability, and on working through difficulties with intention, courage, and an open heart. We talked about what we’d learned from one another, and what we were saying yes to. We realized there’s way too little kissing in normal weddings, so we fixed that. We exchanged vows we’d written ages ago, only to glean their full meaning over these last seven months. A friend is making our wedding rings, so we tied a purple thread around the other’s wrist, with three knots signifying every experience and every person in our past that shaped us, a promise to stay present, and a commitment to meeting the future.

For two hours that night, we read words that friends had sent in for the occasion. We cried some more and laughed some more, and reveled in the presence of a hundred of our most treasured humans, who were there even if they weren’t.  

Some day, we’ll have the 150-person farm wedding we’d envisioned, and kick up our heels with all the people we are lucky to love. But we wouldn’t trade this start.