The Taco Traveler

Wedding essay #2 in the Old Stuff Series. Delivered April 18, 1998 for my little sis. Coming up on that 10 year anniversary, which also means ("My - wow - 30 years of experience...") that I'm coming up on 40. Uhhhhh.
 

Would you like to use this essay in your own wedding (or a wedding where you're reading)? You may use this (edit the names, duh) but please credit tacotraveler.com in the program. However, if you're a single guy hoping to get lucky at the wedding by appearing sensitive and literate, you can say you wrote it yourself.

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The Beauty of a Moment

For John & Rochelle - April 18, 1998

Twice in my life now I've woken up literally on the tops of mountains. Not Rainier, McKinley, or Everest, but mountains, anyway. And what's interesting about this is that on both occasions I arrived at the top of each mountain way after dark - nearly midnight, which makes waking up all the more special. The sunlight hits my tent, I hit my mental snooze for a few minutes and let myself thaw, and I unzip the door of my tent to take in for the first time what I couldn't see the night before: the magical views that make the hike worth the effort. Snowfields, waterfalls, rock formations, once a grazing deer....

What I'm getting to is the beauty of a moment, but I suppose I don't feel real comfortable just telling you Remember the beautiful moments, or Seek out the beautiful moments, because that would imply that I know something that you don't, which is ridiculous; we all have, and recognize in our own way, our own special moments. By moments I don't mean entire events like the experience of this wedding, but instants. Instants that are not just a look, but also a smell, a taste, a touch. Feelings you'll remember forever, like when time stopped as you were holding your child or your grandchild and he looked up, blinked, and smiled in recognition. Or maybe for you it's the moment when you said what these two will say in a few minutes: "I do." I have my own examples: I remember being airborne on a baseball field, parallel with the ground, and the line drive hitting my mit for the third out in the final inning. I remember sitting on my surfboard, Del Mar California, as the sun went down, a pod of dolphins swimming by. I remember saying "I love you" for the first time. Twice.

For a couple years now, I've been enthralled with a particular lyric by the group Counting Crows. It's from their song "Long December:"

The smell of hospitals in winter
And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
All at once you look across a crowded room
To see the way that light attaches to a girl

In the song they use that last line as an epiphany to illustrate that no matter what else is happening - what troubles or distractions winter brings - whether it's real hospitals or theoretical pearl-less oysters, the sudden discovery of a beautiful moment can cure, can get you through a long December, can make the bad moments inconsequential.

So today we're here witnessing a beautiful moment in the lives of John and Rochelle. Rochelle has that certain indescribable bride's beauty right now, light not attaching to her but emanating from her. And John (if he's clean shaven) has a certain glow of his own. So maybe they're experiencing one of those beautiful moments every time they look in each others' eyes tonight. We're lucky enough to be present for that rapid-fire assault of beautiful moments, which, in a way, makes them our moments, too.

Now is just a moment and then it is gone. All we can do is snap mental pictures of nows. My - wow - 30 years of experience tells me the trick is to occasionally leaf through those mental pictures of your beautiful moments. I can't pretend that's the answer for everyone, but I am more comfortable now, so I'll say it: Remember this moment. Snap a picture of now.