I hate to admit that my mother was right about this, but sometimes I wish we had a recording of our wedding. I remember many things about the day: the cluster of women in the hotel suite helping me dress, the feelings of awe mingled with joy mingled with disbelief. I remember the thrill I got at the sight of my soon-to-be husband in his tux. I remember standing arm in arm with my father just before he walked me down the aisle, feeling impatient and afraid of missing my cue until he squeezed my arm and I realized how hard it had to be for him to let go of this last moment. I remember exchanging rings. I remember the photographs. I remember the dancing. I remember the hora. I remember lifting my parents up on chairs. I remember the red wine and strawberries awaiting us in our room when we finally called it a day.

But I've lost some details of the ceremony. Although I know that our rabbi spoke earnestly and with humor about marriage in general and us in particular, I don't remember a word that he said. Although I know which friends we asked to read which Marge Piercy and John Berger poems, I can't remember how they sounded. Although I know what arrangements my former madrigal ensemble sang, I wish we'd preserved their voices...and the voice of my dear friend David, who chanted the sheva brachot.

A wedding is a turning-point, a liminal moment. It's a chance to stand up with one's partner and create a lasting connection in front of one's friends and family, one's community, and God. I love weddings because I'm a sap; but also because I'm a poet with a strong belief in the transformative power of language. Weddings are among the few times when people really pay attention to what they're saying -- and really believe that the words they speak change something.

Today I learned that there's an opening for a Justice of the Peace in my town, so I sent off for an application. It's no guarantee of anything, of course, but I'm excited about applying. The wedding I performed last year was one of the most empowering experiences of my life; acting as מסדרת/m'saderet (literally, "she-who-orders" -- officiant/celebrant) for Tony and Lindy is similarly satisfying work. Becoming a JP would help me in my ongoing quest to help other people and couples and families engage with Judaism through crafting life-cycle rituals that genuinely have meaning for them...

...and sending off for the application seems like a fit way of celebrating our wedding anniversary. My middle brother asked me this morning, "Has it been six long years or six short years?"

"It's been six good years," I told him. And it is true.