I was very calm the day I was married, five years ago today.
Yoko knew more than me, had the experience and sense to know what was right for her, and I trusted that if she knew I was right for her, then it must be so. That's not to say that I didn't know that I was right for her (what an odd description of this, I realise now as I write it--what is 'rightness'?). I knew the rightness of she and me like you knew your own name. It was embodied, a sense of how things were unfolding and should unfold, this universe in the multiverse, the one I was living in, but although I knew it was right and logical, I was only 23, just barely 24 when we married. I knew, but it was the knowledge of adolescence which is, if I am honest, as much faith as it is knowledge. This is the risk you take trusting yourself when you are young, but I was determined to become a person who would take big risks and be ready for failure. Consequence be damned.
The day of the wedding I was unfettered by doubt. The thinking had been done, this was the time, the perfect time, to let everything go and live in the moment. There are no better series of moments in your life the day you get married. The feeling of someone in a gown next to you, my mother's hug in the processional line, the perfect blue sky, jazz in a club for the reception--the pianist played such a perfect arrangement of Somewhere over the Rainbow. Before and after, I doubted deeply, carefully, thoughtfully, but not on 8 July 2006. I knew.
Sometimes, of course, trusting yourself works out.