In a prairie sanctuary, my nephew Bud and his now-wife Tara brought together their hearts, lives, families, hopes and sacred primal beauty.

Their wedding was held in the rolling beauty of rural Wisconsin.  They made a weekend of it, with camping on site, bocce ball and beanbag challenges, trampolines and fire circles, and love love love love love.

They both wore the color of passion and life: red.  Their words one to the other were full of respect and wonder about the gifts they had found in the other and the ways they trusted that they would grow and unfold in grace and truth in the power of such love.  

Following the service we adjourned to tables set under a big top and dragged out into the September sun; we were family joined into the larger heart family that beat to the love of Tara and Bud.

We caught the beat.  As the sun set and the stars and moon took over the sky scape, the dancing began.  Full-bodied romping was shared by children and elders and who knew who your partner was when all present felt the bond of partnering with the witness to love.

I sat in the shiver of the fall evening with my 82-year-old mother.  We watched the fireworks and the launching of floating lanterns and I thought to myself that while we celebrate with Bud and Tara the gift of their love, we are welcomed by them to celebrate the gift of the reminder shared through them:  a reminder that love is red and hopeful and full-bodied dance-worthy and fireworks-sparkly and communal to its very core.

It was a marvelous night for a moon dance.