By the Power Vested in Me by the Mightiest of the Mighty

Yesterday, I went to a wedding in a dry bed of the Ventura River. Not far away there was a portion of the river, I guess it was part of the river, where water still flowed, not much unlike the picture above. After the ceremony, as the gathered guests clambered over the rocks to the level ground above, I sat on rocks like these and watched the water flow, amazed at this ordinary moment in someone else's life that now was part of the fabric of my own. But, as usual, I get ahead of myself.

My upstairs neighbor, here in the heart of urban Los Angeles, is a bohemian young woman, a burgeoning success at her floral arrangment business. Her apartment is less decorated than populated with every form of plant and flower in transit to somewhere else. In the last year or so, I have noticed a steadily appearing young man, whose sunny disposition is welcoming and catching.

Just after my father died, I received an invitation to their wedding. My first reaction was a reclusive one, plus I don't know her well (ours is more than an acquaintaince but less than a friendship I would say) and I would know hardly anyone there, having met her mother only once. And more than that, the site of the wedding was more than an hour and a half from here, in Ojai.  On the other hand, I had promised myself I would accept invitations without my usual excessive reservation, and this wasn't going to be any typical wedding. It was going to be held at the Mulberry Farm (yes, Virginia, Mulberries do really exist) on which the bride's mother bought a couple of years ago and on which she now resides. Then there was this tantalizing statement on the invitation, "For this outdoor celebration please wear attire that won't shy from much and mire, wear shoes appropriate for a short walk over mildly rocky terrain. . ." One night, when three of her neighbors and her intended were out in the back, in a moment of impulse, I said, "Tell Holly I'll be there". I was committed to attendance now.

Ojai is maybe thirteen miles outside of the developing urbanity that is Ventura, but it might as well be Oz for how different it is from any city dweller's existence. It is horse country for one. I heard them neighing as I exited my car and walked toward the farm. The homes are rustic. One family at one of the homes I passed was outside in its trailer, which I assume they use for vacation travel, making nachos. Some bird cawed. "You're not in the Fairfax District anymore," I said to myself. Well, I did not actually say that, but heck, couldn't miss the distinct change in locale.

The farm was dusty. There was no grass. There were rocks. And mulberry trees shorn of their mulberries, which were passed around in large bowls. I am now a convert to mulberries as a snack, but I have never seen them in any store, have you?  Mostly there were people there, family of the bride and groom, and friends of friends of friends, and me, and one of my neighbors, also invited. They were either much younger than me or significantly older. My neighbor, closer to be much younger than me, was chatting up the pretty girls, and I senses he preferred I not hang about him merely because I did not know anybody. So I didn't. I introduced myself to some people. Some were reasonably friendly. Others seemed uncomfortable, either because of their own internal social anxieties or because I was by myself when virtually everyone else was coupled up.

I decided to make my way to the site of the ceremony, which as I have already said, was a portion of dry river bed connected in some way to the Ventura River. Pretty good walk downward, over rocks and dust and weeds. There is something about sitting on a long bench with others in what was once the middle of water, hills in front, hills in back, green and shadowed with the setting sun. I relinquished my claim to bench, after a long conversation with Irv, seven years a resident of Ojai, born in Philly, his thumb, forefinger and middle finger stained with what I later realized was mulberry juice. Touch em. Eat em and your finger is stained. Maybe that's why I don't see em at the supermarket. Irv and I had found common ground in our love for animals.

I stood on two largish stones to observe the ceremony, as the sun went down and the moon began its full show. There were fiddlers providing music prior to the exchange of vows, mostly Sons of the Pioneer songs, and one definite Roy Rogers, "Happy Trails". Here I am Djinn from the Bronx in the middle of a river bed watching a couple of thirty year olds pledge their love amid the rocks, the birds and the mulberries, and the odd chirping bird, and a bevy of fairly sanguine bees. Who'd a thunk it? Not me for sure. Life is full of surprises if you let it be. I was glad to be here, even if I felt a little bit the outsider.

I am guessing the "minister", a friend of theirs for sure, was only recently ordained by internet correspondence course. Dad, who I learned is a well respected professor at UC Santa Cruz was among the fiddlers.

I stood on two fairly large stones so I could see over the heads of some of the guests and watch the faces on the to be marrieds. They spoke to each other with prepared words. I saw what it was that brought them together, lovers of nature and the simple. To call them Pagan is not to offer insult, for its basic definition speaks to country dweller and the rustic. You could not immerse yourself in the rustic more than here.

Although some of the traditional words of marriage were spoken, like, "Holly, do you take this man, to love, to cherish. . . ", there was not one mention of God in either vows or words spoken over the couple. That is, until the oblique, "By the power vested in me by the Mightiest of the Mighty, I now pronounce you man and wife." Was he talking about God? I don't know. That might suggest He was one among many gods.

Still for me, and I can only speak to my experience here, God, the Almighty, permeated the river bed, the people, the ceremony, even if they did not specifically invite Him. He was there. And I was glad in the Embrace.

Three of us, a father, a little boy, and me walked over to the remaining flowing water, since there were so many people going back "up top" to the farm itself for the dinner buffet. It would take time for the line to thin. I could have sat there for hours, and only my anxiety about being there in the pitch dark that would soon descend made me move from the water skipping over the stones and the swooshing of the movement, and the peace. The little boy, whose name was also Josh, was enamored of the place. He saw it. He saw Him. How could you miss Him. Even if you couldn't name Him.