As it
unfolded.
A wedding is not a script.
It’s a living conversation.
It speaks in a quiet, human dialect —
in glances held a second too long,
in gestures that stumble into meaning,
in the raw, unplanned grammar of joy.
I stay close to that conversation —
not to rewrite it,
but to understand its rhythm.
To move with its cadence,
and to recognize the moment my presence would alter its course.
This is the discipline of presence:
the patience to listen,
the attention to notice.
Holding space for the clear sentence
and the beautiful stammer alike.
The goal was never invisibility.
It is a presence so attentive
it allows the day to unfold on its own terms.
What remains is not a report of events,
but a record of how it felt —
the day as it was lived.
