"We have the most beautiful day, just like we always do..."

I

"Nanny, fetch me my pet donkey, I've grown tired of these parrots!"

These are the words I chirped in an effortless turn-of-the-century bourgeoisie accent as my feet glided across the stones of the Biltmore terrace. Evoking my best Cornelia Vanderbilt came second nature; I felt unexpectedly full and light-hearted upon exiting our hour and half long tour of the Estate. I twirled closer to the edge of the Biltmore terrace, which is punctuated at it's furthest corner by a little veranda, through which the Blue Ridge mountains shown a luminous cobalt shadow in the foreground of an Easter egg sky, bisecting amber rolling hills which reflected the hue of a particularly dramatic dusk.

 The Vanderbilts were not typical tycoons of their age, they were deeply compassionate people who wanted nothing more than to share the love, joy, and fortune of their lives with the people whom they held most dear. At any given time 20-40 guests inhabited the Biltmore Estate, each made cozy in their proper wing; bachelor, diplomat, family, celebrity and so on. Each wing of the home (which is the largest residential dwelling in America) has its own parlour, tailored to the needs and tastes of its respective guests. The home includes, among its 8000 acres of Fredrick Law Olmstead designed countryside, a gymnasium and lower level swimming pool, as well as a a system of gardens, a greenhouse Conservatory boasting jaw dropping collections of orchids, succulents, cacti, and other flora, as well as a lagoon, winery, and direct access to the French Broad River.  The home was built and designed for family; a family which, by Vanderbilt definition, included the likes of hundreds of fellow movers and shakers.

Prior to exploring the enchanting walls of the home itself, we wandered and wondered over the Conservatory, which was a warm and welcome reprieve from the cold mountain wind that cut across the skeletons of outdoor garden mazes left barren during winter. Inside, verdure abounded. The names of these exotic plants were every bit as curious as their flora and greenery. The stories-high white brick walls, accented by floor-to-ceiling windows outlined in forest green paint and cross-hatched panes offered a brightness and cleanliness that created a botanic universe in which I felt like a garden gnome searching for my own leafy umbrella. This horticultural palace is hyperbolic, a living breathing organism in its own right. Each turn reveals begonias beckoning for attention under towering palm, bird of paradise sheltering a population of arid succulents, the languid arms of orchid plants in seasonal bloom, not drooping, but reaching. A sizable labyrinth of sheltered garden walkways eventually wound us back to the start, we were the vine navigating the host. And just as the heavy wooden doors lured us in from the cold through humid window views, sealing us in a warm system of flowery catacombs, it eventually gave a mighty exhale, and with that we found ourselves moving against the wind, an "eight minute walk" by all account of the yard signs, with livened step for our tour of the Biltmore Estate..

You can't begin to fathom the strikingly stoic, castle-like visage of this home. A massive front lawn with circular looking pool seems to sprawl acres before the estate itself. Beyond the lawn is a rambling chateau boasting subtle Gothic embellishments. Copper spires stained with limestone deposits accentuate the beginning and end of each wing, and between those spires the snarling faces of the most intricate gargoyles I've ever laid eyes on warn away evil spirits. Regal lion statues bookend the entrance and welcome visitors with the kind of imposition that calls for both respect and grace. The Golden Age of opulence will swallow you whole in this place, a transposition truly takes root at its gate.

I snapped pictures from every angle as Sean tugged at my coat and the February mountain air bit at my digits. We were shuffled in, two people among a hundred or more, in to an overwhelmingly large atrium. We were sandwiched between weary, irritated tourists whose spirits were extinguished by long lines and inclement conditions; those who spent $50 not to immerse themselves in the history of the place, but to ooooh and ahhh at the decadence, the economic privilege they've always (selfishly) aspired to attain but will probably never acquire. Nevertheless, in our typical fashion, we navigated this home in such a way that the narrative quality of its history drew us in, examining stories within the walls; the character, generosity, and nature of its inhabitants. Love built this place, not money.

After musing over chamber after ornate, accommodating chamber of the Estate, I suppose my spirit was overcome with that of the Vanderbilt family; I felt immense love for my family and friends, a sudden desire for closeness, and a certain pride for the family of friends and loved ones Sean and I have grown to enjoy as a couple. Truly, aside from our immediate kin, we entered this relationship relying solely on one another, and an intense mutual love, to guide us to new support systems and comaraderies. We nurtured friendships one by one as a couple, and later built bridges between those relationships to assemble the amazing system of friendship and support that we know today. In the walls of the Biltmore Estate I projected New Year's galas as revelrous as our Christmas parties, summer bathing and gaming events every bit as anticipated as our Derby party. Unlike any other historic home, unlike any owned by prominent wealthy people or humble, religious folk alike, I've never toured a place that felt so earnest and human. It was almost easy to dismiss 7 story tall ceilings in the master dining room in light of what that space meant, in light of its purpose. Gold leaf wallpaper could not outshine the overall vitality of the home. Every room moved me, every room, no matter how lavish, spoke to love, and seemed to reflect its own distinct ray of a purpose larger than extravagance.

After ascending the deepest chambers of the lowest level,  lingering through the belly of the beast and bathing in its charm, we emerged from the Estate the only people left. No more shuttles, no more crowds by the 100's. Just us. And I couldn't help but dance across that veranda, taunting Sean and feeling invigorated by the imprint of this sprawling oasis at the foot of an incandescent mountain range that has come to represent our second home.

II

Not to detract from the magic of the moment, but from our very first outing the universe has had a way of delivering beautiful days among dreary weather, once in a life time experiences in mundane surroundings, chance encounters on good faith, and myriad other moments that seemed to be dealt especially for us.

In the first year we dated Sean surprised me with a trip to Chicago to see Ida, a New York based band that rarely plays outside of Brooklyn, a band that had captured my heart and provided me with a beautifully hushed, harmonic, soundtrack for over a decade of my life. The idea of seeing the band was surreal enough, but as we sat as the very edge of the stage holding our front row spot (a position I rarely care to pursue), I think my mind and body detached. All I remember from that night is holding firm to Sean's hand, watching the bare feet of the violonist playing the shruti on the floor, and weeping my eyes out.The words and melodies passed though me, carrying with them the weight and depth of my most cherished adult memories up to that point. My mind was an emotional strainer, and the pulp was streaming down my face. I've never been so moved in my life, and all the while with the strong hand of my best friend resting at the nape of my neck, or the small of my back.

There was our first canoe trip, an unseasonably warm day on the Elkhorn during which we communed with hundreds of hawk and turtle friends under a bluebird sky, but also nearly sank our canoe. There may be a reason why you don't hear of more folks whitewater canoeing; namely because canoes are big, long, heavy vessels with no real center of gravity. Plainly, they're not designed to bobble and blast through deep, rocky, fast moving water. Of course, that kind of logic was lost on Sean and I, we're always in the market for something at least three notches higher than "walk in the park," Yep. We navigated our canoe through several successions of ripples and strainers, traversed a dam, and then... Damn! We were sunk. Stuck in some deep rapids, with our feet and ankles trying to safely navigate the obscured rock below, we managed (without panicking) as a team to summon enough adrenaline to reverse the vessel from hundreds of pounds of rushing water pressure. We also came ashore with both paddles, our belongings, extremities and digits intact.

We love road trips, and moreover, we love winging it on road trips. Coming home from the Outer Banks a few years ago, we decided to venture deep in to rural North Carolina countryside to meet the likes of a 90 year old man named Vollis Simpson. Vollis has spent the last 40+ years building his own world of whirligigs out of scrap metal on his deteriorating farm in the middle of nowhere. Now reduced to a giant workshop/shed with a front porch, and a fenced in area of rusted windmills of bygone whirly-year, Sean and I spent a few minutes trespassing with oogling eyes and an intrusive camera lens before Vollis himself came puttering up a hidden dirt road in his pick em' up truck munching on pork rinds and a banana. He invited us to explore his warehouse, told us intimate tales of life with his wife and kids, of times when he could build anything with an active imagination and agile hands, before time passed, as it does, at break neck speed and he found himself old(er) and alone. I fell in love with a mini-whirligig built from an heirloom wine chalice. Though positive I was completely out of cash, I asked his price, and found the exact change to the bill floating in my purse after a week-long vacation. Destiny. It sits on my desk to this day.

Upon graduating with our respective Bachelors' degrees in the same Spring semester (a serendipitous event given our long, separate journeys to the same end) we decided to reward one another with a three week trip across the country. In that time we traveled 9300 miles through 20 some states, visiting 18 National Parks and encountering hundreds of species of wildlife including mountain goats, wild burros, coyote, buffalo, wolves, black bear, California condor, bull moose, prairie dogs, seal, sea lions, pronghorns and big horned sheep to name only a few. We walked across salt flats and grasslands, drove through a tornado in the South Dakota, sank knee-deep in post-blizzard snow drifts, stood at the edge of prehistoric hot springs, were sprayed and soaked by some of the oldest and largest waterfalls in the world, wandered a fern covered canyon in the Redwoods, and hiked through prehistoric cliff dwellings and petroglyphs. Of all the things that could have gone wrong, we thought the one certainty in which we could trust on our journey was direction; between bags full of AAA provided state and regional maps, as well as access to Google maps and a GPS, we never banked on getting lost. It was on this trip that we truly learned the meaning of the adage "expect the unexpected," when our GPS sent us on a 3 mile rocky ride on a "highway" which later proved to be an ATV trail. It was 118 degrees according to the dashboard, and the only day of the trip that we felt too rushed to fill our 6 Nalgenes with water before embarking on the day's adventure. We turned off of a perfectly respectable freeway on to a one lane gravel road. Confused, we stopped and consulted every map resource to our disposal, only to determine that this must be the right road. One mile in gravel turned to boulders that required us to get out of the car to clear. A second map consultation sent us reluctantly onward, until 2 miles in we hit a pipeline and noticed ATV trail markings. A third map consultation, mild desperation, and a touch of desert delirium convinced us that the third and final mile would connect us to the correct highway... And led us to a mangled drive shaft and three days sleeping in an auto garage on a forgotten stretch of Route 66 in Needles, CA. Don't get me wrong, this was not a happy detour, but we accepted it as part of our journey, and to this day I look back fondly on those long, slap-happy afternoons on the couch watching terrible movies in the back room of Econo-Smog. Once we were on our way we had an entire we to let the good times roll, and did we ever.  Our last stop was Santa Fe, NM on a Thursday, our usual margarita night at El Mundo in Louisville. We had an incredibly memorable meal and a couple of truly top shelf margaritas before departing, not just from Santa Fe, but from our biggest adventure, for good. We wept and laughed and held hands for the first couple of hours of that long ride home. From beginning to end, it was the best experience of my life.

On a birthday trip for Sean I arranged for us to spend the weekend at a bed and breakfast at the mouth of the Shawnee Forest, home of Garden of the Gods, a Mid-Western wilderness comprised of limestone rock formations that are the colorfully carved, eroded remains of ancient sea beds. On an innocent hike in which we hoped, at best, to identify topographic features such as Teapot Rock and Monkey's Eyebrow, we identified a member of the natural world way more unexpected and enchanting than a rock with anthropomorphic features.
For context, I should back-track and let it be known that we are the proud owners of a tiny, silken-furred critter called a Sugar Glider. His name is Fella Man, and he's a nocturnal marsupial from Australia and parts of New Zealand. He has webbing that connects his front and hind legs, which makes him one aerodynamic furball. Though he can't glide far, he is able to "fly" short distances, much like the rare North American flying squirrel. But who's ever heard of seeing a flying squirrel in the woods anyway?
So, Sean and I are hiking, and we encounter a hollow, rotten tree trunk dangling precariously on the edge of a rock face. Being a typical (boy) man, Sean just had to rock the trunk, attempting to loosen it to a long deathly tumble. He knocked against it and gave it a couple of good shakes and out popped two plump (what looked like) sugar gliders! They peered down at us as I scrambled to get pictures before launching toward more steady branches across the ridgeline. We stood in awe of what we'd witnessed, and more importantly what we conjured, on a day hike in a faraway place from a random tree among thousands of trees.

III

Our mutual intuition is far more powerful than any plan. The universe is our gentle guide. Magic finds us.

Does that sound really new-agey and starry eyed? Yeah I know, I find it hard to believe myself. But when it comes to Sean and I, there's no such thing as chance.

Sean carried my perfect ring in his pocket for two days waiting for just the right moment to propose a life that has always been a given in my mind. As such, I didn't have the faintest idea that when we summited two mountains, or dined at a nationally acclaimed James Beard nominated restaurant, or fell asleep each night to a modest fire in a modest cabin that reflects in every way what I want for our future, that he was silently wondering if that was the moment to ask. But he waited, and though it was subconscious, he waited because he knew that he would know in the moment; reflexive, not reflective.
He carried a ring that bears my mother's engagement diamond, a diamond given with his mother's blessing, a center diamond that is all our own, and three tiny diamonds on either side to cradle all that history and love. Many girls grow up dreaming of their wedding day. I am not one of those girls. Many women dream of elaborate engagements and rings they've designed to the letter at the expense of a brow-beaten fiance. I am also not one of these women. I believe in love, and I have believed in the love I share with Sean, without expectation, for the last five years. But I have to admit, in the wake of my mother's passing, for the last 10 years, I dreamed of one day wearing my mother's diamond. I anticipated the man that would go to my father and ask, not only for my hand in marriage, but for that precious stone that he once slid on to the finger of the most wonderful woman I have ever known. I have believed all along that Sean would be that man, and my trust in that notion gave me unconditional comfort in our lives as a couple. Given my contentment,  I didn't have a clue as I was skipping across that veranda at the Biltmore that Sean about to fulfill my one and only girlish fairy tale dream.

IV

I danced across those stones like a fool. My feet were light as air  and my body twirled effortlessly across a cutting winter wind. The snowflakes had subsided, but it was blustery, and I have a faint memory of Sean's giant smile walking slowly in the path of my girlish parade. We met at the edge of the terrace and I pulled him in for a kiss. Before recognizing my love for him, I remember pulling away and mentally acknowledging my love for the mountains, which were perfectly painted by the shades and shadows of early twilight. I drew myself against him with my hands on his forearms, probably tugging at his jacket sleeves, and I looked up and said, "This has been the most perfect day." That declaration came not necessarily out of the romantic nature of the moment, but from our legacy of adventures.
"You know what would make it even more perfect? *pause* If you would say you'd spend the rest of your life with me..."
The words passed through my ears but he was standing, holding my gloved hands, and so my immediate, internal response was, "Um, duh. That's why we're here celebrating 5 years together."  But then I saw tears welling in his eyes... Not watery eyes reacting to the wind, but tears. And he got down on one knee, and I promise you all I remember is being awestruck by this ring in a lighted box, shaking in his palm. I thought of my mother, and of her diamond, and of my uncle who has carried on the family business as a jeweler/gemologist. I looked at Sean, on one knee with eyebrows raised in anxious hope, and without really ever hearing him ask, "Will you marry me?" I said yes. I couldn't hear his words or my words... My consciousness was entirely focused on processing the significance of such a poignant moment. Once back on his feet I have a dizzy recollection of Sean's gentle gaze meeting my watery eyes as he explained, "One of those diamonds is your Mom's..." He went on to delineate the rest of the history within my ring, but my attention was suspended. The gravity and gratitude was too great for tears. My heart seized and remained arrested for a good two hours after Sean's proposal. I had no words, and still really don't, for the joy and surprise of that moment.

V

We're getting married. One day I'll be Laura Bailey. And though I look forward to and dream of that day in all kinds of cheesy cliche ways in which I never expected, I retain my faith in the universe, in those signs and magic moments that have brought us to this point. There's no rush when we have the comfort of knowing that the breath of opportunity and the arms of good fortune will embrace us when the time is right for our union to take place... And there's no doubt in my mind that it will be exactly the modest, happy little love-fest I imagine it to be. Here's what to expect... Love and comaraderie. Joy and jubilee. Dancing. Friends and family having the time of their lives. Sean and I smiling until our cheeks hurt, arm in arm with the ones we hold most dear. Faces that glow with the radiance of mountain twilight. A celebration not of us, but of the collective love and energy that makes us who we are and what we are. A celebration of Vanderbilt proportions.