The Vault and the Fishing Net

Patrick proposed to me twice. The first time, was a sunny and warm Saturday morning in January. We were sitting on some rocks at the edge of Ladybird Lake in Austin. When I turned to him after watching Bender swim out for a fetch, he had a pretty box in his hand. He said, "Ya wanna get married?" He looked so gentle and sincere. I melted. I said, "I'm melting. Of course I do, sweetie." (or something like that) Then Bender shook water all over us and Isabel smelled the shiny rock, approving. I found out that Patrick thinks my fingers are very skinny. This man researched rings, ordered mine and proposed, without consulting a soul. When I learned that he'd gone through the ring process completely on his own, I took note of our truly different approaches. This would be important to remember for a successful marriage to him. If Patrick were a vault, I'd be a fishing net. One holds everything super tight unless deliberately opened, and one holds big things, but lets lots of little things flow in and out.

The ring looked very pretty sitting above my knuckle, but would probably fall off easily. So, we celebrated our decision to marry with tight hugs and kisses, lots of knowing looks, cheesy smiles and a stand-in ring. The two carat amber ring from my costume jewelry collection did the trick of keeping men from approaching me (finally!). I had my round cut diamond with a halo and platinum band for two days and gazed fondly at it in its box often. In the process of ordering a resize, Patrick announced that this was my chance to get exactly the ring I wanted. I felt funny about altering the solitary decision he had made. In my fishing net style, I sought advice. Married women advised me to get over being sentimental and choose the one I wanted on my finger for the next twenty years.

The new ring is a hybrid of Patrick's heartfelt choice and my little girl fantasies. He stuck with a round cut, haloed diamond and I added tiny pave diamonds to the band. Appropriately, the very first decision made surrounding our marriage was a joint one.

The change in the band delayed shipment of the ring two weeks. We would be moving from Austin to a Lake Travis house to Denver, with unreliable mailing addresses, which delayed its arrival even more. We were fearful the ring would be lost in transit. Patiently and painfully, I waited for the ring I will look at for the rest of my life. A whole month. It arrived just today, the day after Valentine's Day.

Patrick's second proposal also took place in the morning, over coffee. The Fed Ex man trudged through the crunchy snow at our vacation rental in Denver as I unsuccessfully tried to hold back squeals. Our dogs sounded the attack barks reserved for mailmen, UPS and Fed Ex guys (even when they're not in uniform- true story). Patrick was on an important call so I quieted the dogs, cleaned myself up and put some makeup on. I wanted him to see me as his beautiful bride, not a bed-headed, sleepy-eyed girl in sweats and slippers.

"There's a package for you!" I announced when he FINALLY got off the phone. I gave him the space to open it. He pretended it was the wrong one. My excitement was unphased by the joke I fully expected. When he walked over to me, I was startled again by that melting feeling I got by the lake. It's like butterflies swimming through molasses in my tummy. And a sweet and juicy peach swelling in my throat. And smiling tears welling up my eyes. With his messy and tall morning hair and his soft blue eyes, he got down on one knee. There's something about the man you love taking a pleading position while looking into your eyes. "Babe, will you marry me?"

Bender and Isabel were impressed with his position on the floor as well, and ran around us barking. For the last few months, Bender's finally been displaying signs of puberty. He only humps Patrick and me, and only when we're hugging and kissing each other or doing something that takes us to his level. Since we were hugging and kissing while Patrick kneeled, 85 pound Bender took turns jumping us both.

The ring fits perfectly and we found as much joy in our decision to marry as the first time he proposed. I think we should do it every month. And just so you know, I'm already making the compromises so important to a successful marriage. This story was told in a combination of our vault and fishing net styles of sharing information. Our new, shared container takes some effort to open, holds beautiful things secure, but closes quickly before anything too valuable escapes. Kinda like a box that holds a diamond ring.

This picture makes it bling!

My Name Means the Mother of All Gods

This blog is being written to set the record straight on the origins of my name. It's Greek. Rhea was Zeus' mother and actually fed Kronus (Zeus' father) stones so that he would not eat his children. I know, Greek mythology is random from a modern day perspective, but I'm sure the whole story is pretty believable if told in its entirety. Rhea, the Greek goddess whose name I inherited, pronounces it "Ray-uh." When I was in second grade I actually changed the spelling of my name to Raya, to prevent mispronunciations. After three years in public school, I was tired of being called "Ree-uh" on the first day and when we had substitute teachers. It was a short phase and not without constant reassurance from my mother that one day I would be glad I had an original name. What I really wished was that my name was Stephanie.

All through elementary school, I had a best friend named Laura Knauff (pronounced Noff). She had curly hair. Not the really tight curls that are hard to brush, but large ringlets of shiny, floppy locks. I think this is why we watched so many old Shirley Temple movies when I was at her house. We were great friends. And she was like six when she learned my name. And after all these years, and after all my moves, Laura and I have stayed in touch. I even attended her Michigan wedding in 2002, where her son hit me in the nose and knocked my glasses off. An email she recently sent me, has me wondering if there are other folks out there associating my name with the wrong thing. This is what she said:

I don't know whether or not to share this with you but I will and hopefully you will not be offended...

All my life I've struggled with how to spell that thing that happens when you get sick....  you know "the runs" or "Hershey squirts". Well you'd be surprised how many times I have to write that "d" word, particularly for the 3+ years I work with an animal rescue.  So anyway, Christopher was sick recently and I had to send a note to school and I felt that I would once and for all learn how to spell it.

(Please keep in mind that I have always thought your name was beautiful and if I had a daughter I would probably name her Rhea.)  Imagine my shock when I saw that word is spelled diarRHEA.  Your name at the end.  Perhaps I was mentally blocking that out because its such and unpleasant word and Rhea is so pretty.  But now I will never forget how to spell diarrhea.  Thank you!  


To be fair my new last name is Strunk and I've often been accidentally called Laura Stunk. And it took until High School before any classmates figured out what to do with my old last name.  I remember vividly in Science class, David turning around and saying "Do you have any relatives named Jack?"  I don't and I didn't know why he was chuckling.  Now I know.


I hope this clears up any confusion that may be lingering out there about my name. Think Greek Goddess, NOT Hershey Squirts!

Oh, and my mom was right. I do appreciate my name now, although I still give a fake with my order at the coffee shop, just to avoid the hassle.

My Mentor Retired

I learned to live and love teaching from the best mentor and veteran teacher on the planet. Since June 2011, when I missed the chance to honor her at her retirement party, questions have ping ponged in slow mo through my head: How do I share my gratitude and her talent? In a way that makes her feel honored? And so that she and the world understand what an impact she had on me?

The Year in Pictures

2011 was abundant with thriving relationships, new love, triumphs of gratitude, connection and adventure. I remain astonished by my quality of life and grateful for the healthy, loving friends and family that encompass me. In a sharing spirit, here is the last year, in pictures.

Christmas in Austin

I've been listening to Christmas music during all available moments in the car and in the kitchen. Delilah keeps playing this song. It's a great way to teach you some things about the live music capital of the world, so I found it on youtube. Read my notes below to make sense off all the local references you hear.

Twelve Days of Yoga

With the last twelve days of yoga completed, for a total of 20 days in a row, I invite you to get into that downward Rudolph spirit and sing along with me!

YogaDay8: My Former Record

My last consecutive yoga run went for eight days. Since my goal this time is 20, I have twelve days left. Right near Christmas, there will be twelve more days of yoga. I feel a classic holiday tune, redone with a yoga twist, coming your way!