Our Evolving Beauty

by Nancy Colasurdo on May 16, 2013

What makes us women? What makes us beautiful?

There is a scene in the movie Funny Girl where Fanny Brice, played by Barbra Streisand, marvels at her infant daughter and exclaims to her close friend, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” We know what that means coming from Fanny, known for her voice and her comic timing but not her looks. She is enthralled with the fact that her child is good-looking and wonders why her handsome husband would ever give her a second look.

Sigh.

I daresay there is little we can do about the concept of what’s beautiful in our culture. The aesthetically beautiful seem so much more valued than the spiritually beautiful. Sometimes a spiritual radiance will turn our heads as we walk down the street, but of course more often it’s the conventional definition of beauty that makes our neck swivel for a better look.

As each day goes by and another story or poster or social media image appears on our radar, it challenges our sensibilities. Then comes the barrage of opinions, not necessarily informed ones, and they range from frighteningly shallow to ardently moving.

The Dove advertising campaign where we see how women perceive themselves and how others perceive them was illuminating. We think everyone is focused on that flaw that so stands out to us when we look in the mirror. The truth is, they’re not. They see us more in a big picture way. How heartening.

But wait, don’t get too caught up in your elation. The CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch wants to make sure you know that your elephant butt is not getting in his company’s clothes any time soon. And by elephant butt I mean above a size 10. You aren’t cool. They have an image to uphold, after all. Size matters and don’t you forget it.

This ain’t the Renaissance, zaftig ladies. Where once we were lush and juicy, now we’re portrayed as unable to control ourselves.

My teen-aged self thought she was fat. I look at pictures now and realize she wasn’t. This mentality, excruciatingly and repeatedly chronicled in my earliest diaries, continued on through decades. If only. When I am thinner. Blah, blah, blah. What a waste of emotional energy.

I recently shared a vintage newspaper advertisement someone posted on Facebook (see insert). On the left was an angular woman with small breasts and hips and on the right was a much curvier woman. Both have hands on hips. The curvier woman is smiling and the other isn’t. The copy on top reads: How Do You Look in Your Bathing Suit? As it turns out, the ad is for something called “ironized yeast” that promises to add 10 to 25 pounds. The kicker is the tagline – “Gives thousands natural sex-appealing curves.”

Unquestionably most of us, on first glance, think this ad is for weight loss. That is how conditioned we are now. I’m not going to get into the whole “when women were women” thing, as that only serves as a putdown to my thinner sisters. But what could really work on me if I let it is this idea that we’ve been led down a path to believe we are more or less worthy depending on how well we line up with the accepted image of the era we happen to be born into.

There is something about being in my 50s, let’s call it a maturity, that keeps me from dwelling on such things. Why expend energy on what other people think? I’ve probably already lopped a year off my life if I combine all the past hand-wringing I did on this. Are you with me?

Maybe this gets to the root of why I think Angelina Jolie’s recent announcement about her double mastectomy is so remarkable. Putting aside all the important conversations it prompted about what any of us would do in that situation, I think at its base the decision was about maturity. The role of mother put before being the object of fantasy. Children before fans/glory. Better odds at life before marketability. Self-worth based on a higher consciousness of what ‘self’ means. Living and the rest be damned.

Our bodies are to be treasured, aren’t they? What that means to Jolie may not mean what it does to you or me or anyone else, but that is what’s underneath it all. It is the impressive woman who can shun the construct and seize her power. And that goes from surface to way deep inside.

Let’s take this down to a more surface, non life-and-death level.

I’ve lamented a bit recently on Facebook that with the ripple effects of knee injury has come a need to wear shoes I consider ‘granny.’ I’ve asked friends to indulge in my ‘first-world’ problem, to let me vent that spending considerable money on ugly shoes is difficult when with that same cash I could be buying pretty flat sandals that look more like foot jewelry adorning my well-pedicured feet. Shoes that make me feel more womanly.

I know there are more important things. I know I need to get over it. I even know that if the goal is looking my best that will be better achieved by taking care of my knees and joints and the rest of my body. I will stand taller, feel grander, exude better energy.

What makes us women? Scrutinizing our body parts? Torturing ourselves?

What makes us beautiful? The fashion? Or the person wearing it?

We decide.

We. Decide.

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An eye on love

by Nancy Colasurdo on May 5, 2013

I’m ever the observer. It’s disconcerting to some, but it makes me a sharper coach and keeps my writing honest. I’m wondering, though, if underlying it all is a craving to be seen.

What prompted this thinking is my reaction to a couple of movies — one old (A Room with a View), one new (Love Is All You Need) – viewed on the same day.

As I watched Pierce Brosnan and Trine Dyrholm connect in Susanne Bier’s Love Is All You Need set mostly in lush Italy, I felt my observer slip away. My reaction to the film’s intimacy was coming from the woman in me, the vulnerable, loving, sexual person who is heavily drawn to the idea of being seen by a soulful, vibrant man. The professional, the life coach, even the writer melted away in the lemon grove on the big screen before me.

I think my default perspective is the observer. If I go to an art museum or movie or stroll along the waterfront or through a neighborhood, I take in my surroundings with care. I go to a ‘place.’ Often I derive meaning from something I see or hear, but sometimes, sometimes, it penetrates and it’s not just about the observer anymore.

Here we had a story told through film that struck me as showing an example of what authentic women want – to be loved for what we radiate. Emphasis here is on authentic. Not those materialistic, gold-digging nut jobs overwhelmingly representing my gender in TV and movie roles.

This was a woman with a bald head brought on by chemotherapy staring down the end of her marriage while simultaneously making an effort to stay upbeat for her daughter’s wedding. She didn’t meet the type A, closed, handsome man played by Brosnan and latch on or affect some kind of girlie pose to impress him. She was herself – direct, kind, curious. That’s what turned his head.

And you know what turned my head? The grand gesture. Fiction, I know, but dammit, they exist. You wouldn’t know it by my recent dating life, but they do. I am so primed for some grand gestures. Step up, declare your feelings, go after what captivates you, take the risk that it isn’t mutual. Isn’t that a heady kind of scary?

After seeing the matinee at the Lincoln Plaza Cinema, I returned home to get some work done (the beauty of self-employment). I had a voice mail waiting from my mother, a.k.a. my unofficial TV Guide. “Nan, you’re probably out doing something but if you happen to be home at 6 o’clock you should watch A Room with a View on TMC. You’ll like it.”

I got some writing done and then took her advice. Mom was right. I enjoyed it immensely. Another guy with a grand gesture. Another woman not settling for a ‘fine’ life but a passionate one.

Again, fiction. But it keeps alive a belief in possibility. I don’t tend to get jaded about romantic love, but I do go through phases where I give it little thought. A double shot of grand gesture in one day felt like a sweet reminder of that dimension where we often (happily) lose ourselves and let in what can only make us richer.

I have thought lately that one of the main things that turned my life around in the last decade was this thought derived from the St. Francis of Assisi prayer: focus on understanding as opposed to being understood. Life got markedly better when that made its way into my brain. Or maybe it’s more like into my heart. It opens up everything in such a soulful way.

However, it feels like what I’m saying here, in this pocket of thought, is how delicious the idea of being understood is. At least by a loving partner.

Don’t you know when you’re in the presence of a couple where the parties really see each other? It’s almost readily apparent. They’re lit from within, whether they’ve been together for months or for decades. They don’t tolerate each other like, dare I say, most couples. There’s something more symbiotic between them. A knowing. An appreciation.

When my observer catches that kind of rapport it’s like a trigger and a little voice inside me says ‘yes.’ I file it away, but also carry it like a precious memento.

How unexpected that all of this pour out of me this weekend. This is why I am grateful for art.

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Way to represent, Rosie

by Nancy Colasurdo on May 3, 2013

GAME PLAN:

I’ve never watched the Kentucky Derby. Never paid much attention to it, really.

But it’s a safe bet I’ll be watching this one because I’ll be cheering on jockey Rosie Napravnik.

It makes me feel a little predictable, rooting for someone mostly based on gender and, well, the fact that she is a fellow Jersey Girl. But I can’t help myself. This stuff lights me up.

Photo by Tsutomu Takasu

Sometimes when I look back on about 15 years of covering mostly women’s sports earlier in my career, I wonder if I wasn’t partly drawn to people doing something I was never comfortable even trying. I was lucky to get a ‘C’ in gym class. So completely uncomfortable in my own skin.

Then, there I was, day after day on fields and in arenas watching female athletes run, jump, pass, block, spin, shoot, bat, field. It never got old. I never looked at it as an opportunity to be inspired every day, but in retrospect I’m sure that was a big part of the allure. Those young women were teaching me about sweat and competition and trying harder next time.

Since my job was to chronicle their experiences, the more I let in, the better. The deeper I felt the disappointment or the elation, the better the story would be. People wanted me covering their events because they knew I got something that went beneath the score and stats. I picked up the undercurrent, the joy of the player coming back from injury, not just the fact of it.

And covering female athletes almost always had the feeling of underdog. The fields were often not as nicely groomed as the ones the boys played on. The funding was less. The attention they received frequently paled in comparison to their brothers in the same school. They didn’t whine; they played. And back then, their brothers were starting to see that, hey, my sister puts in just as many hours as I do. The boys were starting to get it.

It was an exciting stretch to be writing about pivotal times for girls, filling their scrapbooks with clippings (yes, paper ones) and even occasionally speaking at their banquets. They were so grateful.

These days I pay little attention to sports, but 60 Minutes just did a piece on Napravnik and I liked how she came across – direct, confident, smart. Those qualities are not hard to find in Jersey women – damn right – and as I watched I felt represented. Yeah, Rosie. Let’s see what ya got, baby.

When she was relating to Bob Simon some of the finer points of communicating with horses and she said they responded to a “smooching” sound to burst forward, he asked her to make the sound.

“I’m not going to make that noise on 60 Minutes,” Napravnik said.

Translation, Bob: Yeah, right, with all that I’ve got to prove and with all I’ve accomplished so far to earn respect, I’m going to dish up a clip that can be spliced and diced into some sicko sexual montage on the Internet. Didn’t I mention I’m from Jersey, Bob? I’m wise to that. But nice try.

Not to make Simon sound depraved. It was done in fun. And to his credit the moment really captured Napravnik’s personality. She’s getting in there again. Storied Churchill Downs awaits. Last year she won the Kentucky Oaks on a horse named ‘Believe You Can.’ Could a life coach even make that up?

This reminds me of turning on the Masters for the first time in 1997 just to see what this sensation Tiger Woods was going to do. He cruised at Augusta and made history. It also brings to mind the few NBA games I saw last year because a little thing called Linsanity was happening courtesy of Jeremy Lin.

Every so often it’s nice to see someone ‘different’ emerge on the scene and take a sport by storm. You know there are already girls who want to be Rosie Napravnik. She’s taken them closer to believing it’s possible.

Heck, a bunch of us adults are paying big attention, not because we want to be jockeys but because we want to be something that we’ve been told we can’t or shouldn’t be. These people who just shrug off the naysayers and keep going, who get injured and heal and get back out there, we happily go on a little ride with them. Even it only comes in the form of screaming at the TV and raising our arms in the air.

Victory is sweet.

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Ah, utopia

by Nancy Colasurdo on May 1, 2013

GAME PLAN:

I’ve got it all figured out. Don’t you?

My bank account is overflowing. My body is never creaky. Not a speck of dust in my home. I floss daily. And oh, the sex. My happiness arches like a rainbow over my perfect, polished life.

Take your problems walking. None to be found on this side of the grass, where it’s a glistening emerald green 24-7.

I can hardly continue this with a straight face. But I do have a larger point.

Photo courtesy of www.freeimages.co.uk

Am I the only one who gets the feeling there are way more people living on the financial and/or emotional edge than we even imagine? I’m one who generally assumes people are doing great when I’m thinking collectively, but the more one-on-one conversations I have with people lately the more I realize it just isn’t true. At least not as consistently as I thought (or hoped). Utopia, not so much.

This is not about generating a downer conversation. It’s an observation about the front so many of us feel we have to put up. There are an awful lot of entrepreneurs in my acquaintance and while many are thriving in terms of pursuing their passion and enjoying making their own schedules, it doesn’t mean they’re not also experiencing great bouts of anxiety. In addition, those who are in jobs that bring them no satisfaction outside of a check often reach a breaking point and wind up wondering if this is all there is.

We’re all trying to make it work, people. And what works for you isn’t necessarily going to work for me or the guy next door. While I embrace the exhilaration of figuring out my next thing, there’s no way for that to happen without also embracing the uncertainty of it all. I have been a resource for many and I continue to seek out resources for myself. Being on both sides of that has been, and continues to be, pivotal for my growth.

For example, yesterday I had a conversation with a writer and bestselling author who was kind enough to give me his time. I figure the more I learn about the current media landscape, the more my world opens up. I came away from that chat with two very solid ideas for moving forward in my freelance writing. On the flip side, I have a call scheduled for later in the week with an aspiring writer who’s unsure of her next steps and would like my thoughts.

I don’t mean to make this all about writing. That’s my world. But I do have this sense that so many people think I have it all figured out and I, in turn, think another whole group of people has it all figured out. But you know what? Nobody does. How’s that for the ultimate clarification? Nobody freakin’ does.

And, incidentally, if you hire a life coach who pretends she does, run for the hills before you sign that contract. That’s a big, fat red flag that you’re signing on with a smiley face instead of a human who is trained to help you take your life to another level but acknowledges that sometimes you’ll struggle and that her cookie cutter tests/exercises/rah-rahs don’t work for everyone.

Man, this feels good.

This is such a different world than the one I prepared to work and live in when I was in school in the 80s. I couldn’t have known what was around the bend and I mostly feel dazzled by social awareness, technological advances beyond my comprehension, and the challenges brought by world events in the last decade. Keeping up is kind of heady for a 51-year-old.

I suppose it’s my big picture optimism that propels me in ways others tell me they admire. I don’t know how else to be. I’ve learned that if someone walks away from me feeling inspired it’s because I gave them genuine Nancy. The fake stuff doesn’t cut it.  Maybe that should be my tagline.

I love the life I have created for myself. That is true. I know what my priorities are. But people close to me know I often torture myself when making choices within those priorities. I question. I wonder.

And yet, I rarely waver on my big picture. I am doing what I’m supposed to be doing. My gifts are being tapped. My purpose is clear. My passion for helping others see theirs is strong.

Living meaningfully. That much I’ve got figured out.

The rest I’ll relish, anxiety and all.

 

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Acceptance and body issues

by Nancy Colasurdo on April 25, 2013

“I want my body back.”

I’ve heard myself say this a number of times in the last few months. Sometimes in anguished frustration under my breath. Sometimes while sharing with family and friends. Sometimes in wonderment. Sometimes in prayer. 

The statement can mean so many things. Given the Dove video that’s been circulating, the one about how we see ourselves vs. how someone else sees us, my declaration could easily be taken for an expression about my exterior self. You know, fat, wrinkles, outsized features.

But it’s not.

If being in my 50s has given me anything, it’s peace around that stuff. Literally every night when I lay my head on the pillow I express thanks for my body and its ability to function, to get me places, to bring me pleasure. I am what I am. I like to exercise my body, dress it well, pamper it.

So when I say I want my body back, it’s more a longing to understand why I have felt markedly slower and wearier in the last year. My obsession lies in freedom of movement and lifestyle, not the new line that’s appeared on my face.

About a year ago I had surgery for a meniscus tear on my left knee and this is partly about that, but really it’s more about a series of ripple effects around that. The surgeon wouldn’t do the surgery unless my high blood pressure came down, but up until the pre-op exam I didn’t know I had a problem with hypertension. No idea or inkling whatsoever. I took the prescribed meds to get me through the surgery, but shortly thereafter had troubling side effects, so my doctor prescribed another. I was convinced I didn’t really need them long-term, so acquiesced with the understanding he’d wean me off them later.

When I didn’t feel like the doctor heard me – and while in the midst of healing and diligent attention to my physical therapy — I changed general practitioners because I wanted one less inclined to pull out the prescription pad. The latest drug was making me feel sluggish and my legs would swell easily after exercise. I began thinking it would be better to live with the risks of high blood pressure.

I ordered a hot-selling book on the topic and it got lost in the mail or stolen. I took it as a sign not to read it. I stopped eating my beloved olives (salt!) and began ingesting more kale than any human needs. I already eat lots of salads, not much processed food and I’m mindful of whole grains and protein. I started taking vitamins. At the instruction of my new doctor I was taking my blood pressure every other day (at the CVS next to my gym) and recording it. That proved maddening – the fluctuations, the questioning of whether I should take it before or after workout or wait five minutes, bla, bla, bla.

By September the frequent swelling became too much and so my doctor heard me out again, looked at my ledger of BP reads from weeks of recording, and she prescribed a very small dose of a diuretic to replace the other meds. This came with the instruction to come in for a blood test soon afterward to check my electrolytes.

Well, I procrastinated a few weeks on that and the next thing I knew we had Super Storm Sandy. My doctor’s office and lab are located near the World Trade Center. With the PATH trains from Hoboken out of service for nearly two months, getting to Manhattan was a production. Bye, bye blood test. At least for a while. When we flipped the calendar to 2013, I was well into my new meds but still frustrated by stiffness in my legs and overall fatigue I didn’t have prior to all this beginning the year before.

On a particularly aggravating day I picked up the phone and made an appointment for a checkup. My intent was to tell, not ask, my doctor to wean me off all meds. The next available appointment was three weeks away. The day came last week and as I took the 10-minute ride into the city, strolled past the Freedom Tower and sat in an examining room waiting for my doctor, something shifted.

I thought about how maybe it wasn’t the best time to play with blood pressure meds when I was at a trying time in my freelance business. And maybe I was lucky to have found a not-so-invasive treatment for it. Because, truly, if it’s a concern that my blood pressure will go up at a challenging time in my life, doesn’t that actually mean I have high blood pressure?

Yikes. I had reached acceptance. By the time the doctor came in my purpose for being there had done a 180. I explained all of the above and she listened.

“Well, we have found the sweet spot,” she said. “And keep in mind I don’t like prescribing meds. I don’t do it lightly.”

I recalled that was one of the main reasons I had chosen her just months before. She ordered a blood test on the spot to check my electrolytes. The next day the lab emailed the results with her note. All good, except perhaps I was a bit dehydrated when I took the test?

Hmmmm. I Googled dehydration symptoms and among them I found “muscle weakness” and “fatigue.” Good God, is it that easy? I have not been drinking a lot of water, ironically because the pills I’m taking would have me in the bathroom much more frequently. Duh. Do I just need to drink more water? I went out and bought one of those plastic tumblers with a straw, clear with a green band. I dutifully fill it up and drink all day long.

We’ll see how it goes.

Through all of this, I have been ever aware of how the smallest to the greatest blips in our health can throw us off course or set us back. It has made me a better person, coach, and writer because I’m more inclined to actually hear what a person is saying with regards to how they feel and how it relates to their goals and their willingness to engage life on a given day.

But there’s more.

When the doctor’s assistant came in last week to set me up in the examining room, I got on the scale and I noticed her startled look. I met her eyes and said, “I don’t look like I weigh that, right?” She shook her head, clearly still stunned. “No, not at all.” I lifted the tunic I was wearing, pointed to my stomach and said, “I don’t pretend to have six-pack abs. I’m soft in the middle. But according to your chart I’m obese and that’s just absurd.”

She nodded, but then clearly still thinking about it, said, “Do you work out? Could it be muscle?” I laughed. “I typically work out four days a week, so yes, that’s possible.”

I could have never had that conversation in such a relaxed way in my 20s, 30s or even 40s. This is new. Bless the 50s.

My olives are back in moderation. Now if only I could get past my denial that pretty shoes may be a thing of the past. I love my pretty shoes.

One thing at a time.

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Traveling to a Place of Expansiveness

by Nancy Colasurdo on April 21, 2013

GAME PLAN:

There are books I read and there are books I devour. And sometimes I am so called to read a certain something that I break my steadfast rule of not finishing the book I’ve already started to dive in to the new one.

Enter Learning to Breathe by photojournalist Alison Wright. It’s not every day I read a book with a foreword by the Dalai Lama and it’s definitely not every day I am riveted to a café chair, my bed, another café seat and then my couch because I don’t want to put it down.

I found the overarching reason I was supposed to read this book at this particular time in my life in the afterword:

“The pain I have faced has helped me relate to the hardships of others,” Wright writes. “I realize now it’s not about chasing the story. It’s about being part of the story.”

We’ll return to the pain and this message. But let me back up a little.

Yesterday I attended an event called the New York Travel Festival at Bohemian National Hall and, while trekking from Hoboken to the Upper East Side for a 9 a.m. talk isn’t my ideal way to start a Saturday (or any day, for that matter), I felt compelled to go. A Facebook friend had posted the gathering just a few days before and it immediately grabbed my attention. I’m not sure why as I’m not a travel writer nor much of a reader of travel writing, but I think it had something to do with having just written about the three goals I’m currently focused on, one of them being “Travel more.”

First I took in a talk by Andrew Evans, Digital Nomad for NationalGeographic.com. It was supposed to be about why bucket lists “suck” and while he did touch on that, he had decided to switch it up to ‘travel and terror’ given the bombing at the Boston Marathon. Equipped with accompanying images, he blended the two topics meaningfully.

I loved his story of being on a commercial flight that had to make an emergency landing in Memphis. As people grumbled instead of being grateful to be alive and then grumbled some more when they headed for room service in the Holiday Inn lodging the airline had provided them, Evans and another guy set out for some barbecue in a joint where they watched the Auburn game. Since it was a 24-hour delay, the next day Evans decided to take in a place he’d never had a desire to see – Graceland. He had no particular interest in Elvis and so Graceland would not have been on his bucket list had he created one, but he enjoyed the visit and became fascinated with the iconic performer.

Be open to what presents itself. Got it.

Evans (a.k.a. Where’s Andrew?) then showed a shot of a beautiful home with lovely landscaped grounds and told us it was Joseph Stalin’s vacation home – used four times. Because, he continued, what do dictators want to curb most when growing and retaining their power over citizens? Education and travel. Those things that most open us up to other cultures, other possibilities. And the dictators themselves don’t move around much, as was clearly the case with Osama bin Laden.

If Evans got me thinking about expansiveness, then Alison Wright came on stage next and emblazoned the concept on my brain. It was like he had made me look up and she was sky writing it with an exclamation point on the end. Your thinking needs to be more expansive, Nancy. Expand your idea of what your gifts can do, Nancy.

Wright is so beyond what we think of as a photojournalist. What she’s willing to do to make searing, storied photographs … well, it’s nothing short of courageous. At first, though, all I saw was a woman about my age (as it turns out, she’s six days older than me) showing her audience dazzling photographs and talking about how she got into her profession.

But even calling it a profession in her case seems off. It’s a calling, a way of life that sets her on fire as she roams countries, sometimes showing up with nothing but her camera bag and one clean shirt, to document lives. When Wright got to the story of being in a severe bus accident in Laos and having a broken back, tailbone and pelvis, damage to her organs including collapsed lungs, and glass and metal embedded up and down her arm, I kept looking to see if there were any signs of this on her now. I saw none.

Doctors, one after another, were astounded she survived. Her journey from the remote area where the accident occurred to her home in San Francisco and all she endured in between is poured out in the book I simply had to purchase after her talk. She includes flashbacks in it, delightful stories of places and people and even meeting the Dalai Lama in 1987 before most knew who he was (he won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989).

Woven through is Wright’s meditation practice and her spiritual approach to all she does. It was pivotal for her recovery that she change doctors at one point, preferring to hear what she could do moving forward, not what she couldn’t. When she explained that she was determined to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, she was looking for support instead of discouragement. And, make no mistake about it, she did achieve that goal.

When I introduced myself to Wright after her talk I thanked her for being inspiring. In the inscription she wrote in my book, she called me a kindred spirit. And while it was lovely in the moment, I thought of how she is unfazed by worms in her body and I’m a shrieking fool if a spider skitters across my window sill. But then later, I felt a connection to her on a deeper level when I read a specific part of her book. She recounts having met Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese monk, in France in 1999; she was there to attend the retreat and photograph him. She writes:

“He explained that with air, water, and even love, we are different from one moment to the next. To have children or produce a book is output. You are giving something of yourself to be absorbed by others. You don’t have to die to be reborn. You can offer yourself to others through your insight, and your care. You can offer your heart. ‘And in that way you will live on and be remembered,’ he told me.”

I understand an independent woman living on her terms, passionately chronicling her life as legacy. I do.

We are indeed part of the story.

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Vulnerability and living

by Nancy Colasurdo on April 16, 2013

GAME PLAN:

Yesterday, about four hours before hearing any news of bombs at the Boston Marathon, I had gratefully deposited my tax checks in the mailbox at the Hoboken post office and I was heading to the gym about a block away.

En route, I saw what we’ve called since 9/11 an “unattended” bag sitting on the sidewalk next to a building. The closest person to the bag was standing 15-20 feet away, near the street. I approached him.

“Is that your bag?” I asked, pointing.

“Yes, it’s mine,” he said.

I went on my way.

Each time I do this since that fateful day in 2001, I feel a little bit like an alarmist. But I always talk myself into speaking up because it’s got to be a better feeling than not speaking up and having something awful occur.

Hours later while the news was unfolding in Boston– two blasts, blood, lockdowns – I couldn’t stop the chills from erupting on my arms. The damn vulnerability keeps escalating.

We can be vigilant, but really we just don’t know. We can’t get out ahead of everything. I remember my thinking in the fall of 2001 and it went something like this – I want to take the subway but if I take this one it might have a bomb so maybe I should walk or take another one but no maybe that one is set to explode because it’s in a busier area of Manhattan at this time of day but no that one is closer to the Empire State Building and surely they want to destroy that …

Staying above ground gives one the pleasure of sights like this in New York -- a Holly Fowler dress in a Bergdorf window.

On and on it went. At some point I think I made a subconscious decision that if I was going to die in some kind of diabolical plot it was going to be above ground and not “down there” in the cavernous, dirty, creepy tunnels. So I did a lot more walking, not avoiding subways altogether but opting out more frequently.

All of this came rushing into my head today because I had to go into New York after hearing it was on high alert in the wake of the unthinkable happening in Boston. High alert. Here we go.

I was excited about meeting a friend for lunch on the Upper East Side and then going to facilitate a discussion with a group of women at a senior center. My route was simple: PATH to F train, where I’d exit at Lexington/63rd and pick up the 6 train a few blocks away. But when I got to the Lex/63rd stop there was a lot of construction on the platform and I had to confront one of my biggest fears – a narrow path between the temporary wall and the ledge next to the tracks. I walked in single file with my fellow passengers muttering “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.” The three escalators it took to get to the street reminded me how far underground I’d been.

Note to self: You’re not taking this route home. In fact, on my way to meet my friend, I called an audible and walked instead of taking the 6 train. Instantly I felt better, lighter. Come and get me above ground, you bastards, while I’m smiling and walking with a spring in my step.

Lunch was wonderful. Then I was off to the senior center. It was my third time doing this and I knew I’d love it. The women there had engaged fiercely in previous discussions of “loneliness vs. solitude” and “loss and healing” so this day I brought with me a page of quotes on “vulnerability and living.”

It began with a Kobe Bryant vent on Facebook, a wonderfully vulnerable sharing after his Achilles injury that ran the gamut – rage, questioning, self-pity, physical pain, perspective, and determination that his pending surgery become the “first step of a new challenge.” Then I had a quote from Brene Brown, whose popularity has rocketed since her TED talk on vulnerability and more recently her appearance on Super Soul Sunday on OWN.

“Vulnerability is the core, the heart, the center, of meaningful human experience,” Brown says.

At this time in our lives, is it really any wonder her talk is one of TED’s most popular? We are vulnerable when we get dressed and walk out the door. We are vulnerable when we tell someone how we feel, when we show up at someone’s funeral that we haven’t talked to in years, when we bear a child, when we ask someone to assist us, when we’re walking with a cane, when we let love in and especially when we let it flourish and plant a flag right there in our hearts.

Also on the one-sheet I assembled for our discussion was this bit from Other People’s Love Letters by Bill Shapiro:

I hate feeling so weak and vulnerable.
I hate that I miss him.
I hate that I am alone, and I always was.
I hate that I made him into a superhero, he was not.
I hate that he doesn’t want to kiss me.
I hate that every time I cry over one boy it’s like crying over all of them again.

What I hear in this is that we have a love/hate relationship with our vulnerability. We know we can’t live well without it.

I was heartened by how much the women engaged in the conversation, spoke their truth and made clear their need to talk about what had happened in Boston. It was such a satisfying experience to be able to draw them out that way and give them a space to express.

When I left I decided to stay above ground and grab a bus across 72nd Street and take it all the way to Fifth Avenue. The plan was to then walk a bit and play it by ear. Oh, how I love that stretch of Fifth from the Plaza down to Rockefeller Center. I can feel my own energy lift as I stroll. I paused to look at the windows at Bergdorf’s (and was introduced to the amazing Holly Fowler design pictured here) and stopped into the Lindt shop for a Stracciatella truffle (OK, two).

I took a subway back from Rockefeller Center and as I made my transfer to the PATH I scurried past the police and the National Guard to catch my train. So much blue and camouflage. I hope they read my glance and smile on the run as an expression of gratitude for what they are making possible for the rest of us.

The putting aside of fear just to live. It is, like it or not, our reality.

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Interior design sparks life design? Oh yeah

by Nancy Colasurdo on April 11, 2013

GAME PLAN:

A few years ago I bought four really cool chairs to put around my kitchen table. They were two sets, actually, that I decided would look great together. Used and refurbished, white wrought iron with seats that had been re-covered in yellow and gold tones. Total whimsy.

Photo courtesy of FreeImages UK

As it turned out, though, I wasn’t crazy about how they looked in the room. The proportion was off. They got kind of lost in my old, charming kitchen. I’ve since bought new chairs in a sleek contemporary style and I love how they look with my solid oak pedestal table. It works beautifully.

In the meantime, my friend Kathi graciously stored the yellow and white ones in her small storage space. It was a welcome solution for me at the time because I had built some kind of fantasy around those chairs. I saw them in a sun room or an alcove. They evoked possibility.

Last week, with much going on in Kathi’s life (the emotional and physical clearing and selling of parental homes), we determined it was time for my chairs to find a new home. She needs the space in her unit.

Shortly after the decision, we went for a walk and I was telling her how pivotal the timing was for this. She seemed intrigued. Those chairs set off all kinds of questions in my mind. Long-term, vision kinds of questions. This is roughly how it went in my head:

Do you want to find a new place to store the chairs?

Hmmmm. I don’t know.

What’s in the way?

Well, I’m not planning to move any time soon. And even if I did, I don’t envision a cottage with a sun room.

Well, let’s go at this from another direction. If someone handed you cash and you could do anything with it, what would you add to your life?

More travel.

Not a beach house or mountain getaway?

No.

Are you sure?

Yes. I’d prefer to rent those and have the freedom to move about.

Are you really sure?

Geez, the chairs are cool, but it’s not like they belonged to Virginia Woolf or Jane Austen.

(Laughter ensues inside my head – crazy, I know.)

So what are you going to do?

Sell the chairs. To a loving home.

There’s more, isn’t there?

Yes. This felt so good that I must apply it to my life as a whole.

As in, what else do you really, really want at this time of major transition?

Precisely. Let’s take this a little further.

OK, what else do you really, really want?

That’s broad.

I hear you. How about we limit it like this – what three things do you really, really want most right now?

1. To love and be loved well

2. To publish my book

3. To travel more

Um, that took you all of 10 seconds. How did it feel?

Fabulous.

And the rule moving forward?

Anything I spend significant time on from here needs to further one of those three things or it should be reconsidered.

Really?

Yes. I would tell any of my coaching clients the same. I’d hold their feet to the fire. And they’d be exhilarated by it. Over the moon, even.

All this from chairs?

Yep. That’s how it’s done. Thoughtful living. Focusing time wisely. Being willing to bend and even change. Letting go of one vision and creating another.

Chairs indeed.

Funny, right? Ripple effects of a seemingly small moment. Chairs as gauge. Infusing a routine thing with meaning.

And here Kathi thought she was the one clearing space.

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It’s Not About PC, It’s About ‘C’

by Nancy Colasurdo on April 9, 2013

GAME PLAN:

I’m happy to see President Obama apologized for commenting on California attorney general Kamala Harris’ good looks recently. Not because I was horrified or felt it made him a misogynist. I don’t think he is. But I do think he’s smart and evolved enough to realize the perception of what he said matters.

The President “fully recognizes the challenges women continue to face in the workplace,” White House Press Secretary Jay Carney said.

It sounds like the administration knew it was important to set the tone, that they had an opportunity to set an example.

Words matter. That’s what I’m getting from the news this week. People are saying things and then we get a bitterly divided public reaction on whether those things were offensive. What often blurs the real underlying issue is the argument over whether it’s about being politically correct. It’s not. It’s about being correct in a much bigger sense.

“Be impeccable with your word,” author Don Miguel Ruiz wrote in his classic book The Four Agreements.

This brings me to Rutgers University. In the spirit of full disclosure, I covered Rutgers athletics for over a decade as a sports writer for a New Jersey newspaper in mostly the 1990s. However, I have no specific knowledge regarding recently fired men’s basketball coach Mike Rice or any inside information on what is happening there now.

By now most of us have seen the video of what is supposed to pass for a college basketball practice. Throwing basketballs at student-athletes is not discipline. Manhandling them is not making them “men,” at least not healthy men. And calling them “faggots” is not spurring emotional growth or improving their jump shot. Rice was justifiably given leave of his responsibilities coaching the Scarlet Knights.

It is the latter, though, the part about language and the ensuing reactions to it that have given me pause the last few days. The shock and outrage over the use of that god-awful homophobic term feels plastic. I mean, who in the world doesn’t know that that word is used routinely at virtually every game and practice at every male sport in the land? Hel-lo.

I am not condoning it. I think it’s spineless and cruel. Nor am I seeking to be the curse word police. My own language gets pretty salty, so I’d be bordering on hypocritical if I crossed into that territory.

However, I can’t shake the thought this week that some of the best men I know, love and respect don’t think twice about using the word “pussy” when denigrating each other. On sports fields and in arenas, on golf courses, in bars, even on television. Here’s looking at you, Jon Stewart. I say this as one who rarely misses The Daily Show and thinks Stewart is brilliant. Much like in the aforementioned case of the President and the California attorney general, I don’t think Stewart is a misogynist. In fact, I don’t think most guys who use the ‘p’ word are. To them it’s just a word uttered thoughtlessly.

But it does beg the question – why is it when straight men insult other men, usually when they’re calling them weak, they are so prone to tagging them gay or female? Maybe it would be cool if they did start thinking about it. Maybe?

I have zero interest in whether or not this is politically correct. I am much more invested in authentic expression. Why not make it an area of our lives that could help along this gorgeous shift of social consciousness that’s happening? More and more we’re awakening to how our fellow human beings feel. We’re expressing more empathy, loving better, learning extraordinary kindness.

The President gets it. He has daughters. He wouldn’t be at all thrilled to reinforce the notion that one day their level of prettiness should be mentioned in the same breath as their professional accomplishments in a business setting.

I don’t think obsessing over every word that comes out of our mouths will change the world. But some thoughtfulness, done collectively, will.

It all matters.

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Shining a light on ‘Renoir’

by Nancy Colasurdo on April 4, 2013

GAME PLAN:

I so love words and putting them together to share my thoughts with the world, but sometimes there is nothing like seeing someone else use their words to great effect. Director Gilles Bourdos has managed to articulate something I feel again and again and haven’t been able to express quite like this.

“When I’m in a period when I need to re-center myself, I go to museums a lot,” Bourdos told Wall Street Journal writer Ralph Gardner, Jr.

“When I come to the museum, it appeals to me on a spiritual level. What speaks to me is the genius of human beings. I’m always much calmer when I leave.”

Ahhhhhhhh. Precisely, soothingly so.

Bourdos relayed this to Gardner as they strolled through the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Impressionist wing recently, mostly to talk about his film, Renoir. I saw the movie at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas this week and I assume Mr. Bourdos would be thrilled to know he left me feeling that same way upon leaving the theater. What a joyful accomplishment.

***

One is struck by the light over and over in the film Renoir.

Much like gazing at Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s paintings and marveling at how the light hits creamy skin or streams through tree branches or illuminates golden hair, Bourdos keeps us wide-eyed throughout this work set in the South of France.

But beneath the exquisite surface there is story, the kind laden with humanity and pain and devotion to craft. A man driven to paint so much that even racked with crippling rheumatoid arthritis and confined to a wheelchair, he is carried by a team of caretakers to his atelier or through a stream to execute his visions on canvas.

Compelled by the softness and sensuality of flesh, of bringing it from eye to brush stroke even at an ailing age 74, Renoir is pure inspiration by virtue of his determination to keep working. We learn in the film, via his son Jean, that he doesn’t call himself an artist.

Imagine that. Renoir. Renoir.

I so love learning things about great creatives that make them real. We tend to make those whose work endures into larger-than-life, idealized figures instead of what they are – people just like us. They were given a gift and they chose to pay attention to it, nurture it, even be consumed by it in some cases. That doesn’t make them perfect or in possession of all the answers or perpetually happy or immune to self-doubt. They are, in fact, often more ordinary than extraordinary.

“I was a very diligent student; I ground away in the academic way … But I never obtained the slightest honorable mention and my professors were unanimous in finding my painting wretched,” Renoir once said.

Those of us who put our work out there – especially when it contains the essence of ourselves – can’t help but draw comfort from things like this. It spurs us on. There’s a mug on my desk filled with pens that says, “When I began I was like everyone else.” The folks who put that on the mug knew it would sell. It’s a universal message. By the way, the person who said it was Claude Monet.

I’ve written a few times about authenticity in art and whether the sunshine-y stuff is as moving or “real” as the raw, gritty variety. Renoir is clearly in the former camp and when you put the work in context, when you take into consideration his single focus to keep the art flowing, the way he worked through his physical and emotional pain to do it, it’s rather stunning.

“I refuse to paint the world black,” Renoir, played by the actor Michel Bouquet, says to his son in the film. “A painting should be something pleasant and cheerful. There are enough disagreeable things in life. I don’t need to paint more.”

Better for him to use his particular talent to produce works that bring us on to the canvas or make the people he paints appear to be reaching beyond it. The dancing couple seems to be in motion. The party goers seem to be inviting us into the fold. The nudes call us to lounge or reach out and touch them. They are rosy-cheeked and luminous.

“The pain passes, but beauty remains,” Renoir says.

***

In the Wall Street Journal piece, Gardner asks Bourdos if he likes walks in the woods, as he says the director doesn’t seem like much of an outdoorsman.

“[Bourdos] quoted the great French filmmaker Francois Truffaut: that he could see everything he needed to see of life and nature in movies,” Gardner writes. Bourdos tells him, “Seeing it captured in art, or capturing it myself, is almost more real than the reality.”

I know what he means. Unlike, say, Mary Oliver, whose glorious poetry is steeped and enmeshed in the creatures and plants and trees she beholds on her walks in the woods, hers and our oneness with it, there is more of an observer feel in the work of Bourdos and, in fact, that of Renoir.

It’s almost like an idyllic mini-vacation to observe right along with them.

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