Unfettered 50

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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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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Where do you go?

by Nancy Colasurdo on November 8, 2012

You hear stories all your life about how a loved one’s death backs up on you at the strangest times, but it’s not until you’re picking out mustard in the condiments aisle in the supermarket and realizing you need to find a place where you can explode into tears that there is stark truth in that.

This was me, just moments ago. Music piped in as I shopped, suddenly I heard the lyrics “… Where do you go when you’re lonely? Where do you go when you’re blue? Where do you go when you’re lonely? I’ll follow you, when the stars go blue …”

Kevin loved this video so much he sat down at my desk one day and called it up on my computer so he could share it. Since his passing in March I’ve only watched it once, but watching it again just now I could feel his presence.

There has been so much emotion pent up in me these last two weeks. Hurricane Sandy required so many of us to think about the safety and survival of ourselves and loved ones first. Feeling had to be put off, so as to keep moving, staying informed, checking up on others.

But in spots I thought of Kevin. I miss him so much and at a time like this he would have lent a kind of pointed perspective to the hard stuff. He had a way of seeing the softness around the edges and adored exploring the spiritual side of things.

During last year’s hurricane while I was at my parents’ house about to move into our vacation home at the Jersey Shore, Kevin and I kept in email contact and it soothed me quite a bit. He had set up a generator for his parents, his father listening to Pavarotti and his mother to the radio. Kevin was reading by candlelight —  ”When Things Fall Apart” by Pema Chodron, a book I had given him.

During this hurricane and its aftermath, so much more intense and damaging, I keep wondering why he isn’t here to soothe it away. Then, Gulden’s in hand, I hear the song.

“I’ll follow you, follow you, follow you …”

He’s here after all. Oh, thank God.

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Chasing Sylvia Beach

by Nancy Colasurdo on September 8, 2012

It has taken me the entire summer to appreciate Chasing Sylvia Beach by Cynthia Morris. No, I’m not a slow reader, but I happened to take a big chunk out of this novel just before doubling my workload so I could go on vacation the last week in August with no work hanging over me. I had to put it down.

So here I was today, post-vacation, this beautiful escapist novel staring at me, my precious butterfly bookmark tassel hanging out showing so much more to be read. But the apartment needed cleaning (badly) and so I set up a little reward system. Scrub down the bathroom and you get to resume the book.

Over 200 pages later, I put it down, satisfied. I can smell the disinfectant in the spotless bathroom and I’ve enriched myself. Not a bad Saturday afternoon.

What Morris has done here is get me thinking about what is beyond this life, and in turn, what is possible in this one. She made me transcend, through her main character Lily, time and what is considered typical and just go with it. Lily time travels to 1937 Paris and comes to know her literary hero, Sylvia Beach, the expat who founded the famed Shakespeare and Company bookstore there.

I love that as it all transpires, Lily examines what she is doing and what she misses about the life she left behind in Denver.  As I read, it felt like a call to examine my own existence. Would I time travel given the chance? Is that escapism or a better option? Hmmmmm.

A favorite passage:

Here, in Paris’s dark past, she was experiencing what she’d always wanted: she was writing; she was working alongside Sylvia Beach, her cherished heroine; she had met and kissed a very charming French man; and she was finally involved in something bigger than her — even if she didn’t know what it was about — and didn’t that make life more interesting than any day she’d spent in Denver?

And while Morris and I share a love of books, I was delighted that she taught me some things along the way in her story. Lily was more schooled in the world of Hemingway than I, but I was also heartened that her parting gift was Ulysses, a great work I made a point of reading during a journalism fellowship 15 years ago.

I hope Morris will bring Lily back in a sequel so I can find out if she liked it, too.

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Beautiful, no matter what they say

by Nancy Colasurdo on August 24, 2012

Yesterday I took one of those detailed health quizzes online. I found out it would be better if I revisited the idea of vitamins, that I eat pretty darned well (probably better than most Americans but not as good as it could be for someone genetically predisposed to high blood pressure). And I also found out I should be concerned because I’m “obese.”

Yes, that’s right, obese.

If you’re offended by salty language you might want to stop reading here. Because basically I mother-fucked my computer and wished death on the inventors of the quiz. Yeah, I know it’s not very spiritual, but it’s what happened. Some of us have curves, you know, actual breasts and things. You know where you can put your “normal” chart, right?

That was yesterday.

Today I moved on with things, just as I consistently preach to my clients and readers. Small steps. My physical therapist increased my load last week.

So I got on the elliptical machine as Mayor Bloomberg conducted a press conference outside the Empire State Building, where a shooting happened this morning. I watched his calm, professional delivery and then turned to my music.

From there I moved to the aerobics studio, where, as I’ve been doing the better part of four months, I set up a mat, dumb bells, ankle weights, step, and stretch band and did my entire regimen. On the other side of the same room, a guy punched the very bag that I was hitting when I injured my knee so many months ago. There was a soothing rhythm to it all, him punching, me doing leg lifts in front of a mirror. I looped “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera over and over in my iPod.

My world. My body. My attitude.

Done.

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Welcome back, me

by Nancy Colasurdo on August 9, 2012

I feel more like Nancy than I have in a long time. I say that knowing, of course, that all of it, even the spinning, is Nancy.

But what I mean is that this Nancy I’m more acquainted with, the one who has not been herself since Feb. 10, is back in the driver’s seat. There is a semblance of control. I have copped to being a control freak, but this is different. This is about finding me somewhere in the middle of the health issues and the deaths and the setbacks and feeling profound relief.

I am unquestionably a different person after the events of this year. It feels good to put into play what I’ve been learning for years — figure out what things mean as you go along, express the anger and sadness that bubbles up so it doesn’t make you pent-up, see what reflects back to you from the ‘mirrors’ provided by those around you, and be grateful, grateful, grateful.

I have. I am.

It has been two weeks since I went off blood pressure medication, something that began back in April when all the stress got to be too much and my BP was even too high to have arthroscopic surgery on my knee. The meds made it possible for me to have the procedure, but then — ugh. They put me off my game, not just the first one my doctor prescribed but the second as well. Fatigue, swelling, an overall feeling that I had lead in my body.

Right now I feel more seasoned somehow. But happy. In a flow. Light. Clear. I am standing up straighter, engaging more.

I have a new doctor. She puts a focus on wellness. There is a craving for fresh and hitting restart here, but it’s even stronger than that. It’s an awareness that this has  equipped me to push forward into an even better place. I am gathering the support system to make that happen on every level.

But what I am most excited about is what I’m finding within myself. A bigger resolve, the satisfaction of knowing I am on exactly the right path, the ability to use naysaying as fuel, the gorgeous vision I have for my life. Suddenly I have gone from flailing to emerging. Almost roaring back.

My God, it is heady.

You know how sometimes we surprise ourselves and it’s almost jarring? That is what’s happening. I’m astonished at what is pouring forth from my ‘pen’ and my soul.

It’s nice to see you again, Nancy. Just a pleasure.

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Kusama-world

by Nancy Colasurdo on August 3, 2012

Back in 1998 when I still lived in a Central New Jersey suburb, but a year or so after completing a Knight-Wallace Fellowship at the University of Michigan, I spent a vacation week in Manhattan at the West Village apartment of my friend Christina (also a UMich fellow). She was away at a spa and generously offered her empty place to see how I liked living urban.

My Self-Portrait in the Early Afternoon Makes My Heart Tremble with Happiness

I had a mostly museum-filled week that August and I left Christina a fun little ‘diary’ of what I did each day. One of the most memorable things about the week — aside from inadvertently landing a job at FoxSports.com — was seeing the art of Yayoi Kusama. What really stuck with me was an ironing board covered in cloth, red and white polka-dotted penises. So out there and raw.

This all hit me when I opened New York magazine recently and saw there would be a Kusama exhibit at the Whitney. I visited this evening with my friend Chuck and we had a great time walking through the various periods of Kusama’s life. She’s still alive and still creating. Such an evolution of vision and statement in her pieces.

My favorite of the exhibit is pictured here. Kusama created it in 2009 when she was 80 years old. It’s called “My Self-Portrait in the Early Afternoon Makes My Heart Tremble with Happiness.” That the artist voluntarily entered a home for the mentally ill in her native Japan back in the 1970s and had a studio set up there in the ’90s makes it bracing yet poignant.

I feel so touched by her.

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Vacation, all I ever wanted

by Nancy Colasurdo on July 19, 2012

A few days ago I wrote a blog post called Foggy to Clear that expressed some relief about turning a physical and emotional corner in the challenge that has been 2012. That night I realized that my work obligations had been met and that I could award myself a 24-hour “vacation” that would take me from Wednesday morning to Thursday morning.

Oh, the joy of it. I sat in a cafe with my journal and coffee. I met a friend for a “lunch” of Coffee Lover’s Delight ice cream at Coldstone Creamery. I sat in an easy chair in Starbucks and became absorbed in reading Chasing Sylvia Beach by Cynthia Morris. With a rainstorm looming, I walked home and decided to nap through the thunder and lightning.

When I woke up the rain was still coming down hard. I went into my kitchen to cut up a gorgeous fresh tomato when I realized it sounded like it was raining inside my apartment building. My heart beating fast, I opened my apartment door and it was pouring rain into the hallway. Just torrential, crazy downpour into this four-story building.

I closed the door and made a flurry of calls to the landlord and 911. What a relief when the (OK, nice looking) firemen arrived and took over. With a team effort, we got all the proper people contacted, keys found, and a plan was in place. The building inspector shut down the electricity for the night, so we had to evacuate. The firemen found a tennis ball lodged in a drain pipe, an unlikely culprit.

You remember this was a vacation day, right? God’s sense of humor at work.

I went to spend the night with my gracious friends Kathi and Doug a block away, so relieved to have them in my life. This morning I went to the gym for a mini workout and shower and then my neighbor Rich and I sat on the porch and chatted while we waited for the owner, architect, electrician et al. Rich and I are, as we found out, opposites — he glass half-empty, me glass half-full — so I laughingly tried to explain the concept of holding consciousness for a positive outcome.

As the day went on and people did their jobs to help keep us in our homes, more graciousness. My friend Susan came by to lend moral support. So did Doug. Kathi kept in touch most of the day. My neighbor Terry proved pivotal to moving things along with her ties in the community.

Our electricity is back on, but somewhere along the way my cable box decided to die. I called the cable company and the helpful gentleman tried to take me through some seemingly simple steps involving wires and placement. But with my iffy knee, I couldn’t kneel and follow what he was trying to tell me.

This was, finally, when I broke. Ever so close to tears, frustration just overwhelming me, I took a deep breath and explained to him that I couldn’t do it. Still, he was pretty convinced the box was dead, needed replacing, and a repairman would have to take care of it anyway. We set that up for tomorrow.

Breathing.

My friend Doug, in his understated way, said, “You’re having an interesting year.”

I nodded. Because, really, let’s look at this. The roof caved in. Hello, metaphor, yes? But here’s the interesting part, the gleam of light. It only damaged common area down the middle of the hallway. No individual apartments. As I write this, there are some big-assed contraptions pumping out water just beyond my door and precautions are being taken for mold and mildew.

It all feels like a test. God knows there’s a part of me that wanted to crack. Why now? Seriously? Are you flippin’ kidding me?

But right on a plaque in my home it says that peace isn’t the absence of conflict, it’s the ability to cope with it. Go within, baby. You’ve got this. You have got this.

No TV tonight. Not a real problem.

The roof caved in a bit. You’re sitting at your computer writing about it. Making sense of an episode unleashed by a tennis ball.

Lots of people have your back. No pity party, just support. Sweet support.

The trick sometimes is to find the joy in that.

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