Simon's Graceful, Confident Dance
No Longer Sedentary
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Simon, at 85, had always prided himself on his independence. He navigated city streets, hiked forest trails, and even ballroom danced with a confident, effortless grace.
But lately, every step felt like a gamble. The world seemed to tilt unexpectedly, the floorboards at home seemed to conspire against him, and the specter of falling had become a constant, chilling companion.
A bad tumble six months ago had left him bruised and shaken, and the fear had settled deep in his bones, making him increasingly sedentary. His once-bustling life had shrunk to the confines of his armchair and the short, hesitant shuffles between rooms.
His walker stood perpetually by his side, a stark reminder of his newfound fragility. He saw it as an unwelcome public declaration of his dwindling capabilities. He sighed each time he reached for it, the sound a mournful echo of his inner struggle.
The irony wasn't lost on him: the very tool meant to give him freedom felt like a prison.
One dreary afternoon, his granddaughter, Clara, a sprightly physical therapist, arrived for her weekly visit. She watched him carefully, her bright eyes missing nothing.
"Grandpa," she began gently, "have you ever considered Tai Chi?"
Simon scoffed. "Tai Chi? You want me to wave my arms around like some ancient willow tree? I can barely walk without this contraption!" He gestured dismissively at his walker.
Clara just smiled. "It's not about waving, Grandpa. It's about grounding. About finding your center. It's incredibly slow, incredibly deliberate." She pulled up a video on her tablet, showing a serene group of older adults moving with fluid grace. There was no hopping, no swift turns – just a quiet, purposeful shifting of weight.
Reluctantly, Simon agreed to try a beginner's class. He arrived at the community center feeling self-conscious, acutely aware of his walker and his stiff gait. The instructor, a woman with a calm voice, welcomed him warmly. She spoke of "rooted stances," of "connecting with the earth," of "finding stability from within."
Simon started with the most basic movements, leaning heavily on his walker, using it as an anchor. He found himself focusing intently on each micro-movement: the slow raising of a hand, the shifting of weight from one foot to the other, the deliberate placement of his heel then his toes.
It wasn't about "fixing" his balance, he realized, but about understanding the process of balance, piece by painstaking piece. He began to perceive his own body not as a collection of failing parts but as a complex system that simply needed mindful re-engagement.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, something shifted. He wasn't trying to fight the fear of falling anymore; he was learning to listen to his body, to feel the subtle adjustments his muscles made to keep him upright.
He started to notice the sensation of his feet on the floor, the pressure points, the subtle sway of his torso. The ground beneath him, once treacherous, began to feel more solid, more responsive.
His walker, once a symbol of his frailty, gradually evolved into a new image in his mind. During his Tai Chi practice, he often held onto it, using it not as a crutch but as a stable partner.
Simon started imagining it as a silent companion in a slow, precise dance. When he shifted his weight, the walker shifted with him, a steadying presence. It was no longer a sign of weakness but a tool for exploration, enabling him to venture into movements he wouldn’t have dared to attempt alone.
Simon began to think of his walker not as a limitation but as an enhancement.
He started practicing a few movements at home, just holding onto the kitchen counter. He focused on his breath, on the feeling of his feet rooted to the floor. The initial fear began to recede, replaced by a quiet confidence. He was moving with intention, with a newfound awareness.
One sunny morning, he found himself humming a jaunty tune as he moved through his hallway. He still used his walker, but he wasn't dragging it. He was guiding it, almost gliding alongside it.
He reached the living room, paused, and without even realizing it, executed a slow, deliberate "grasping the bird's tail" movement. His hands moved with surprising fluidity. He caught his reflection in the mirror: an 85-year-old man, still using a walker, yes, but no longer defined by it.
He was moving, he was flowing, he was dancing with the earth, his reliable walker by his side.
Simon, a once-sedentary man, was finally moving again, grounded, confident, and perhaps a bit graceful.
Also hear and read Simon’s “parent story” from 2024
Go to “Ladonna’s Readjustment from What to Who“
Age: Our Greatest Asset!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
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Due to a recent, and I hope transitory, problem with my legs, I seldom go out without my shiny gold aluminum cane. To think of it more as an enhancement, I’m going to consider it a faithful buddy who’s always got my back. Named it (him) Charlie.
The first 20 years of my life were pretty unstable (in terms of gaining the balance required to walk unaided), due to my cerebral palsy. I would brace myself against the walls of a hallway, grab wheelchairs or grocery carts to push as an aid for walking or shuffle myself to the next chair – all to satisfy my physical therapists who wanted me to learn how to walk independently (without a walker or crutches).
As a sophomore in college, I finally ignored the professionals and bought myself a pair of aluminum Canadian-style crutches, which had just hit the market in 1962.
That first pair of aluminum crutches got me through college. I then wore out six pairs of the same type of crutch during the next 29 years while working in corporate communications.
In 1985, I bought my first mobility scooter, which I used for navigating long distances.
In 2005, I switched my aluminum crutches to lighter, titanium, cut-to-fit crutches
By 2012, my walking pattern changed, and I preferred my walker over my crutches but still relied on my mobility scooter for long hauls.
For the last 60 years, advancing technology for mobility has been my friend – and has sapped my fear of falling.
* When has a new-found peace entered your life?