“Isn’t What Comes After That the Important Part?”

Yesterday, an 87-year-old woman came to my salon.

I have been working with her for nearly three years.

She first came to see me when she was 84.

At the time, even walking was difficult. Every step seemed to cause considerable pain.

There was deep-seated tension in her body, and it was affecting her ability to walk.

She later told me that she had felt completely at a loss, wondering what would happen to her.

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Her condition improved relatively quickly after we began working together.

The pain eased, and she became able to walk more freely.

Normally, that would be the end of the treatment.

The problem has been resolved, so there is no reason to continue.

In fact, many people who come to KaradaNaoru stop visiting once their condition improves.

I do not think that is a bad thing.

If they no longer need treatment, there is no reason for them to keep coming.

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But she has continued to visit every month without fail.

Yesterday, while working on her body, I happened to say,

“Most people stop coming once they get better.”

She replied as if the answer were obvious.

“But isn’t what comes after that the important part?”

There was real conviction in her words.

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Perhaps she is right.

We take care of our bodies after pain appears.

We try to do something only after walking has become difficult.

Of course, that is sometimes necessary.

But it is better to care for the body before a serious problem develops than to wait until something goes wrong and then try to restore it.

Getting better is not the end.

What do we do afterward?

How do we live once our bodies have recovered?

I think all of that was contained in what she meant by “what comes after.”

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She recently started practicing tai chi.

Now she is planning to take up a new form of dance as well.

At 87, she is still beginning new things.

Instead of counting what she can no longer do, she continues to add to what she can do.

I find that remarkably strong.

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Can she begin new things because she has become healthier?

Or is she becoming healthier because she continues to begin new things?

It is probably both.

When the body improves, our actions change.

When our actions change, the body changes again.

She does not visit merely to maintain her physical condition.

She is using her restored body to set her life in motion again.

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She often tells me,

“I’m getting healthier every year.”

Those are powerful words coming from someone who is 87.

We generally assume that growing older means being able to do less.

Things we could do yesterday gradually become more difficult.

Many people believe that aging means learning to accept the decline of the body.

But she feels healthier at 87 than she did at 84.

A woman who once found walking difficult has begun practicing tai chi and is now preparing to take up dancing.

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Perhaps the most important thing is that she genuinely believes she is becoming healthier each year.

When she first came to see me, it must have been difficult for her to imagine a future in which she could walk freely again.

The experience of seeing her body change gave her confidence.

“If I come here, something can be done.”

Perhaps that is what she believes.

But that does not mean I am the one who unilaterally heals her.

It means that coming here helps her remember that she can restore her own body.

She still possesses the ability to improve.

Being able to believe that may itself be what drives her body forward.

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The way we perceive our own bodies matters greatly.

Do we believe that our condition can only worsen as we age?

Or do we believe there is still room for improvement?

That difference appears in the choices we make every day.

If we believe we can improve, we can begin practicing tai chi.

We can try a new dance.

And those actions, in turn, continue to change the body.

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I also pay close attention to my own health.

That does not mean I always live perfectly.

Sometimes I push myself too hard dancing tango.

Sometimes I have too many dinners and end up eating or drinking more than I should.

Even so, I generally try to exercise a certain amount of restraint and keep my body in good condition.

Perhaps the important thing is not never losing our balance, but being able to return quickly when we do.

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I sometimes joke with her,

“At this rate, you might still be going strong at 120.”

She always smiles.

I am not sure that merely living for a long time has much meaning in itself.

What matters is remaining healthy while we are alive.

Walking on our own feet.

Going where we want to go.

Meeting the people we want to see.

And continuing to begin new things, regardless of age.

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At 84, she could barely walk and felt completely at a loss.

Now, at 87, she can say,

“I’m getting healthier every year.”

She has started tai chi and is preparing to take up a new dance.

Growing older in that way is truly wonderful.

“But isn’t what comes after that the important part?”

I hope I will remember her words for myself as well.