There is a well-known connection, no longer just a conjecture, that the mind and body are, in fact connected. Our brains and bodies work together tirelessly for the good of our human form. And why, you ask? Well, René Descartes gave us a hint when he said, “I think, therefore I am.” A friend of mine, with a twist on that sentiment, says to suffer confirms one’s living status. If that is true, then I am fully alive at the moment, for I am in pain.

I began low impact, mild aerobic exercise last June. It was wonderfully liberating to have the time to devote to my physical improvement. As a person who spent nearly all of her professional years seated in meetings listening to endless pontifications from those whose voices sounded deliciously important to themselves, my body has paid the price.

To counter the affect of hours sitting, I’d faithfully walk nearly every day – either outdoors or on a treadmill – pounding out the mileage with military precision. But as good as that was, it wasn’t nearly enough for someone diagnosed with osteoporosis at the age of 39.

Post-retirement found me armed with time that I have dedicated to weekday exercise classes sponsored at the councils on aging in the greater Tri-Town area. Oh, sweet joy of movement. Driving home from those classes, I feel physically and mentally excellent. Yes five, six, even seven classes Monday through Friday have framed my days, giving me new strength and muscle tone I previously had only dreamed of. Watch out Beyoncé!

As I gained greater strength and confidence in the moves called out by the instructor, I pictured myself on a stage dancing and hip gyrating like a rock star, twirling like a young ballerina, or once again playing a vigorous game of volleyball with carefree fluid ease. How my imagination soared as I quickly transitioned from doing a grape vine, to a hustle, to a willow tree with a few relevés thrown in for good measure.

Then, about a week ago, as we went through a series of leg raising movements intended to strength one’s gluteus maximus, I felt a small twinge in my lower back left hip region. Warning flags were thrown on my field of play, but I ignored them. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on raising my left leg as high as possible and pulsing it to the beat of 70s disco as if I were 24 versus, well, a bigger number.

Completing the class with no residual cramps, sprains, or spasms, I left with my normal refreshed and invigorated state of being.

“I feel good, therefore I am.”

As the day progressed, I was aware of a small uprising in my lower back, but I’ve spent my life doing battle with a little scoliosis in my spine that has from time to time given me problems. In other words, “I’m in pain, therefore I’m alive.” Pish-tosh – this too shall pass.

By the next morning, it had not passed. I was in trouble – again. No, this isn’t the first time I’ve pushed my body’s very small physical capabilities to the limit. But, as I become more vintage than freshly minted, recovering does take longer.

When I was a kid in high school, I hated gym classes with a passion only a moody teenage girl can muster. The gym teacher was a very focused woman whose own daughter had been a basketball all-star and had gone on to play college level sports. In us, this teacher saw potential. In her, most of us saw only a drill sergeant. Little did we know that the basic physical skills she was attempting to instill in us would one day become lifesavers, or at the very least, quality of life necessities.

How youth is wasted on the young. If I were in that same class today, I’d be an “A” student for the effort I would pour into trying to throw a ball through a hoop, or run a mile around the track. Dear Mrs. Anderson, I now get it…

As a young woman, I played on female softball and volleyball teams. While playing softball, I sustained a thumb sprain that troubles me now much more than it did then. While playing volleyball, as I attempted to send a pass back over the towering net, I pulled a muscle in my groin; thus, ending my lackluster semi-amateur ball career. From then on, I stuck to walking and bicycling. But still, from time to time, the back was a problem.

With grandchildren there is carrying, lifting, hauling, turning, twisting, and playing on the floor. Hence, there is back pain. But again, I was younger then and the bounce back was easier. As I sit here now, how I long for an ibuprofen and my heating pad.

In spite of this lingering muscle spasm, I’m still walking. I subscribe to the train of thought that each and everyday I’m vertical is a good day. So, I push myself out the door in all types of weather or down into the basement and onto the treadmill.

I watched my mother slowly melt into a mass that could no longer move at all. She never was told she needed to get moving. Women in her age group didn’t know that physical exercise could improve not only the body, but the mind as well. She learned much too late.

She did for a while valiantly attend physical therapy in the nursing home saying, “This is so boring.” Because results from her efforts were minimal at best, she gave in, quit the prescribed treatment, and eroded from the inside out. No amount of cajoling on my part helped; she simply slid away day by day.

Yet, she approved of my self-help efforts and encouraged me to keep moving. She once said, “Stay strong so you can push my wheelchair.” She had a dark sense of humor. My Mother passed a year ago this month. I think as I walk now with my aching back, “I’m still moving, Ma.”

After I finish writing this piece, I’ll don several layers of clothing underneath which I’ll be wearing a self-adhesive heating pad stuck on my back to warm the screaming muscle. I’ll leash my pup Harry, the small but mighty, and we’ll head out to walk the village streets – he enjoying the smells, me enjoying the ability to move.

For inspiration in the cold clear wind, I’ll imagine myself as Grandma Gatewood, a woman who in 1955 at the age of 67 hiked the entire Appalachian Mountain Trail solo. She said to a reporter from Sports Illustrated, “I would never have started this trip if I had known how tough it was, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t quit.” Neither will I, Grandma! As we used to say in the 70s, “Keep on truckin,’ baby.” (Contact your local council on aging to learn about movement programs.)

By Marilou Newell