The Body Remembers

Aging Bodies and Youthful Dreams

Suppose for a moment that our aging bodies carried not only scars and wrinkles of the years gone by, but also every dream we once dreamed…

Would those longings weigh you down, or would they keep you light on your feet?

I think about this a lot. My body has grown slower, stiffer, more cautious than it once was. Yet my spirit still runs ahead, tugging me toward old dreams that haven’t faded.

I am learning that the body remembers. It remembers both the aches of age—and the fire of youth.

The tug of two selves

The other day, I bent down to pick up something from the floor and found myself steadying against the arm of a chair to rise again.

Nothing unusual. But as I stood there, I felt a rush of memory: me at fifteen, springing to my feet from my seat on the floor with the kind of ease that took no thought at all.

That young self is still inside me, full of energy and possibility. My body may hesitate, but my spirit still expects to leap.

It was during those young years that I climbed Mt. Katahdin and dreamt of hiking the Appalachian Trail. I have always loved the wilderness.

I can feel the silence of the woods that surrounded me when my father took me hunting.

I often dream of returning…not to hunt, but to listen to the trees whispering to each other. And to me.

It is strange, isn’t it, to inhabit both selves at once — the young dreamer who still lives inside and the aging body that measures each step carefully? Sometimes they tug against each other, but at other times they walk hand in hand.

An aging body’s memory

What surprises me is how deeply the body remembers joy. Not long ago I heard a familiar song on the radio. Without thinking, my hands tapped out the rhythm.

My fingers moved on the imaginary valves of a trumpet, as if I were still playing in a jazz band. The body stores laughter in the muscles and songs in the bones.

Maybe you have felt this too — the sudden recognition of a scent, a melody, a familiar place — and your body responds before your mind even catches on.

The smell of bread baking will carry me back to kitchens I haven’t stood in for seventy years.

The body remembers.

The body remembers

Of course, my body also remembers its wounds. The falls, the surgeries, the illnesses that left their scars. But even these have become teachers.

They remind me that dreams need not disappear simply because my body has changed. They need reshaping.

When I was younger, I dreamed of adventures — big ones. I wanted to go to Africa, accomplish great deeds, live boldly.

Now my body cannot carry me to all the places my younger self once imagined. I am grateful my body carries me to the grocery store!!

Yet I still dream — not of climbing mountains, perhaps, but of walking to the end of the street to see what flowers have bloomed.

Not of playing on grand stages, but of speaking quietly into the lives of people who cross my path. (Like readers of TheReflectivePen)

For me, writing has become an adventure…it takes me places my bones could never go, though I confess there are days when holding a pen hurts like a son-of-a-gun! So I write slower, a little at a time. And often use a keyboard instead. Sometimes even dictation.

The dreams remain, but they have learned to walk at my body’s pace.

The deeper layer

Our bodies hold not just the story of our years but the essence of who we are. My hands may shake, but they still know how to bless.

My legs may ache, but they still carry me toward people I love. My voice may quaver, but it still holds the power of song and prayer.

We sometimes talk about the body as if it betrays us in old age. (A lot of that, a cultural expectation!)

But what if it is not a betrayal, but a remembering? A way of holding the whole of our life — the leaps and the limps, the strength and the stumbles — all woven together.

What if the dreams that once ran ahead of us are still here, waiting for us to notice that they’ve settled quietly into our bones?

Learning to honor both

These days, I practice noticing the ways my body still surprises me. I can lift more than I think. I can walk further on some days than I expect.

And when I can’t, my body teaches me to pause, to rest, to adapt. That too is wisdom.

I try to honor both: a body that remembers, and the dreams that still live within. They are not enemies. They are partners.

Just the other day I had plans to go on a picnic by the river. Sitting in my car watching the clouds over the water is one of my favorite activities.

On that particular day, with the gift of an awesome new rollator, I strolled a paved path to a hidden spot with a picnic table overlooking the river…something I used to do frequently when I didn’t have to think about walking.

I was surprised by the gift my body gave me that day. I have learned there’s more than one way to get from point A to point B! Check out the rollator here!!

A question for you

So I ask you: what dream from your younger self still lives inside you today? Has it changed shape as your body has changed?

Perhaps you once dreamed of running marathons, and now you find joy in morning walks. Or in cheering a grandchild running with a track team.

Perhaps you once longed for faraway travel, and now you discover new worlds in books or some hidden history in your own neighborhood.

The dream itself may look different, but the pulse beneath it is the same.

The body remembers — the falls, yes, but also the dances.

It carries the voices of people we have loved, the touch of hands that shaped us, the dreams that still whisper when we quiet ourselves enough to hear them.

I cannot move as I once did. But my body holds all that I was, all that I am, and all that I still long to be. And that is no small gift.