The Ritual of Play

I remember vividly what it was like right before kindergarten. I was in preschool, and all my body wanted to do was play — hopscotch, jump rope, the monkey bars, hanging upside down. Learning how to move through space and conquer the playground was the whole job. I wanted to cross those monkey bars without falling off. I wanted to balance across the wobbly wood-chip beam. I remember hanging upside down, skirt in my face, underwear exposed, and not caring one bit who saw or what they thought.

I remember, too, the first time skipping clicked — one of those moments where the uneven rhythm just arrived. Step-hop, quick-step-hop, hop-step-hop-step, whichever came first. Our bodies eventually figure it out, or find some adaptation that gets us there.

That memory is part of why I do the work I do now. I work in adapted physical education, and skipping is the skill I've come to understand most deeply — how hard it actually is, and how challenging it can be for students with gross motor deficiencies. I know that sounds funny, since we think of skipping as effortless. But it's the last skill to arrive in the foundation of childhood locomotor development, after hopping, jumping, sliding, galloping, crawling, creeping, climbing, hanging, pushing, pulling, running.

We work these patterns over and over with our students: balance on one foot, then hop on one foot — maybe holding someone's hand for support — then hop forward, then finally add the step and alternate feet. There's a reason playgrounds are built the way they are. As children, we build locomotion, spatial awareness, and strength through things we never once thought of as exercise. We just wanted to master them in our bodies. And we always wanted someone watching. Look at me. Look what I can do.

What I remember most, underneath all of it, is how proud I was the moment I mastered something. Skipping especially brought immediate joy — not because anyone told me I was exercising, or improving my cardiovascular health, or working on my coordination. I skipped because I had learned something my body could do. And once I learned it, I wanted to do it everywhere.

Movement Literacy

That's the part I keep coming back to as an adult: the things we conquered on the playground weren't random childhood activities. They were foundational movement skills, and each one built something specific.

• Skipping builds rhythm, coordination, balance, unilateral movement, weight shifting, and motor planning.
• Hanging builds grip strength, shoulder stability, and body awareness.
• Balancing builds proprioception and postural control.
• Jumping teaches force production and landing.
• Climbing builds coordination and problem-solving.
• Rolling teaches spatial awareness.
• Crawling builds cross-body coordination.
• Play gives us a reason to practice all of it, without ever calling it exercise.

I call this "movement literacy" — the vocabulary of skills a body knows how to speak. And like any language, it fades without use. We spend so much energy in midlife trying to build strength that we forget to maintain the movements that made us feel strong in the first place. Think about how hard it is now to hang your full weight from a bar with one hand and swing forward. When did you last skip? Play hopscotch? Pick up a jump rope?

Maybe staying young has less to do with looking younger and more to do with continuing to ask your body: Can I still do that?

As children, that vocabulary was enormous — run, skip, hop, gallop, crawl, climb, hang, swing, roll, jump, balance, squat, twist, reach, throw, catch, chase, dodge, cartwheel. Then adulthood happens. We walk. We sit. We stand. We exercise in narrow, predictable patterns, and slowly the vocabulary shrinks.

What if aging isn't only about losing strength or flexibility? What if it's also about forgetting movements we've simply stopped practicing?

The Ritual of Play

Midlife is not the time to make your world of movement smaller. It's the time to expand it again. Maybe your body doesn't need another punishment — maybe it needs curiosity. Instead of asking what workout should I be doing, try asking: what movement have I forgotten?

Once a day, or a few times a week, choose one movement from childhood and just do it.

Skip down the driveway. Hang from a pull-up bar. Walk a curb like a balance beam. Jump over a crack in the sidewalk. Get on the floor and crawl around with your kids or grandkids. Swing. Climb. Dance. Roll around in the grass. Turn a cartwheel in the yard, even a crooked one.

Don't count reps. Don't track calories. Don't worry about whether it "counts." Just remember.

Because this ritual was never really about becoming younger. It's about keeping the young parts of your movement vocabulary alive — not holding on to who we used to be, but remembering what our younger selves already knew instinctively: to move, to play, to explore, to try something just because it looks fun. To fall. To get back up. To say, watch me.

Your body remembers. Don't stop giving it reasons to. This is my invitation to you to go skip. Hang from the bar. Walk the balance beam. Jump. Cartwheel. Let that playfulness carry a little further into the bedroom. I love folding it into time with my partner.

A small amount of Suet'Amor™, warmed and shared. It becomes its own kind of play — unhurried, a little silly, an excuse to touch and be touched without an agenda. The same body that just turned a cartwheel gets to be admired, tended to, wanted.

Play asks the body to be uninhibited. Suet'Amor helps skin hold onto that same openness — supporting its natural barrier with biocompatible lipids that nourish rather than overwhelm, so touch stays easy and skin stays soft enough to enjoy.

Together, they are a ritual of playfulness — the kind that starts on the driveway or in the grass, and finds its way, still laughing, into bed.

Please note: This post reflects my personal experience and is not intended as medical advice. Please consult your healthcare provider before beginning any new exercise practice.