The Last Stop - A Closing Thought From Between Stations Magazine

Motion Is Lotion

"Motion is lotion; Rest is rust - Use it or lose it!"

A wise man once told me that motion is lotion — a clever and fun way of saying "keep moving"! I heard this phrase from him more times than I can count, and over the years it settled into me the way good advice does: quietly, then all at once. Now I catch myself repeating it to my own family, friends, and anyone who will listen. In short, motion is my ultimate potion.

I didn't understand it right away. When you're young, moving is just what a body does — you run because the ball is there, you climb because the tree exists, you dance in the kitchen because a song came on and your feet had opinions about it. No one needs to tell a child or young adult to keep moving. It's simply what they do.

But somewhere along the way, chairs got comfortable and days got busy, and stillness crept in like a houseguest who never quite leaves. That's when the phrase started to make sense to me. Lotion doesn't fix dry skin once and walk away — it works because you keep applying it. Motion is the same. It isn't a single burst of energy that carries you for a lifetime. It's a small kindness you offer your body, again and again, so it remembers how to move without complaint.

There's something almost stubborn about a joint. Leave it alone too long and it tightens up, as if it's sulking. Ask it to bend after a week of sitting and it creaks like an old door hinge. But give it a little attention — a walk around the block, a stretch before bed, a few slow laps in a pool — and it softens. It says thank you in the only language joints know, which is ease.

The man who first said this to me wasn't a doctor or a trainer. He was just someone who noticed things. He noticed that the people who kept dancing, kept gardening, kept walking to the corner store instead of driving, seemed to carry their years more lightly than the ones who didn't. He wasn't chasing marathons — he was chasing mornings where his back didn't argue with him before coffee. He just moved.

That's the whimsical part of it, I think — the idea that staying limber isn't about punishing yourself into shape. It's closer to tending a garden than running a race. You don't yell at tomatoes to grow faster. You water them a little, most days, and trust the process. Bodies work the same way. A short walk today doesn't look like much, but stack enough of those small walks together and you've built something sturdy without ever noticing the construction.

I've started to see movement everywhere once I started looking for it. The neighbor who sweeps her porch every morning, humming to herself. The man at the park who does slow, deliberate stretches by the fountain, unbothered by anyone watching. My own habit of taking the stairs and walking everywhere, not because I'm in a hurry, but because I like the small proof that my legs still know their job. None of this looks like exercise in the traditional sense. It looks like living, done on purpose.

There's a lightness to this way of thinking that I find comforting. It takes the pressure off. You don't need the perfect routine or the fanciest equipment. You need permission to wiggle, stretch, pace, sway, and wander — and the willingness to do it tomorrow too, and the day after that. Motion, applied often and gently, becomes its own kind of care.

So, here's what I've come to believe, passed down from a wise man and tested by my own creaky mornings: don't wait for your body to ask for movement loudly, through pain or stiffness. Offer it before it has to ask. Dance in the kitchen. Take the long way. Stretch while the kettle boils. Keep the lotion coming.

Because a body that keeps moving tends to stay one that can.

-Dedicated to the memory of Big Brother Bay

As always, slow down, look around, and enjoy the journey…between stations.