I spend a ridiculous amount of time watching otters.
We get them around here pretty regularly. In the marina. Along the river. Occasionally climbing onto a dock or popping their heads out of the water just long enough to make me stop whatever I’m doing and watch.
They never seem to be doing much of anything halfway.
An otter doesn’t politely step out of the water.
He scrambles.
He twists.
He rolls.
He dives.
He climbs onto something, changes his mind, turns around and goes right back into the water.
Sometimes they wrestle. Sometimes they chase each other. Sometimes they slide down things apparently for no better reason than sliding down things is fun.
And not once have I seen one stop, pull out a foam roller and announce:
“I really need to work on my mobility.”
Apparently nobody told the otters
I started looking them up.
Turns out North American river otters really are built for all this nonsense.
They have long, muscular bodies, short legs, webbed feet and powerful tails. In the water, that tail helps propel them while their bodies flex and move. They can twist, turn, roll and dive quickly enough that watching one can make you feel a little inadequate about your own ability to get off the couch.
And the playing isn’t necessarily wasted time.
Researchers think some of that wrestling, sliding, chasing and general otter foolishness may help strengthen social bonds and develop hunting skills.
In other words, play is part of being an otter.
I like that.
Because nobody separated movement from the rest of the otter’s life.
There isn’t life over here and exercise over there.
Movement is just what happens while he’s busy being an otter.
Humans are a little stranger
We’ve become remarkably good at removing movement from our lives.
We sit in chairs that keep us comfortably off the floor.
We drive somewhere instead of walking.
We take an elevator instead of climbing stairs.
We put things at convenient heights so we don’t have to squat, reach or bend.
We have groceries delivered.
We have packages delivered.
Hell, now I can ask GPT a question without even getting up to find the book.
I’m not complaining about any of this.
I like my car.
I’m not planning to start walking 20 miles to the Astoria studio because some guy on the internet told me our ancestors did it.
And I’m certainly not giving up Amazon. Let’s not get carried away.
But there is something funny about what happens next.
We gradually engineer ordinary movement out of our lives.
Then one day we discover we can’t move quite the way we used to.
So we invent something called a mobility routine to put some of the movement back.
I’m in the fitness business and even I have to admit that’s pretty funny.
Maybe mobility isn’t only something we train
Don’t misunderstand me.
I teach movement for a living.
I believe strongly in deliberately working with your body. Peggy and I have watched people regain movements they thought they’d lost. Sometimes a little focused attention can make an enormous difference.
But I wonder whether we’ve made the idea too small.
Mobility isn’t just what happens during the 15 minutes when you’re lying on a mat doing mobility exercises.
It’s also reaching for something on the top shelf.
Getting down on the floor.
And getting back up.
Turning around to look behind you.
Carrying groceries.
Walking across uneven ground.
Stepping over something instead of going around it.
Playing with the dog.
Working in the yard.
Climbing stairs.
Moving your body through the strange assortment of positions that ordinary life occasionally asks of it.
Maybe one reason those things can become harder is simply that ordinary life stops asking very often.
The otter doesn’t know he’s exercising
That’s the part I keep coming back to.
An otter isn’t maintaining mobility so he’ll be ready to live someday.
He’s moving because he’s living right now.
He’s chasing something.
Climbing something.
Playing with somebody.
Looking for lunch.
Getting out of the water.
Getting back into the water.
Sliding down a muddy bank because apparently walking down it would be boring.
And yes, before somebody writes to me, I understand that we’re not otters.
Please don’t go belly-sliding down your driveway because Dave said it was functional movement.
I’d rather not have that email Monday morning. 😂
But maybe the otter has something to remind us.
Your body doesn’t know whether the movement you’re asking of it came from an expensive mobility program, a yoga class, playing with your grandkids or getting down on the floor because you dropped the damn television remote.
It just knows you’re asking it to move.
And perhaps that’s worth noticing.
Not because mobility routines are bad.
Not because chairs are bad.
Not because civilization has ruined us.
Just because bodies tend to get good at the lives we give them.
So maybe this weekend, don’t worry about adding another exercise to your list.
Go somewhere.
Do something.
Play.
Get on the ground if you still can.
Reach for something.
Take the stairs once.
Move because there’s something worth moving toward.
Use some of the mobility you still have while you’re busy living your life.
The otter seems to have figured that part out without a single YouTube tutorial.