Last fall was a difficult time in my life. I had a full schedule at school, I was volunteering with a local community theatre, and I was taking an improv class. To complicate things more, I was recovering from two orthopedic surgeries over that summer and had put back on forty of the pounds I had worked so hard to lose. I managed to get bronchitis mid-semester and kept it for the rest of the semester. Let’s make it simple: I was a mess.

I walked into my upper-level theatre class and immediately knew I was going to have some problems. The classroom was a large room, about the size of two to three regular classrooms with a ceiling that seemed to reach up to heaven. The corner held about eight or nine supersized kindergarten nap mats. Pushed back into another unused corner were some chairs and desks. The classroom is called the “Movement Room.”

This was a two-period, back-to-back class with only 12 students. It would be impossible to hide unless I found Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak hidden back behind those desks. Everyone took off their shoes and sat on the floor, gathered around our instructor’s feet. I couldn’t help but smile as I was reminded of Jesus imparting wisdom to his barefoot disciples. On the first class break, the instructor suggested that we could grab a chair if it was more comfortable. I did just that.

The next class started more ominously for me; students quickly paired two-by-two to move and unfold the large mats. Our instructor then told us to lie down on the mats on our backs, hands at our sides (palms up to keep wrist bones from crossing), and move our legs to be even with our hips. This seemed harmless enough. Getting down on the floor was a major task me and getting up was even harder, but simply lying on the mat was good.

Our instructor took us through some breathing techniques to help us focus. He then announced that we were all “sponging.” My focused mind quickly conjured images of SpongeBob singing his theme song about living in a pineapple under the sea. The instructor’s voice reminding us of our breathing brought me back into the moment. We began some simple guided movements before centering ourselves back into the classroom. For all of you non-theatre folks, let me assure you that there is a valid reason for learning this type of practice. Ask any theatre person and they will be happy to explain.

This class was filled with movements such as getting down on the floor and back up, falling, running, climbing and more. I prided myself on being able to keep up with my fellow students despite being in my sixties. This semester was different. I had returned to some old unhealthy habits. I wasn’t eating properly, sleeping enough or exercising. In fact, life on campus was just a general challenge. Maneuvering around College of Charleston is somewhat reminiscent of Indiana Jones making his way through the Temple of Doom. Sidewalks are made of uneven bricks with tree roots jutting out here and there making the simple act of walking dangerous. Moving from one building to another requires crossing busy tourist- and traffic-filled streets. Oh, and there are stairs everywhere. Yes, there are elevators, but they are slow and often overcrowded.

During one of our “sponging” sessions, our instructor began referring to our bodies as our instruments. As actors, we use our bodies as instruments. This resonated with me; I began to think that in everything I do, my body is my instrument. As a writer, I can’t be creative if I am in pain, tired or unhealthy. My body is the instrument I use to be a mother, grandmother, friend, student and more. We talked about this idea many times in class. The semester ended and I carried this idea close to my heart.

Classes began again after the holidays but I still hadn’t done anything with my new perspective. Two weeks into the semester, I realized I had been using my body as an excuse for not being and doing all I wanted/could do. I made the decision to get my "instrument" in shape. I joined the gym, changed the way I ate and gave up some things in order to work with a personal trainer. As this semester begins, I am eating a healthier diet, I sleep eight hours per night (most nights, anyway), and I have lost 46 pounds of fat/ gained nine pounds of muscle.

This semester, I am taking another class in the Movement Room with the same professor and a class in which sitting on the floor is the norm. This time, I can sit down, stand up, run around, climb and keep up with the rest of my fellow classmates. I am writing more and with more focus than I have in quite a while. As I turned sixty-five last week, I was able to look to the future without trepidation.

I have learned many valuable things in college in subjects ranging from biology to acting, from math to poetry, and from women’s studies to Western Civ. However, my college education has become much more than learning from books and lectures. I am learning about myself. I am discovering the connection between my mind and body. I am becoming the person I always knew was hidden deep inside.

Have you learned something unexpected during your time at college about yourself or life? If so, that, to me, is what college is about.