Keep It Moving

Are you ready to defy the limitations of age and inertia? In 'Keep It Moving,' Twyla Tharp, the celebrated choreographer, offers a potent antidote to the universal fear of growing older: a life of intentional movement and unwavering purpose. Prepare to challenge your assumptions about what's possible as you explore how to make change your habit, confront lethargy, and cultivate resilience. You'll gain practical tools to assess your physical and mental state, plan for the future, and build a fulfilling 'second act.' With Tharp as your guide, you'll discover that everyone is a dancer, capable of finding joy and freedom in movement, no matter their age or ability. This book is a call to action, an invitation to embrace life with vigor, and a reminder that our bodies are our most essential job. Expect a blend of insightful reflection, practical advice, and inspiring anecdotes, all delivered with Tharp's signature wit and wisdom. 'Keep It Moving' is not just about aging gracefully; it's about thriving with purpose and passion at every stage of life.

Twyla Tharp, in "Keep It Moving," confronts our universal fear of aging, a fear she sees as a disease with a readily available cure: movement and intentionality. She recounts a conversation with a young Mikhail Baryshnikov, who, even at twenty-seven, felt the looming specter of age, a sentiment Tharp understands acutely as a dancer. She argues against the futile chase for eternal youth, urging us to embrace change and vitality instead. The author emphasizes that stagnation, complacency, and stasis are the true enemies, not age itself. Attempting to freeze life, she warns, is destructive, akin to freezing any animate creature, stopping its natural progression. Tharp introduces the concept of 'status quo bias,' the human tendency to resist change, and encourages breaking free from constricting habits, both physical and mental. She paints a vivid picture of physical contraction—backs arching, steps shortening, vision narrowing—and warns that the mind inevitably follows the body's lead. Tharp champions expansiveness as the antidote, urging us to take up more space, both physically and metaphorically, choosing expression over observation, action over passivity, and the unknown over the familiar. She advocates for a personal 'Occupy More Space' protest, envisioning life beyond forty-five as a powerful beginning. Tharp then introduces the concept of 'expansiveness', defining it with four key ingredients: intention, honest appraisal of the past, directed energy, and time. She underscores the importance of making choices and investing time and energy to shape our lives, rather than relying on luck. Tharp presents a contract with the future, urging readers to acknowledge their choices, embrace their bodies, reidentify themselves as needed, navigate obstacles, and train for stamina. Ultimately, Tharp calls for abandoning the status quo, embracing movement, and pledging to get over the fear of aging, offering a path to a more vibrant and fulfilling life.

In this reflective chapter, Twyla Tharp illuminates the profound difference between a life chosen and a life merely lived, emphasizing that our choices, big or small, ultimately define our personal pledge. Tharp recalls a pivotal moment at twenty-one, a dressing room revelation that dancing was her destiny, despite the practical uncertainties. She urges us to view a pledge not as a static promise, but as a Polaroid slowly developing, revealing itself through the constellation of choices we make over time. The author cautions against inaction, the paralysis born of overthinking and fear, advocating instead for the instinctive choices that resonate deep within our bodies. Tharp introduces the concept of a pledge as distinct from a goal; a goal is finite, achievable, whereas a pledge is an ongoing commitment, a continuous striving. She illustrates this with the story of Diana Nyad, whose impressive Cuba-to-Florida swim was a goal achieved, but a true pledge is the daily, unwavering dedication to one's life's work. Tharp then shares her own experience of leaving an audition with the Rockettes, realizing that her pledge demanded she create, not just perform, leading her to choreography. This decision underscores the importance of expanding opportunities, even amidst obstacles, rather than conforming to limitations. Tharp recounts Karen von Blixen's resilience in the face of immense loss, who transformed tragedy into art, finding her true calling as a writer under the pseudonym Isak Dinesen. Like Monet's persistence despite failing eyesight, Tharp champions the idea that obstacles are not synonymous with failure but are integral to the creative process; these are the weights we push against to find isometric strength in our lives. The chapter culminates in a call to action: to embrace our individual pledges, to push back against resistance, to value failures, and to use every experience as fuel for our journey, recognizing that the secret to life, as Henry Moore suggests, lies in dedicating ourselves to a task that perpetually stretches beyond our grasp, transforming choice into an enduring allegiance.

Twyla Tharp, in "Keep It Moving," confronts us with a fundamental truth often overlooked: our body is our most essential job, a pledge we make simply by inhabiting it, yet so often neglect. She observes how easily we succumb to physical inertia, hunching over screens and shrinking our physical presence, especially as age tempts us towards inactivity. Tharp challenges the cultural bias that undervalues physical striving against mental acumen, a false dichotomy she dispels by highlighting how elite athletes possess sharp minds precisely because their physicality hones them. She advocates viewing fitness not as a chore but as an investment, a way to expand our social, emotional, and intellectual well-being, and fulfill our obligations, crafting a competitive edge and elevating self-esteem. Tharp paints a vivid scene: the gym regulars, each with their purpose—the financier building power, the officer seeking stamina, the lawyer improving coordination—all embodying a commitment to maximize their physical inheritance. She introduces William Pullen's dynamic running therapy, illustrating the profound connection between movement and mental tranquility. Tharp acknowledges the common hurdles—expense, time constraints, intimidation—but insists on the necessity of physical activity, framing it as a no-excuses situation where our very lives are at stake. She urges us to combat our inherent laziness by integrating movement into daily routines, "marking" our day like dancers, finding creative ways to weave physical activity into the fabric of our lives, transforming mundane moments into opportunities for motion. Tharp uses the micro-metaphor of shuffling cards, urging us to cut exercise into our jobs as frequently as possible. She concludes by likening fitness to farming, a daily commitment to showing up and adapting, finding delight and renewal in the process, understanding that a life that gives the body its due is ultimately a happy life, obstacles and all.

Twyla Tharp, in "Keep It Moving," confronts the human tendency to resist change, portraying the past as an anchor that, if not managed, halts evolution. She opens with a stark image: Lots wife, a pillar of salt formed from evaporated tears, a monument to the tragic consequences of looking back. Tharp argues that embracing change, making it a habit, is essential for continued growth. She introduces the concept of adopting a persona, drawing inspiration from Hokusai, who reinvented himself through renaming and immersing himself in new environments, and Bob Dylan, who compartmentalized his life by splitting himself into person and persona, allowing himself the freedom to experiment without risking his core identity. To combat the fear of failure, Tharp suggests reframing our relationship with it, like learning to fall with control, understanding that recovery is key. She urges us to visualize our comeback *before* we fall. When procrastination looms, Tharp advises minimizing the initial step, breaking down daunting tasks into the smallest tolerable actions, thus jumpstarting momentum. She cautions against the creeping entitlement that success can breed, advocating for physical self-reliance and adherence to rules as a means to stay grounded. Tharp emphasizes that past achievements do not guarantee future success; each day requires renewed effort. Finally, she highlights the importance of recognizing when something is over, exemplified by Roger Bannister's transition from record-breaking runner to physician, illustrating that true progress involves integrating past experiences with future aspirations, moving forward while respecting what has been. Like the Lavins, who hike and ski without fear, we should poke ourselves daily, asking, "Are you still alive?", ready to greet each day with discovery.

Twyla Tharp, in "Keep It Moving," tackles the universal struggle of confronting lethargy and negativity, especially as age advances, suggesting that optimism isn't merely a feeling but a practiced discipline. She introduces the idea of a morning body assessment, akin to a pilot's pre-flight check, to gauge one's physical and emotional state, acknowledging that some days demand a deliberate "kick into high gear." Tharp advocates for the conscious choice of optimism, emphasizing that a victorious day requires active effort, sometimes even extreme measures like blasting high-energy music—Sousa marches or Beethoven's Ninth—to ignite movement and motivation; the body, after all, responds viscerally, allowing the brain a moment's rest. Jumping, she argues, is a potent physical expression of optimism, offering a series of exercises to build energy and joy, even recommending dance or group activities to amplify the effect, creating a community of like-minded souls pushing back against aging. Tharp underscores the importance of a positive attitude, particularly for dancers, who face immense physical challenges; she notes that a committed, positive dancer far outweighs a talented but difficult one. She urges readers to become their own cheerleaders, combating "learned helplessness" by aligning actions with values, revisiting their personal pledges, and addressing shortcomings. Philip Roth's morning mantra, "Attack, attack," serves as a reminder to demand more from life, while Tharp acknowledges the inevitability of "kvetching" or complaining, advocating for humor and perspective to transform grievances into actionable truths. Drawing from her experience with Donald O'Connor, she illustrates the "trooper's attitude"—relentless optimism and fortitude in the face of adversity. Tharp concludes by stressing the necessity of protecting one's positivity by learning to say no to negative influences, categorizing people as "dopamine-positive" or "dopamine-negative" to consciously curate relationships. Referencing Henri Matisse's late-life artistic surge despite physical limitations, Tharp champions the ongoing fight for change over stasis, urging readers to visualize their values and maintain faith, beliefs, and constant action; even when bedridden, Matisse found new ways to create, a testament to unwavering commitment and joy, proving that even in the twilight years, there are always flowers for those who want to see them, always a route to joy if one is willing to seek it.

In this exploration of anticipation, Twyla Tharp draws us into the world of Agatha Christie, where anticipation is a finely tuned instrument, a tool that makes her novels addictive. Tharp reflects on a biologist friend's explanation of how our brains are wired to seek reward, releasing dopamine not just upon achievement, but crucially, in the moments leading up to it – the anticipation itself. She introduces the story of Babette, who finds reward in anticipating the pleasure of others through an elaborate meal. For Honnold, planning is a matter of survival, a meticulous mapping of every hold on a treacherous climb. Tharp emphasizes that both hope and anxiety are modes of anticipation that can be translated into action through planning and preparation. She recounts her own experience at Constitution Hall, where anticipating a potential stage disaster allowed her to proactively address the issue, transforming worry into a catalyst for action. But she cautions against dwelling too long in bleakness, lest fear become a paralyzing force. Instead, she advocates visualizing success, rehearsing actions in the mind to improve the odds of a pleasant outcome, and to avoid issues before they develop. Tharp then urges the reader to expect a daily miracle, a small instance of beauty or elegance, to train the mind to seek the positive, and to share this pleasure with others, amplifying its effect. She shares stories of Richard Burke, who generously shared his musical knowledge and passion, as well as Agatha Christie, who planned for the long term by writing and storing novels. Ultimately, Tharp encourages us to script each day with intention, anticipating conflicts and identifying allies, to ensure a satisfying conclusion to our life's pledge, understanding that the reward comes from the impact our choices have on others, a pleasure to be shared and anticipated in return. It's about transforming anticipation from a mere sensation into a repeatable skill, a dance between planning and possibility.

In "The Long Haul," Twyla Tharp unveils the intricate dance between stamina and longevity, framing a sixty-six-day tour as a crucible for her dancers and herself. As our guide, Tharp sets the stage with a ritualistic pledge among her dancers: "I will not go down," a mantra against the draining forces of travel and performance. She illuminates how modern travel, despite its speed, paradoxically erodes conditioning, urging constant stretching and joint care to combat immobility. Stamina, she argues, isn't just about isolated bursts of energy but sustained exertion over time, dividing her day into thirds—workout, rehearsal, performance—expecting peak alertness throughout. Tharp confronts the complacency that dulls progress, emphasizing the need for continuous challenge, akin to a trainer upping the weight to force adaptation. The narrative tension peaks in Bloomington, Indiana, where the tour's grind threatens to turn performances rote, prompting Tharp to deliver tough news with a gentle hand, reminding her troupe that creative repetition, like Rosalyn Tureck's Bach practice, demands fresh approaches and intentions, revealing that there is no single right way. As Tharp reflects on aging, she elevates stamina as the great equalizer, a choice, not a birthright, cultivated through simple, repeated steps, exemplified by Hua Chi, the monk whose daily ritual etched footprints into the temple floor, a testament to hard work warding off aging. She encourages us to measure time through our bodies—breath, heartbeat, movement—finding our own units of time in physical activity, be it a push-up or a stair climb, and to build stamina by enlarging the number of repetitions daily, setting achievable goals and celebrating each victory. For those seeking maximal stamina, Tharp prescribes the jump rope, a grueling yet efficient tool, varying speed and footwork to combat tedium, ultimately building to endurance, or sisu, that Finnish grit born from the gut. The tour's climax at Lincoln Center tests the dancers' limits, revealing an initial slump born of nerves and weariness, only to be superseded by a miraculous second wind, a surge of crackle and precision fueled by their unwavering commitment. Tharp concludes that stamina, far from depleting with work, builds with sustained commitment, culminating in a triumphant final performance, a heavenly reward for their monklike devotion, proving that with stamina, no one goes down.

In "Keep It Moving," Twyla Tharp uses George Foreman's improbable comeback as a launchpad to explore resilience, or as she prefers, the art of the "bounce back." She sets the stage by recounting Foreman's victory against Michael Moorer, nineteen years his junior, a feat that underscores the power of defying expectations. Tharp acknowledges the sine wave of life, where blows inevitably come, and the key is not just moving forward, but upward, beyond the troughs. She introduces six thoughts to cultivate this essential skill. First, Tharp tackles imposter syndrome, that insidious voice whispering doubts about talent and worth, especially after a setback; she urges us to remember the boxer on his back, squirming to regain footing, suggesting a physical "squirm" exercise to reconnect with our bodies and regain purchase. Then, she emphasizes the importance of framing, like William Faulkner viewing horse-riding falls as writing training, we should reframe negatives as positives, finding utility in difficulty. Tharp then introduces the concept of using a 'mirror' to gain an objective point of view. Next, Tharp advocates for a better program, learning from mistakes and making incremental changes, recalling Martha Graham inspiring dancers with language rather than demonstration; she recounts her own experience taking a monologue class to strengthen her verbal communication, showing that growth can come from unexpected places. Tharp then stresses that we should build bridges when we can't build cathedrals, accepting that not every effort will be a masterpiece, but each contributes to the journey. She cautions against revenge as a motivator, which keeps wounds green, and advocates for authentic desire for improvement, a pledge that aligns actions with intentions, and finally, Tharp explores the elusive concept of closure, offering a practical exercise of dropping something unnecessary to create space for new beginnings. She concludes by referencing Bernini, the Baroque sculptor, whose early genius was validated centuries later, illustrating that justice and balance—or peace—may take time, but daily practice fortifies us to weather life's inevitable highs and lows, urging us to move em out, over and over.

In “The Swap,” Twyla Tharp reflects on the inevitable moment when the body signals its mortality, a pivotal experience that shifts one's perception of physical invincibility. Tharp recounts her own injury at sixty-nine, a cracked metatarsal suffered while rehearsing with children, marking her first major physical setback. She underscores that this moment, however it manifests—be it a strained back or hesitant movement—forces a reckoning with aging and the body's changing capabilities. The author then revisits her evolving fitness regimens across decades, from the boundless energy of her twenties to the strategic weightlifting of her sixties, illustrating how physical discipline must adapt to sustain longevity. She introduces the concept of fitness as a compounding investment, akin to Warren Buffett's financial wisdom, where early and consistent effort yields greater future returns. Confronting the reality of physical limitations, Tharp advocates for acknowledging pain rather than denying it, differentiating between challenging, warning, and chronic pain, each demanding a unique response. She shares personal anecdotes, including dancing through a rotator cuff injury and facing her mother's death while on tour, to demonstrate the power of carrying on despite adversity, plugging into something larger than oneself. Tharp reframes aging not as a defeat but as a swap, an exchange of immortality for gravitas—a grounded wisdom born from navigating life's hardships. Like Mahalia Jackson and Martin Luther King, Jr., who channeled suffering into strength and leadership, we too can find depth and power in our experiences. Gravitas, she suggests, provides stability amidst chaos, enabling clear judgment and a profound sense of peace. It is the ability to leverage experience, transforming respect, sympathy, and even pity into a source of emotional power, a beacon guiding us through the storms of life. Ultimately, Tharp urges embracing this swap, using the weight of our past to inform the present, finding strength in vulnerability, and leading with the quiet authority that only time and experience can bestow, a testament to the enduring human spirit.

In this reflective chapter, Twyla Tharp examines the art of reinvention, using Jimmy Carter's post-presidency as a prime example of transforming an unwanted, potentially empty life into one of purpose and impact. Carter, instead of fading into the background, chose to actively shape his legacy through peace and health initiatives, setting a new standard for post-presidential engagement, a reminder that sometimes what worked before loses its effectiveness, like a workout that no longer yields results. Tharp introduces the concept of "kludges"—those short-term, inelegant solutions that become permanent fixtures, like a paper clip holding together broken glasses, and how recognizing and removing these kludges is essential for growth. The author urges us to critically evaluate our habits, challenging unproductive behaviors and confronting our limitations, understanding that maturity offers the chance to "dekludge," revealing better ways forward. For those not seeking a completely new path, Tharp presents the idea of "altersstil," or older style, where artists relaunch their work into new worlds, liberated from anxiety and expectation, akin to a jazz improviser roaming across scales. She references Proust's concept of retrieving lost time through sensory experiences, like the taste of a madeleine triggering childhood memories, illustrating how accumulated experiences make us more efficient. Tharp then transitions into practical advice, suggesting a rocking sequence to connect the body to deep memories, emphasizing how experiences unite through action. She also highlights the importance of knowing what is appropriate, drawing from Fred Astaire's impeccable sense of self, and how master adjusters push their strengths while dropping everything else. Tharp concludes with examples of artists like Beethoven, Melville, Goya, Rodin, and Verdi, who created masterpieces late in life, welding irreconcilables together and overcoming obstacles with bemused patience, reminding us that identity is never a done deal and that a second, or even third, act awaits.

In this chapter, Twyla Tharp illuminates the path to recovery and renewal after life's inevitable setbacks, drawing parallels from her own experience with hip surgery and Jill Bolte Taylor's transformative stroke. Tharp recounts Taylor's journey, emphasizing how Taylor, a neuroanatomist, found herself both a patient and an astute observer of her brain's recovery, striving to recapture a sense of euphoria amidst relearning basic functions. Tharp then reflects on her own surgery, a moment that initially felt like a betrayal by her body, a stark reminder of mortality. The surgery's success brought physical relief, yet Tharp faced the challenge of relearning how to stand, finding dignity in simple routines and posture. Here, Tharp emphasizes that healing is the primary task, a shift from constant striving. She introduces the concept of status quo bias, noting how easily fear can constrict our world, and underscores the importance of challenging this bias by embracing uncertainty. Tharp urges us to find nourishment in routine, rediscovering the pleasure in mundane activities like walking, reminiscent of Thoreau's reflections. She advocates for granting ourselves grace during recovery, acknowledging the body's aversion to negativity and the courage required to relearn fundamental movements. Drawing inspiration from Montaigne, Tharp encourages a careful examination of the mundane, finding beauty in the everyday, much like the masters of still life. Tharp highlights Taylor's heightened sensory awareness post-stroke, illustrating how disaster can refine our appreciation for small joys, like the feel of an avocado or the sun on one's neck. She then advises relearning even the most basic actions, such as breathing, to rediscover natural rhythms disrupted by stress. Finally, Tharp reframes the concept of recovery, suggesting we view life as a pursuit rather than a fight for perfection, embracing the Japanese art of kintsugi, mending broken vessels with gold, to symbolize the beauty of imperfection. For Tharp, perfectionism is a mirage; true growth lies in the ongoing process of improvement, recognizing that we are perpetually approaching our ideal, never fully reaching it, and finding peace in that journey.

Twyla Tharp opens the chapter by asserting that everyone is a dancer, challenging the elitist view of dance and inviting all to partake in its joy. She highlights the freedom found in modern dance's departure from ballet's rigid structure, urging individuals to discover their unique movement vocabulary, seeing dance as a way to express gratitude to the body and connect with humanity. Tharp illustrates this point with the example of Eliud Kipchoge, the marathoner whose discipline and focus on personal best, rather than external metrics, embodies the dancer's spirit. Similarly, John Curry, the Olympic figure skater, sought artistic expression over mere competition, pushing his boundaries by challenging his muscle memory, a pursuit Tharp witnessed firsthand in the silent hours of Madison Square Garden. Tharp reflects on the fluidity of time, like water transforming from solid to vapor, as she choreographs, emphasizing the ephemeral yet enduring nature of dance, preserved through living performances and the dedication of her regisseurs—her trusted disciples. These regisseurs, now over sixty, become trustees of her dances, tasked with communicating truth and positivity to new generations, and grappling with the challenge of presenting timeless work to a changed world. The goal, Tharp emphasizes, is to surrender mastery, passing on something that refuses to die, drawing energy from collaboration, much like the Zen master who, after years of instruction, sends his novice to find another teacher, acknowledging the limits of one's own knowledge. She recounts Maurice Sendak's envy of her interactions with younger dancers, highlighting the mutual learning that occurs across generations. Tharp advocates for breaking age-related tribalism, urging readers to seek mentorship from younger acquaintances, embracing the role of novice to expand their thinking, learning best when they can forget themselves, respecting their teachers without judgment, and finding compassion through embodiment. She recalls Sendak's daily ritual of seeking novelty in nature and art, finding inspiration in overlooked greats, and finally, in his frail final days, dancing on ice, embodying the choice between shuffling carefully and dancing wildly, a reminder that movement is life itself. The chapter closes with Shakespeare's understanding of dance as a return to life after the artifice of theater, a celebration of movement and connection.

Twyla Tharp's 'Keep It Moving' is not just a guide to aging gracefully; it's a vibrant manifesto for living a life of intention, resilience, and continuous growth. The core takeaway is a powerful call to action: combat stagnation at all costs by embracing change, prioritizing movement, and actively shaping your life's narrative. The emotional lesson lies in reframing our perception of aging, not as a decline, but as an opportunity to cultivate wisdom, embrace new challenges, and deepen our commitment to personal pledges. Practical wisdom abounds, from integrating movement into daily routines to reframing failures as controlled falls and transforming complaints into actionable truths. The book urges us to trust our bodies, challenge our comfort zones, and find joy in the process of continuous self-improvement, reminding us that a life well-lived is one of constant motion, adaptation, and unwavering commitment to growth.