What does New York look like from 5 flights up over the course of 60 years? Jack and Minona have occupied an apartment on the top floor of my elevator-less building since the 1960s. Jack is 95 years old. He was standing in his socks getting the mail the other day when I returned from the grocery store. He was singing.
The tread of each stone step is bowed from well over a century of soles, all the way to the top floor. I can’t help but wonder how much of Jack’s longevity can be attributed to his commitment to climb, what I would guess has been, ten to thirty flights of stairs a day for decades (taking into account how many public stairs you have to take living in NYC). Considering the likeliness of a myriad of other factors, how much of the fact that he was singing at the mailboxes on a Tuesday afternoon in 2021 could be attributed to those steps?
I walk the same steps every day. The same steps that knew Jack and Minona on their brightest days and probably their darkest. Steps are peculiar in that unlike even ground, you must focus to ascend them. They engage over a dozen muscles in your body (perhaps more..?) and probe your lungs to breathe at capacity. To be glued to your phone while on the stairs risks severe injury. And now that I think of it, I commonly find myself in a momentary meditative state when climbing stairs.
Given the option, would people ever climb a staircase again? We have all seen crowds of Americans stand on escalators, opting for dormancy whenever possible. Most Americans do not live to 95 years old. Perhaps they don’t want to. While our headspace collectively grows more virtual, let us not forget we are very physical beings, very vulnerable and while divine in our consciousness, mortal and animal at our core. If a lifelong will to sacrifice minor conveniences like taking the stairs meant living to 95, and if 95 meant singing to the mail, I certainly wouldn’t mind.