Charlestoning is hard. People were fit in the '20s to be able to

The graceful and perceptive Elizabeth Debicki, an actress who embodies both elegance and thought, once said with wit and hidden wisdom: “Charlestoning is hard. People were fit in the '20s to be able to do that. I guess they didn't sit in front of their computers all day.” Though light in tone, these words strike deep. Beneath their laughter lies a reflection on the changing rhythm of human life—the contrast between an age of movement and vitality and one of stillness and convenience. Debicki’s observation is not only about dance; it is a meditation on how comfort, when unguarded, becomes captivity, and how the vigor of the past has been traded for the ease of the present.

In the roaring 1920s, the Charleston was not merely a dance—it was a spirit, a declaration of freedom after years of war and sorrow. It demanded energy, balance, and strength. Dancers kicked, spun, and leapt with abandon, their bodies alive with rhythm and rebellion. It was the physical embodiment of joy. Yet, as Debicki discovered in her preparation to portray those times, the dance was far from effortless. It required a level of fitness that modern life rarely demands. Her comment reveals a truth that the ancients knew well: the body is not only a vessel for life—it is its engine. When neglected, the fire of the soul dims, and both joy and endurance fade.

The contrast she draws between the dancers of the past and the modern soul who “sits in front of their computer all day” is not a condemnation but a lament. In our age of technology, the mind moves faster than ever, but the body grows still. The pulse of humanity has slowed, the natural harmony between motion and spirit has weakened. The ancient Greeks, who revered both thought and physical strength, would have called this imbalance a sickness of the soul. For they believed that to live well, one must move well—that the philosopher and the athlete were two sides of the same ideal. Debicki’s reflection is a quiet reminder that wisdom without motion leads to weariness, and comfort without challenge breeds decay.

Consider the story of Miyamoto Musashi, the legendary Japanese swordsman and philosopher. In his later years, after mastering the art of combat, he wrote that “the body is the foundation of all understanding.” Even as he sought spiritual enlightenment, he trained tirelessly, walking great distances and practicing sword forms in solitude. He knew that mental sharpness depended on physical vitality. The dancers of the Charleston, like the warriors of old, understood this instinctively—their laughter and movement were acts of living fully, of being entirely present in body and spirit.

And yet, the world has changed. We have traded the open streets and ballrooms for screens, the rhythm of the feet for the rhythm of typing keys. The muscles once used for joy now rest in stillness. The computer, that mighty gift of knowledge, has quietly become a throne of inaction. But as Debicki reminds us, the body remembers what it was made for. It yearns to move, to express, to breathe deeply. When we move, we awaken not only our strength but our happiness. When we dance, we return to our ancient roots—to the primal rhythm that connects us to the earth, to music, and to one another.

The wisdom in Elizabeth Debicki’s words is not nostalgia for a lost time—it is a call to rekindle the balance. She reminds us that while modern life has given us tools of great convenience, it has also dulled the vitality that once burned naturally within us. The people of the 1920s did not have to “work out” to be fit; their daily lives demanded movement. They walked, built, danced, and labored. Their joy came from engagement with life, not observation of it. To live fully, we too must rise from our seats, stretch our limbs, and remember that the body is a companion to the soul, not its servant.

So let this be the lesson: move as those before you moved. Dance, even if only for yourself. Walk when you could sit, stretch when you could scroll, breathe deeply when the world feels small. The Charleston may belong to the past, but its spirit—its defiance of stillness—belongs to all time. Let your body be a hymn to life, your motion a prayer of gratitude. For in movement, the heart remembers what it means to live, and the flame of vitality burns again.

Thus, Debicki’s simple reflection becomes an ancient truth renewed: the body that moves in rhythm with life also moves in rhythm with joy. The dancers of the past were not only fit in body but alive in spirit. Let us, too, be dancers in our own age—not of the Charleston, perhaps, but of life itself, moving boldly, breathing deeply, and refusing to let comfort steal from us the art of living.