I still have a young attitude.

Host:
The late afternoon sun spilled through the wide windows of a small dojo, painting the wooden floor in long amber stripes. The scent of cedar, sweat, and incense hung in the air — the perfume of patience. Dust floated lazily, catching the light like memories that refused to settle.

On one side of the room, Jack sat cross-legged on a thin mat, his jacket tossed aside, his hair damp with the effort of earlier training. Across from him, Jeeny tied her hair back with a strip of cloth, her movements deliberate but graceful, her breathing steady — the quiet rhythm of someone who had learned how to listen to her own stillness.

From the corner, the old record player crackled, playing faint jazz. Outside, a cherry blossom tree dropped a few petals through the open door, each one falling like a punctuation mark in the silence.

Jeeny: “Pat Morita once said — ‘I still have a young attitude.’”
Jack: [grinning] “The man who played Mr. Miyagi saying that… there’s something perfect about it.”
Jeeny: “Right? He aged, but never got old.”
Jack: “There’s a difference.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Age happens to your body; old happens to your spirit.”
Jack: “And most people give up the fight too early.”
Jeeny: “Not him. His whole philosophy was that youth isn’t about time — it’s about wonder.”

Host:
The light shifted, brushing Jeeny’s face as she stood, her silhouette framed against the doorway. The sound of children laughing echoed faintly from the park nearby — small, sharp bursts of unfiltered joy. Jack smiled, as if reminded of something he’d misplaced.

Jack: “You think it’s possible — to really stay young inside? Even when everything aches and the world feels older every day?”
Jeeny: “Yes. But it’s not denial. It’s defiance.”
Jack: “Defiance?”
Jeeny: “Of cynicism. Of comfort. Of the lie that growing up means giving up curiosity.”
Jack: “So being young is an act of rebellion.”
Jeeny: “Absolutely. The bravest one.”
Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”
Jeeny: “It’s supposed to be. Youth isn’t rest — it’s motion.”

Host:
A breeze drifted through, stirring the hanging paper lanterns, making them sway gently like the rhythm of a heartbeat. The dojo creaked softly, wood meeting time.

Jack: “You know, Morita had a hard life. He spent years in hospitals as a kid — couldn’t even walk. Then later, internment camps during the war. And still, he kept humor. Kept hope.”
Jeeny: “That’s exactly why his attitude stayed young. He didn’t deny pain — he transformed it.”
Jack: “Into what?”
Jeeny: “Perspective. The kind only survivors carry. When you’ve seen how fragile joy can be, you learn to guard it like treasure.”
Jack: “So maybe youth isn’t wasted on the young — maybe it’s rediscovered by the broken.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Now that sounds like something Morita would’ve said.”

Host:
The record skipped, repeating a single piano note over and over — hypnotic, meditative. Jeeny knelt beside Jack, untied her shoes, then stretched her legs in silence. Her movements were fluid, unhurried. Jack watched her, eyes thoughtful.

Jack: “You know, I used to think a young attitude was about chasing things — adventure, love, success. But maybe it’s about letting go instead.”
Jeeny: “Letting go of what?”
Jack: “Bitterness. Expectations. The idea that life owes you anything.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Youth isn’t about running fast — it’s about running light.”
Jack: “And maybe that’s why so many people feel old so soon. They carry too much.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The heaviest baggage isn’t years — it’s resentment.”

Host:
The wind picked up, scattering petals across the floor. A few landed near their feet, small bursts of pink against the dark wood. Jack brushed one away, then paused, letting his hand rest there — still, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Pat Morita meant by a ‘young attitude.’ It wasn’t about pretending to be twenty. It was about staying open.”
Jack: “Open?”
Jeeny: “To laughter. To mistakes. To learning new ways of seeing.”
Jack: “That’s rare in a world obsessed with expertise.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Everyone wants to be wise, but no one wants to be foolish first.”
Jack: “You can’t be wise without once being foolish.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “And you can’t stay young without daring to be foolish again.”

Host:
The light dimmed as clouds rolled over the setting sun. The dojo seemed to exhale, the kind of silence that comes after truth has been spoken.

Jack: “You think that’s why humor matters so much? Morita never lost his — not even when playing the wise old mentor.”
Jeeny: “Humor is humility in disguise. It keeps the ego from aging.”
Jack: “So laughing is anti-aging.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “The only kind that works.”
Jack: “Then maybe wisdom isn’t about seriousness. It’s about play.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Play is the language of the soul before the world teaches it fear.”
Jack: “That’s beautiful.”
Jeeny: “It’s true. Even the oldest souls crave lightness. It’s how we remind ourselves we’re still alive.”

Host:
A distant bell rang, marking the hour. The record stopped, and the silence that followed was alive with the sound of wind through the trees outside. Jeeny stood, stretching, her body still graceful in fatigue.

Jeeny: “You know, I think a young attitude is less about optimism and more about curiosity. Optimism expects things to be good; curiosity just wants to see what happens next.”
Jack: “So youth isn’t blind faith — it’s wonder.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Wonder keeps the heart elastic.”
Jack: “And the spirit unbreakable.”
Jeeny: [smiling softly] “As long as you keep asking questions, you’ll never grow old.”
Jack: “Then I’m safe. I doubt everything.”
Jeeny: “Good. Doubt’s just wonder with more experience.”

Host:
They laughed quietly, the sound echoing through the empty hall. The sky outside shifted into twilight, a deep lavender glow seeping through the doorframe. Jack walked to the window, resting a hand against the frame, watching the petals fall in slow, spiraling grace.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. We spend our lives chasing youth — creams, gyms, diets. But the secret was attitude all along.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about reversing time; it’s about refusing stagnation.”
Jack: “So how do we do that?”
Jeeny: “By staying fascinated. By choosing awe over apathy. By laughing when life insists you shouldn’t.”
Jack: “And when you forget how?”
Jeeny: “Find someone who still remembers. Then stand close enough until it rubs off.”
Jack: [looking at her] “Like you?”
Jeeny: [grinning] “Like Pat Morita.”

Host:
The first streetlight flickered on, spilling faint yellow through the window. The air was cool now, touched with night. Jack turned, bowing his head slightly — not in ceremony, but in quiet respect. Jeeny returned the gesture, both smiling.

And as they stepped outside,
the truth of Pat Morita’s words glowed softly in the fading light —

that youth is not an age,
but a temperature of the soul.

That a young attitude is not born from denial of time,
but from friendship with it —
the ability to meet each passing year
with laughter, curiosity, and the stubborn refusal to close.

For those who stay playful
amid pain,
humble amid wisdom,
and light amid gravity —

never truly grow old.

They just keep blooming
in different seasons,
carrying the same bright defiance
that Pat Morita once named simply:

a young attitude.