Elderhood, with More Money

Last night I had the privilege of being on John Carney’s radio show in St. Louis to talk about the late, great Phyllis Diller. I spent time in her home in Webster Groves back in the early ‘60s, when I was friends with her daughter Stephanie.

It’s always fun to talk to John. Besides, he taught me to drink martinis, so I’m a loyal fan. Since we did this by phone I didn’t get the benefit of a big hug from him, but he said maybe he will head West at some point to revisit his old stomping grounds and roam the streets with me, both of us clad in tie dye. (Look out, San Francisco!)

At the end of the segment, John mentioned my blog, Late to the Haight. So glad he reminded me! It’s been awhile since I checked in here. Why? I’ve been busy:

·      playing with my grandson

·      being annoyed that “elderhood” is the stupid new term for my next stage of life

·      watching “The Newsroom” and missing deadline journalism

·      reading Cheryl Strayed’s “Wild” and admiring her immensely

·      popping in at museums large and small for a travel story for the Post-Dispatch

·      watching “Political Animals” and wondering whether Bill and Hill are watching

·      assembling a bag for Goodwill (when a new jacket comes in, an old one goes out – see below for details on the uptick in my income)

·      waiting, patiently and im, for August 22.

Tomorrow is the Big Day – the day my first Social Security payment will show up in my checking account -- if all goes according to plan. If you read the June 22 post, you know that nothing at all went according to plan when I first signed up. Actually, “signed up” is not the correct term. You APPLY for Social Security -- and that means you can be rejected.

To recap, I signed up on line and when I emailed to ask when my benefits would start, the agency replied that the representative I had met with had already told me that information. When I emailed back that I had not met with anyone, the agency sent me an email about my spouse. I don't have one. When I said so, immediately they wanted to see the court document that changed my married name back to my birth name, which I did one year after the divorce. This is all ancient history, but I complied with that request.

New news: Next I got a letter saying Social Security wanted to “verify” my earnings record. Wait – these are the very people who send me a report of my earnings every year. What don’t they know? I assumed they wanted to ask me why I was applying before my full retirement age, since for several years I did quite well in the unwieldy world of freelance.

I wrote a concise letter about my drop in income in 2012. I copied tax records from last year, typed up quarterly payment records, put together my current client list and even gathered up pay stubs from this year. I assembled proof of my puny pension and my health insurance expenses. And I remember thinking how efficient I am, and being pleased that I keep meticulous records.

Unfortunately, what I took to the office the next morning had nothing to do with what the agency wanted to know.

The woman I met with wanted to talk about 1994, 1995 and 1997. I cleared up all the questions. Then I made my pitch for taking – excuse me, applying for -- Social Security before my full retirement date. The woman typed furiously as I spoke. She fired off several emails. Then she faxed all my documentation to the office in Richmond, Calif., where apparently people have been sitting around picking apart my employment history.

One week later, a woman in the Richmond office called me. She said she had called several times (hmmm, no record of that on the Smartphone) and she had sent me an email. (She had not -- I even checked spam.) The woman also said she had not received any emails or faxes or reports from the woman I met with in the San Francisco office. The she asked me all the same questions I had answered the previous week. And at last the woman said YES -- I can have my money!

My Social Security allotment is not a fortune, though it will pay the rent. Right now, the average rent for a one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco is $2,600. I pay much less -- thank goodness I got here when I did! And again, what a lucky break to find a place that offers views of glorious sunsets night after night. (Click. Click. Click.)

Still, this new bump in income seemed to call for a celebration. Not a spending spree, but a few special purchases. I bought a new spring green fleece jacket for me and some books for The Baby. I bought a six-pack of Sierra Nevada Kellerweis. (That’s a long-term investment, as it takes me four months to drink six beers.) And my friend Chris wants to have dinner to celebrate with me.

I’m ready to party – or I will be, once tomorrow gets here.

Getting to Know San Francisco

On the same day that I cast my vote for the next individuals to be honored on the St. Louis Walk of Fame, I encountered a story about someone in San Francisco worthy of renewed attention, someone who feels a tad like a soul sister.

Ina Coolbrith (1841–1928) was the first Poet Laureate of California and the first female Poet Laureate in the United States. Some of her poems were published in the Overland Monthly, where she helped Bret Harte edit the storied magazine. She hung out with Samuel Clemens (before he took the name of Mark Twain), Joaquin Miller (known as the Poet of the Sierras) and journalist Ambrose Bierce.

Legend has it that John Muir, another friend of hers, set up Coolbrith on a blind date that went bad, and she promptly wrote a 75-line poem about the experience. A fire in Coolbrith’s home burned some of her work and all of her letters, letters from the likes of Alfred Lord Tennyson, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and even Marie, Queen of Romania.

Born Josephine Donna Smith in Nauvoo, Illinois, Coolbrith was the daughter of Don Carlos Smith, who was the brother of Joseph Smith Jr., the founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. One account of Coolbrith’s life states that when her father died, her mother married William Pickett, a lawyer who owned a printing press in St. Louis. Supposedly, the two met when Pickett went to Nauvoo to follow up on reports about violent anti-Mormon sentiment there. When Pickett married Josephine’s mother, he requested that she keep her background a secret, and that’s when Josephine took her mother’s birth name and shortened her nickname, Josephina, to Ina. 

In 1849, when William Pickett got Gold Rush fever, the family traveled from St. Louis to California by wagon train. At age 10, Coolbrith was said to be the first white child to enter California over the Beckwourth Pass in the Sierra Valley’s eastern edge, riding on the saddle of scout Jim Beckwourth himself. Years later, while working as a librarian in Oakland, Coolbrith served as a mentor for 10-year-old Jack London and a young Isadora Duncan.

In a most round-about way, Isadora Duncan led me to Ina Coolbrith. After watching “American Masters: Jerome Robbins” on PBS (www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/episodes/jerome-robbins/something-to-dance-about/437/), what I most wanted to do was talk to Ross Winter, spend hours talking about dance, thinking about dance and learning how Ross put dances together – but Ross has been gone 18 years. Instead, I looked on Google for stories about Isadora Duncan, who was mentioned in the PBS program on Robbins.

Remember the 48 boxes of books I gave away before moving to San Francisco two years ago? I brought with me “Where She Danced” by Elizabeth Kendall because of the stories about Isadora Duncan. I have been a fan for decades! On line, I learned about Duncan’s family’s home at Taylor and Geary. I also learned of a dance studio in San Francisco dedicated to teaching the Duncan style of dance (www.duncandance.org/), a studio that offers a Duncan Dance Workshop for people of all ages and levels. (Note to self…)

Next, on a website called the Virtual Museum of the City of San Francisco (www.sfmuseum.org/bio/isadora.html), I learned that Samuel Dickson, the author of the article on the site, found out at a party he attended in 1927 in San Francisco that the love of Isadora Duncan’s father’s life was a woman named Ina Donna Coolbrith. Dickson, a writer for an NBC radio station in San Francisco in the 1920s, reported that Coolbrith herself, in the last year of her life, told him the story at that party. Coolbrith also told Dickson about getting to know Duncan’s young daughter from her frequent visits to the Oakland Public Library.

I spent another hour reading on line about the feisty Ina Coolbrith. Next I ordered out-of-print copies of Dickson’s “Tales of San Francisco” and a biography, “Ina Coolbrith, Librarian and Laureate of California,” by Josephine DeWitt Rhodehamel and Raymund Francis Wood. I even learned where Coolbrith’s papers are – the Bancroft Library on the Berkeley campus just across the Bay. (Another note to self…)  

These books now sit in a stack that includes “The Best of Herb Caen,” a collection of the columnist’s works that ran in the San Francisco Chronicle; “San Francisco Bay” by newspaper reporter and environmentalist Harold Gilliam; Gilliam’s “Weather of the San Francisco Bay Region,” a region that boasts both advection fog and convection fog; and “San Francisco Poems” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, whom I have admired since I bought “A Coney Island of the Mind” when I was in college. (And yes, I brought that book with me too.)

And that’s what I’ve been doing with my spare time while I wait for my Good Foot to heal from an injury originally sustained at (what else?) a dance class. A word of thanks is in order to TIVO, which dutifully recorded the program on Jerome Robbins that inspired an evening of Internet research. And to my adopted City, a City of unparalleled sunsets (see photo above, taken from my apartment window), I sing a few bars of “Getting to Know You.”

The Wondrous and the Routine

In honor of my birthday (and in recognition of a slow freelance season), I have signed up for Social Security. Yes – I am ENTITLED!

I signed up on line because they hate it when you call them. You can tell, because when you call, before you ever reach a live person an automated voice spends a lot of time telling you how to sign up on line.

After I signed up, I emailed the agency to ask when my benefits would start, because I couldn’t find that information on the web site. In reply, I got an email saying the representative I met with when I signed up had already told me that information.

I responded that I didn't meet with anyone; I signed up on line. The anonymous correspondent apparently took offense, and emailed me information about how my taking Social Security will affect my spouse.

My spouse? I have no spouse. I fired back a note that said so, and asked my original question once again. The return email said this: “There is nothing we can add to the information we previously gave.”

Fine. I called Social Security, knowing they prefer that I not do that, to say I signed up to begin in July. I asked when they would send the money. The woman said the first deposit will not show up until August because all Social Security payments are made a month late “like your paycheck at work.”

August? Sheesh. I want my money now. So I asked about changing my start date to June, so I would have my money in July. The woman advised against that.

Get this: Until July 22, the Social Security Administration considers me 63, not 64. Yes -- They say you are not your true new age until one month after your actual birthday. They said if I wait until I am truly 64 in their eyes, I will get $12 more per month than if they considered me 63, whether or not I was 64 at the time. Sigh.

Yesterday morning I found a note on my Social Security Status Report (an on line service) saying they needed to see the court document from when I changed my married name back to my birth name. The note said just put the document in the mail and they would send it back after they read it.

That sounded dicey to me. I dug out the document – this happened in 1982 – and drove to the San Francisco office. I hope that now Social Security believes I am who I think I am, so I can get my entitlement. Even if I must wait until August.

In Other News, it’s been a splendid Birthday Week. Enjoyed homemade pizza with Susan and her Ballerina Granddaughters (they made the pizza; we ate it at my home) on Sunday. The girls had on their recital costumes; Susan and I donned festive headpieces. Oops – should have taken a picture of that.

Got a brand new dental crown on Monday (my second in three months). Had a celebratory lunch with a friend in Sausalito, followed by Summer Solstice Eve cocktails (okay, cocktail) and dinner with friends on Tuesday. Spent Quality Time with Banjo the Cat and soaked up some sun on the longest day of the year on Wednesday. Aced my routine appointment with the oncologist and bought myself pretty orange tulips and a pair of wild and crazy socks on Thursday.

Today I will head to the neighborhood hardware/gift store and buy something fun (or not – a friend says I need a crowbar in case of an earthquake, so I can pry open the front door) with the birthday discount, which is half your age. Nice!

Next I will visit The Baby at day care. Then I have an appointment at a posh spa (thank you, Five Favorite Female Friends!) for a Vichy shower treatment. Never had one? You lie on a table on your stomach, covered by a towel, and 12 showerheads on the walls and ceiling massage you with warm water. Then you are dried off, oiled up and sent on your way. It’s bliss! Tonight I hope to spend more time with The Baby and his parents, maybe share a pizza and hear stories about their recent vacation.

  

There you have it -- a birthday that blends the wondrous with the routine. That's how I like all my days to be! Time to get started on a great day.

Fig Bars, Jelly Bellys and Samuel Beckett

Whole-wheat fig bars, anyone?

We’ve got plain fig, blueberry, raspberry and a combination of peach and apricot. I have a modest three packages; Judy bought out the farm stand. She had to – Judy only has access to these amazing fig bars once a year, when she visits San Francisco.

In addition to copious amounts of fig bars, we bought just-picked strawberries, three of the first juicy white peaches of the season, ruby-like cherries, a jar of strawberry-rhubarb  jam (that was for me) and a stash of hearty, homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies. The stand – called Ceceila’s -- is in the North Bay, where Highway 1 meets the road that leads to the Tennessee Valley Trailhead.

When she left for St. Louis this morning after an action-packed four-day visit, Judy also was toting numerous bags of Jelly Bellys, purchased under the influence of bright primary colors and sugary treats at the Jelly Belly Factory in Fairfield, about an hour north of my place. We drove there Thursday to take the tour and find out why it takes one week to make a single jellybean. (I’m not telling.)

I will tell that even though I am no longer a food writer, our tour guide said so many amazing things that I had to whip out my tiny always-with-me notebook and write some of it down. Did you know the world has Jelly Bellys because of the Goelitz family, which opened their first candy factory in 1869 in Belleville, Ill.?

Here’s more: The factory, which makes 150 different kinds of candy, goes through 10,000 pounds of cornstarch and 60,000 pounds of sugar every single day. There are 50 flavors of Jelly Bellys, including chili mango, baby wipes (ugh) and chocolate-covered cherry. Judy and I were certain we would not like that flavor, but after a taste, we each bought a big bag of Belly Flops, irregularly shaped beans that didn’t make the cut for the retail market.     

We also bought small bags of several other flavors, and I felt compelled to buy infant-size Jelly Belly socks for that baby I keep talking about. And why not?

Still, candy was not the main theme of Judy’s visit. We indulged in truffle fries, shrimp beignets and a cheeseburger at Cliff House, samosas and Chennai chicken at Dosa, the amazing Il Sol pizza and chopped Italian salad at Bambino’s, sangria at Colibri and shrimp salad and Dungeness crab quesadillas at Scoma’s in Sausalito. Oh, and kosher hot dogs at AT&T Park, where we sat in red (Judy) and orange and black (me) at Wednesday night’s game between the Cardinals and the Giants.

On Wednesday, a cold and windy day, we went to see "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel," a delightful movie full of the sights and sounds of India  -- plus Maggie Smith, Judi Dench and Bill Nighy. Great fun! On Thursday night, we saw two Beckett plays at the American Conservatory Theatre: the riveting “Play” and the remarkable “Endgame,” with the supremely gifted Bill Irwin. Both were provocative and intense – and that makes for an excellent night of theater.

We shopped a bit, meandering in and out of stores in Sausalito one sunny afternoon. We also drove to Novato to buy the soundtrack for “Smash” at Target. Because there are no Target stores in San Francisco and I can never think of any good reason to drive to the suburbs (shopping is not a good reason), I have not been in Target for more than two years. Still, it was fun to be in the store, and I bought a $10 lime green trashcan for the bathroom.

During Judy’s visit, we also accidentally took a trivia quiz at the Disney Store. The night we were going to the theater, we got to Union Square early, so we popped into the store, where we meandered around calling out the names of the plush versions of characters we have loved in the Disney movies for our entire lives. A young woman with a clipboard approached us and invited us to take a quiz about Disney characters. We sat right down and got to it – and we did well, too.

No prizes were offered for our efforts. No tiny plush Pooh or Thumper or Sorcerer’s Apprentice, no tiara or magic wand or other princess attire, no miniature Buzz Lightyear or Kermie or Simba. Worse, the store no longer carries any “Pirates of the Caribbean” merchandise. Good thing I got my Captain Jack Sparrow tote bag when I did.

That said, waiting at home we had a terrific treat – whole-wheat fig bars in many flavors.

 

Of Mother's Day, Mark Rothko and Jelly Beans

Happy Mother's Day!

Breaking News: Though we’ve only known each other for four months, our relationship is serious. How can that happen so quickly? How can it not, when the object of my unconditional love is my four-month-old grandson? He now smiles when he sees me. I smile all the time, just because he exists.

This Mother’s Day, I salute that baby’s wonderful mother, my dear daughter-in-law Patricia. A shout-out also goes to Gerry and Susan, the baby’s other grandmas; his aunt Martia; his great aunt Betty; and all my dear friends who are moms and grandmas. I also honor my own grandmothers, Lil and Annie, on this day.

And of course I remember with love my mom, Bonnie.

She never got to meet Joel, which is so sad. Because of that, I am serving as grandmother for both of us, soaking up every moment I am with the baby. I sing made-up songs to him. Among our favorites are “It’s Fun to Be Naked,” the “Nana” song and the one where I sing the names of all the people (and the cat) who love him.

Living in San Francisco, being in the middle of family, still feels surprising after almost two years. I remain startled that I did it -- packed up after 61 years and left St. Louis, set out for new territory, moved to this world-class city. Driving up the hill to the grocery, I still gaze in wonder when the skyline and the sparkling waters of the Bay come into view and I still exult: “I LIVE HERE!”

And I am still learning. For instance, did you know that Mother’s Day in Mexico is May 10 every year? I learned this Thursday on the bus when I complimented a young woman on the huge bouquet she carried. “I kept telling my mama that Mother’s Day in this country isn't until Sunday but she wanted to celebrate today, so I’m heading to her house,” she said. Then she kindly wished me a happy Mother’s Day.

It's a Trip: Riding the bus, I’ve also learned that pigeons like to hang out on the small second-story porches of some Victorian houses. Some homeowners place large plastic owls on the porches to discourage pigeons. Riding along, I noticed two porches with owls and next door, a second-story porch full of pigeons, cautiously observing the owls. So it works!

I’ve sung the praises before of riding the bus here. There’s something invigorating about being in the middle of so many different people. One day last week, a German couple sat talking next to a turbaned Sikh. Across from them was an Hispanic family, who stopped to help a Russian woman reposition her bulging grocery bags. Get on a bus in San Francisco, and you will see the world.

You also will see the passion people here have for sports. On the bus, I have seen people toting surfboards, golf clubs, tennis rackets and footballs. Musicians ride the bus too. One guy got on juggling a yard-long keyboard, a guitar, a backpack and a cup of coffee. Those of us on the bench shifted to make room.   

In Other News, as the anchorpeople say on TV, a couple of weeks ago, I went to see “Red,” John Logan’s provocative play about Mark Rothko, at the Berkeley Rep. I’ve admired Rothko’s work at the St. Louis Art Museum and the Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts, but after learning more about the man from the play and the program notes, I wanted to spend time again with one of his paintings.

Rothko didn’t want people to stand across the room from his famous floating blocks of color. He wanted people to move in close, stand just 18 inches away, to better absorb the art and hear – or feel -- what Rothko had to say. I headed to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and got up close to No. 14 (1960). As I moved into position, a young girl, maybe 11 or 12, standing nearby turned to her mother and said, “I get it.” I willed myself to stop thinking, and after awhile, I think I got it, too.

Good News: More theater is on the schedule. The gifted Bill Irwin is now at A.C.T. in Beckett’s “Endgame” and “Play,” which I’ll see this week when Judy visits. We also will attend a Giants v. Cardinals game – with me all in orange and black and Judy in red. We may also visit the Jelly Belly Factory in Fairfield, about an hour north of San Francisco. Apparently it takes a week to make a single jellybean.

I don’t know about you, but I want to know why! 

A Weekend in the Country

A weekend in the country (sing along, Sondheim fans) beckoned – a trip north from San Francisco to Elk (aka Greenwood), a town of 426 that sits perched on Highway 1 about 18 miles south of the town of Mendocino.

The trip to Elk and environs offered time with extended family and a splendid Easter dinner at the home of Anne-Marie and Robin. The long table was filled with platters of lamb and ham, twice-baked potatoes, homemade biscuits, green beans cooked with bacon and a festive salad with plenty of sliced avocado.

For dessert, Susan made an English trifle with fresh berries soaked in Triple Sec and also a Charlotte Russe, which she said her grandmother referred to as “ice-box cake.” Of course, there were plenty of chocolate eggs to go around as well, and the kids shared with the grown-ups. The kids also shared the trampoline (go, Martia!) and their card games. 

I made the trip with Susan, who was eager to navigate the twisty mountain roads and dirt paths that lead to Elk and beyond to the homes of her brother and sister-in-law and her nephew. As we headed out Saturday afternoon, Susan announced, “We’re off like a herd of turtles.”

Critters (beyond turtles, lamb and ham) were a big part of the long weekend, and as we rode along, we City Girls had fun calling out what we saw: Cows of many colors, a lone majestic bull, horses prancing in the sun, sheep, a single llama, 17 brown pelicans swooping and soaring, goats, a gopher digging a hole, a young deer and what may or may not have been a raccoon darting across the road.

“My friend once saw what she thought was a wild turkey, but it turned out to be a plastic bag,” Susan said as we drove. Not long afterward, we saw two actual turkeys that did not resemble plastic bags at all. But then, I once spied a penguin on a major thoroughfare in St. Louis County that turned out to be a box in the road that appeared penguin-shaped only in a certain light.

The worst sighting turned out to be the best. Driving along, we saw a large lump of light-colored fur just off the road. We both made low sounds of despair, hesitating to define what we thought we saw. When we got closer, I put my hand up to block my view. “Oh no – it is a dog, a poor dead dog,” I said. Then Susan laughed, which was not the reaction I had expected. Just as we passed by, Susan saw the “dead” dog raise its head and look at us, probably wondering what the fuss in the car was all about.

Dead animals – specifically, whales – were in evidence at the Point Arena Light Station, where we stopped on Monday on the trip home. Susan opted to climb the steps to the top of the 115-foot historic lighthouse while I hung out on a bench in the Native Plant Garden that overlooks the sea. Displayed among the plants are a gray whale's massive skull and several whale vertebrae. I like bones, and I liked being in the open air at the edge of the sea, watching pelicans fly in formation overhead as a wee gopher dug a hole in the dirt.

Perusing the nautical souvenirs in the gift shop, just off the Natural History Museum at the lighthouse, I saw a sign that urged people to call a hotline if killer whales were spotted. I asked the clerk about it. “I’ve never seen a killer whale,” she said. “I don't know anyone who has.” I volunteered that I have, off the Farallon islands. The woman seemed disappointed.

Shopping in downtown Mendocino on Sunday morning was not at all disappointing – especially at Ocean Quilts and Creative Hands, two shops on Main Street close to the water. Sandy, Susan’s sister-in-law, owns both. Ocean Quilts has lovely quilts, of course, but also beautiful sweaters and scarves and other gift items. At Creative Hands, we found high-quality tee shirts and an abundance of tie-dyed socks (hand-dyed by a couple in Fort Bragg) and clothing for little girls. Icons, a shop on Lansing Street, also was a delightful place to browse.

Other shopping stops included the Elk Store, where I bought mustard. I am an aficionado of condiments, and after tasting Mendocino Mustard on the aforementioned ham at Easter dinner, I wanted a jar to call my own. I bought two jars, one of each kind: Hot and Sweet and Seeds and Suds. For details, see www.mendocinomustard.com/.

On this particular road trip, the best signs were these: “1 MEN,” “1 SON” and “VICIOUS BULLS.” The first and second appeared on highway mile markers, indications that we were driving on Highway 1 in Mendocino and Sonoma counties, respectively. (“1 MEN” grates in so many ways, doesn’t it?) “VICIOUS BULLS” was stenciled atop a cattle chute in a field by the road. None were in residence.

On the way to Elk on Saturday, we had stopped in at Yogurtdale in Cloverdale for tasty self-serve frozen yogurt. On the way home from Elk on Monday, we stepped it up a bit and stopped at the Korbel Winery outside Guerneville, where we tasted several sparkling wines. We both bought wine. Susan bought tea towels and at the deli, I bought an award-winning pastrami sandwich to take home for supper.

That was the long weekend -- family, food, wildlife and one scenic vista after another while on the road in northern California.

Dancing for the Health of It

Last Thursday afternoon, I left home late in the afternoon feeling besieged by deadlines, denials and disheartening news. Rode two buses to Pacific Heights. Walked into dance class completely in my head, all sensations of the body fully blocked – not a comfortable place.

Dance class was exactly where I needed to be.

I needed to dance, to whirl and stretch and twirl my way through the dimly lit room, past the wooden shelves that hold rolled and folded yoga mats and blankets displayed like bolts of colorful fabric, past the windows that reveal calla lilies blooming in the healing garden just outside, past the words of wisdom painted on the pale green walls.

I needed to dance among the other women in the class, women whose names I do not know but women who every Thursday danced away the cares of their day, first conjuring up personal disappointment, delight and everything in between -- and then shaking it all off to begin anew.

I needed to experience once again what I had dubbed the “kinesthetic touchless car wash,” where the dancers send waves of energy and affirmation toward one person in the middle of a circle. We took turns, of course, and everyone moved out of the circle reinvigorated.

I needed so very much to get out of my head, to return to inhabiting my entire body again.

Thursday was the last night of an eight-week class at the Institute for Health & Healing called 5Rhythms®, a remarkable “movement meditation” that encourages freestyle dancing to music that embodies the following five rhythms, or “states of being,” as founder Gabrielle Roth describes them:

FLOWING – the fluid, continuous, grounded glide of our own movements

STACCATO – the percussive, pulsing beat that shapes us a thousand different ways

CHAOS – the rhythm of letting go, releasing into the catalytic wildness of our dance that can never be planned or repeated

LYRICAL – the rhythm of trance, where the weight of self-consciousness dissolves, where we lighten up and disappear into our own uniqueness

STILLNESS – the quiet emptiness, where gentle movements rise and fall, start and end, in a field of silence

 

Some 245 teachers are registered to teach 5Rhythms, and it seems as though that is not enough. Here’s a remark I overheard the first night of class: “A friend of mine on the East Coast has to drive three hours to take a 5Rhythmns class offered just once a month, but here in San Francisco, you can find a class five nights a week.”

So it’s popular. Before I signed up, I was assured that anyone of any age, size, or physical ability could be in the class. “Do we dance together?” I asked. I had to ask. I can’t count, so I can’t dance as part of an ensemble. Trust me on this. Once, three decades ago, a professional dancer spent hours over the course of several weeks, trying to help me count the beat so I could dance in a show. I ended up with a solo.

The IHH brochure spells it all out: “There are no steps to follow, no choreography to learn, no way to do it wrong. The only requirement is a body that is still breathing, a heart that is still beating, and mind that is still curious!” So after a free sample class that left me exhilarated and exhausted, I signed up.

The remarkable Sylvie Minot teaches the class at IHH (see www.cpmc.org/services/ihh/classes/5rhythms.html), and she incorporates Caroline Myss' energy anatomy work into the 5Rhythms movement practice. Sylvie recommends the class for “anyone who would like to increase their physical and emotional health, joy, vitality, and overall well-being.” Among the benefits are stress relief, improved physical fitness and emotional health.

Roth, who founded 5Rhythms in the 1970s, says you “put the body in motion in order to still the mind.” Thursday, it worked.