New York City, October 1972. The wide stage ob Carnegie Hall. A packed house here to see a white-haired lady, affectionately known as “the elbow,” give a lecture. Stout and small, imperious in her gait and demeanor, she struts up and down the aisles, gesturing broadly in annoyance of the poor organization of the event. She is oblivious to the crowd, most of them young people who watch her with a mixture of awe, friendliness and surprise. The lecture starts: she is “on.” The inimitable grandma of the “consciousness movement,” none other than “Ida” Dr. I.P. Rolf.

This indomitable 75-year-old doesn’t just talk, she asserts authoritatively. It is clear that one does not argue with Ida. The audience is spellbound. They straighten their slouchy, “in” postures for a while, impressed. They are convinced by what she is saying. She has the unique presence of “La Grande Dame,” a presence one does not dismiss easily. In fact I have never seen her dismissed no matter what the audience, what the intellectual, spiritual, emotional set they held ear. They all stopped and listened. This night we regard her with an expression that in years to come I will almost always see on people’s faces when they look at Ida. Instant affection, puzzlement, a being touched to the heart, a tenderness, desire to protect and care for her; and another, feeling, awe, respect, sometimes fear.

Ida does not leave anyone indifferent, that much is for sure.

The lecture is over. People crowd the stage and I, like others, feel compelled to seek contact with her. I say, “Hello, Dr. Rolf,” bracing myself, for I have heard that she is quite abrasive, brutal sometimes in her answers , and that she brushes people off easily. I am a little afraid, even though she is a small woman whom I tower over. “I am very interested in your method.” I manage to mumble. “I wonder whether you would let me attend one of your classes so I may gather more information for a Ph.D. thesis I am to white on Rolfing.” She turns her gaze piercingly at me, regards me with blue shining eyes. Abruptly she orders, “Show me your hands!” I obey, puzzled. How is that the answer to my question? She holds my hands briefly and declares, “Your hands are too ladylike. You need peasant-type hands for this work. But your shoulders are okay. Write to us.” And walks away. I stand here, speechless. Whoever said I wanted to become a Rolfer?! I’m too incompetent, stupid, weak. I could never do such important work. What on earth gave her this notion? I stand openmouthed and thunderstruck. And I am hooked.

She has picked me. She has told me what my life work will be. I do not know at the time just how much her work is my work, down to the marrow, as though she had invented it especially for me, as though we had met before and I had been waiting to meet her again all this time.

San Francisco, July 1976. The Yacht Club. A huge white room, candlelit, brimming with flowers, ours for this evening. The “family,” the Rolf gang, here for the annual meeting and to pay tribute to the old lady on her eightieth birthday. The “starts” of the “movement,” Moshe Feldenkrais, her old buddy, and Werner Erhand, etc. circulate among the crowd of three hundred celebrants.

Wheeled in by one of the faithful, Ida Rolf is minute in her chair, dressed in white with a red flower pinned in her white hair. The room lights are turned down; all of us rise in unison and begin to sing “Happy Birthday” as a hugh radiant candle laden cake is brought in. My husband to be is here with me, astounded: he has never seen one single human being so loved, cherished, honored. This is grandma Ida, surrounded by her students who are more than students, less than disciples. The spirit in the room is not adulation fot a cult leader, it is love, affection of a very unique kind. Men and women, old timers, beginners, all feel the same unquestionable and unquestioning love. Ida has a talent for awakening this type of feeling in whomsoever she meets. They may argue with her, they may question her views or teachings, they see her faults (so many of them!) but, all in all, their response is one of “love, honor and cherish.” Part of this devotion is due to her appearance and her age, part is due to her personality, her charm; but mostly we love this woman because her work has changed our lives. The family feeling, the kinship is strong in the room. There is not one of us here to whom she has not brought the answer to the questions we never thought would be answered, relief, we never thought we would obtain, a life work. No wonder we are eternally grateful for the gift. Tonight we know she is not well, that she is weak and going blind, and our love is all the stronger for this knowledge, as though we all coalesce our healing energy and direct it toward her. Three hundred of us, flooding her with light.

But Ida can barely wait for the tribute to be over. She is notoriously inept at receiving acknowledgment and love. She brushes it off as though embarrassed. We all know her routine, so, over the years, we have learned how to express out love in covert ways, bringing her tea, or a cookie in class, a flower, a picture, little things she will accept. Today as usual she is about to make a nasty joke to dismiss our gift. And we laugh and continue on.

San Francisco March 1979. Ida has been progressively sicker and sicker over the past few months. She struggles against old age and various ills, diabetes and its resulting blindness. Lately she suffers from cancer of the intestine. When last I saw her she appeared tired of struggling. Her time may have come to rest and meet her maker. But what will we do without her?! As a group, as a school, we have been brought together by her. This confusion adds to our simple grief at losing someone we love. We pray and meditate, we hunt for a new healer, physician, technique, therapy. We bring her those adjunct’s, but she is tired. If we really love her, she has pointed out to some, we will respect her desire to be gone. But it is so hard on the heart to practice that wisdom. We don’t want to lose you, Ida. We want to see you in classes and hear your jokes and your putdowns, and bring you a cup of tea. Yes! We know this is not called love, it is “attachment.”

This day, for some unknown reason, I feel prompted to call her long distance. She is in a hospital in the East, recuperating from her last operation. Finally I reach her devoted nurse and secretary, who says Dr. Rolf is too weak to talk but she will tell her I called to give my best wishes. I accept her decision and ring off. Then, impelled against reason, pushing past the conditioned notion that I should not “bother her”, I call back. Will she please do me a big favor? Just put the receiver next to Ida’s ear, so I may tell her how I feel. The woman is hesitant: do I realize that Ida probably will not respond? She is not sure she can hear. Yes, I realize, and it doesn’t matter, this is for me, so my heart may be at rest.

She finally consents. The receiver goes still, and, deeply moved, I manage to mumble, “Dr. Rolf, this is me, Veronique, and I just want to remind you, to tell you how much we all love you and are grateful to you.” Words strangle in my throat. I have never had the courage to say that straight to her face.
Even now I note that I use the plural: we love you. This is accurate, all right, but not altogether the truth of the moment. I am filled with my love for her. The secretary comes on the line and says, “She got it.” She is quite sure. Dr. Rolf signaled with heir eyelids or her head that she had understood the message. I breathed a sigh of joy.

Relieved, more hopeful, I go back to work.

It is only a matter of time, a few weeks, a few months, until Ida will leave. Some fifteen minutes later, the phone rings. The executive director of the Rolf Institute is calling from Boulder, Colorado. “I just spoke to Ida,” I tell him. “I actually managed to push an ‘I love you’ down the old bitch’s ear-tube! How about that!” Dick says he knows and this is why he called. Her secretary had called him in Boulder. Ida just died.

<img src=’https://novo.pedroprado.com.br/imgs/1984/228-1.jpg’>Requieum pour une Grande Dame