Jennifer and Yasmin...thank you. What a beautiful and inspiring collaboration. I'm going to take a risk and add what I just wrote about another NY park at another time...
The Red Coal
It is October 6. Thirty out of eighty students gather in a loft just belong Washington Square Park. The air, still dense. The smell sweet yet charred. Unfamiliar. The streets too quiet.
We have gathered to write with our teacher, Natalie Goldberg.
Natalie says, “Begin with…This much I do remember…Go…ten minutes.”
Natalie says, “Tell me about a street you lived on…Go...ten minutes.”
Natalie says, “Let’s do a RECALL from last time…”
Natalie says, “Write about what brings you joy…Go…ten minutes.”
We sit meditation. We write. We read aloud. We do Zen walking…slow, slow, slower…then fast, fast, faster.
We “crack open structure” by rearranging gray folding chairs, zafus and zabutons.
Neat, tidy rows disappear, replaced by random, yet comforting disorder. Everything seems difficult. Pens drag across paper.
Our writing is muffled, brittle, lifeless, cold. We know it. We trust the practice and wait.
Natalie says. ”Keep your hand moving; don’t cross out; be specific—not the flower in the window, the GARDENIA—ignore spelling and punctuation; you’re free to write the worst trash in America.”
Outside, the sky is an unnerving shade of gray. The windows are open. It’s the in between of summer and fall. Humid. No breeze. Some leaves are strangely brown.
Natalie says, “Get up. Follow me.”
She picks up the bell.
We follow. Single file down the stairwell, out the door. Slowly. Mindfully. Each step a prayer to a shattered world.
We move in silence. We move as one body.
We cut a diagonal across the mostly empty Washington Square Park.
People join us, wordless.
The muffled hum of the park settles.
We return to the loft.
Natalie reads The Red Coal by Gerald Stern.
It begins, “I sit in my blue chair trying to remember…before the burning coal entered my life.”
His ordinary statement captures us—we’re breathless. That coal burns our hands, our tongues, our bellies. Some of us swallow it whole, our hair is singed, and suddenly we’re on fire.
Natalie says, “What is the red coal in your life? Go. Ten minutes.”
We write frantically. Handwriting becomes large and loopy, indecipherable on the page, filled with urgency. We’re awake at last—as though hundreds of layers of fine gauze covering our eyes smolder on the floor.
We read; we cry, we laugh, we re-member. The practice restores, the poem revives us.
Natalie reminds us of Katagiri Roshi’s injunctions—“don’t be tossed away and continue under all circumstances.”
In the face of 9/11 we’ve tossed ourselves away.
And now, The Red Coal brings us back to life.
More than this, our humble teacher, has drawn on her deep practice and dharma wisdom to ride the rugged edge of our despair without any effort to change it. To continue under these circumstances, to demonstrate the power of practice.
Sandra- THANK YOU for sharing your hauntingly beautiful words and experience here. I've read some of Natalie's books over the years, what a treasure to learn from her and at such a tender time in U.S history. I'm humbled by your share here, truly. Thank you, thank you Sandra Wells:).
She used to have retreats in New Mexico. At last look at her website, there are no workshops planned beyond 2024 (yet). What a gift indeed:). Thank you for sharing some of your year-long experience with us, Sandra!
A wonderful piece of writing, Sandra. Thanks so much for sharing it. I was with you all the way into Washington Square Park. I remember, years ago buying flowers there. I think it was the first time I ever bought peonies as cut flowers. In the UK at that time you would only see them growing in gardens, never in flower shops or market stalls.
There now, see? Your writing has drawn memories from the depths of my being.
Jennifer and Yasmin--your invitation evoked so many memories for me...Central Park summer concerts...Led Zeppelin and Simon and Garfunkel, Patti LaBelle...Central Park in the winter of Cristo's Gates installation...Washington Square Park in the spring with the pear trees in bloom, men (mostly) huddled over chess boards, conga drummers under the arch, me walking across the park to the NYU student union...all rich with sights, sounds, smells. I love your collaboration and hope you'll continue. Thank you for the prompt. I can smell the peonies ❤️
Jennifer, thank you for sharing your personal experience of Central Park. As you recount these moments in time, I'm taken back to the days when Covid-19 altered our lives dramatically. And, to think that your relationship blossomed during the restrictions... well, it's heartwarming for sure.
And, thank you for being my collaborative buddy for this project. It's been very rewarding to write with you, and produce two posts about Central Park, each filled with memories and love.
Yasmin- thank you:). It’s been so meaningful to come together with you for this collaboration as well. I don’t know if I would have written about my connection with Central Park over these last years- from meeting my love to returning with our son- without our collaboration. Thank you for this gift.
Jennifer and Yasmin...thank you. What a beautiful and inspiring collaboration. I'm going to take a risk and add what I just wrote about another NY park at another time...
The Red Coal
It is October 6. Thirty out of eighty students gather in a loft just belong Washington Square Park. The air, still dense. The smell sweet yet charred. Unfamiliar. The streets too quiet.
We have gathered to write with our teacher, Natalie Goldberg.
Natalie says, “Begin with…This much I do remember…Go…ten minutes.”
Natalie says, “Tell me about a street you lived on…Go...ten minutes.”
Natalie says, “Let’s do a RECALL from last time…”
Natalie says, “Write about what brings you joy…Go…ten minutes.”
We sit meditation. We write. We read aloud. We do Zen walking…slow, slow, slower…then fast, fast, faster.
We “crack open structure” by rearranging gray folding chairs, zafus and zabutons.
Neat, tidy rows disappear, replaced by random, yet comforting disorder. Everything seems difficult. Pens drag across paper.
Our writing is muffled, brittle, lifeless, cold. We know it. We trust the practice and wait.
Natalie says. ”Keep your hand moving; don’t cross out; be specific—not the flower in the window, the GARDENIA—ignore spelling and punctuation; you’re free to write the worst trash in America.”
Outside, the sky is an unnerving shade of gray. The windows are open. It’s the in between of summer and fall. Humid. No breeze. Some leaves are strangely brown.
Natalie says, “Get up. Follow me.”
She picks up the bell.
We follow. Single file down the stairwell, out the door. Slowly. Mindfully. Each step a prayer to a shattered world.
We move in silence. We move as one body.
We cut a diagonal across the mostly empty Washington Square Park.
People join us, wordless.
The muffled hum of the park settles.
We return to the loft.
Natalie reads The Red Coal by Gerald Stern.
It begins, “I sit in my blue chair trying to remember…before the burning coal entered my life.”
His ordinary statement captures us—we’re breathless. That coal burns our hands, our tongues, our bellies. Some of us swallow it whole, our hair is singed, and suddenly we’re on fire.
Natalie says, “What is the red coal in your life? Go. Ten minutes.”
We write frantically. Handwriting becomes large and loopy, indecipherable on the page, filled with urgency. We’re awake at last—as though hundreds of layers of fine gauze covering our eyes smolder on the floor.
We read; we cry, we laugh, we re-member. The practice restores, the poem revives us.
Natalie reminds us of Katagiri Roshi’s injunctions—“don’t be tossed away and continue under all circumstances.”
In the face of 9/11 we’ve tossed ourselves away.
And now, The Red Coal brings us back to life.
More than this, our humble teacher, has drawn on her deep practice and dharma wisdom to ride the rugged edge of our despair without any effort to change it. To continue under these circumstances, to demonstrate the power of practice.
Sandra- THANK YOU for sharing your hauntingly beautiful words and experience here. I've read some of Natalie's books over the years, what a treasure to learn from her and at such a tender time in U.S history. I'm humbled by your share here, truly. Thank you, thank you Sandra Wells:).
You inspired me and I sat and wrote! The training with Natalie was a year long experience and such a gift. She is a wonderful teacher.
She used to have retreats in New Mexico. At last look at her website, there are no workshops planned beyond 2024 (yet). What a gift indeed:). Thank you for sharing some of your year-long experience with us, Sandra!
Sounds like a wonderful experience.
‘Outside, the sky is an unnerving shade of gray.’
A wonderful piece of writing, Sandra. Thanks so much for sharing it. I was with you all the way into Washington Square Park. I remember, years ago buying flowers there. I think it was the first time I ever bought peonies as cut flowers. In the UK at that time you would only see them growing in gardens, never in flower shops or market stalls.
There now, see? Your writing has drawn memories from the depths of my being.
Jennifer and Yasmin--your invitation evoked so many memories for me...Central Park summer concerts...Led Zeppelin and Simon and Garfunkel, Patti LaBelle...Central Park in the winter of Cristo's Gates installation...Washington Square Park in the spring with the pear trees in bloom, men (mostly) huddled over chess boards, conga drummers under the arch, me walking across the park to the NYU student union...all rich with sights, sounds, smells. I love your collaboration and hope you'll continue. Thank you for the prompt. I can smell the peonies ❤️
Jennifer, thank you for sharing your personal experience of Central Park. As you recount these moments in time, I'm taken back to the days when Covid-19 altered our lives dramatically. And, to think that your relationship blossomed during the restrictions... well, it's heartwarming for sure.
And, thank you for being my collaborative buddy for this project. It's been very rewarding to write with you, and produce two posts about Central Park, each filled with memories and love.
Yasmin- thank you:). It’s been so meaningful to come together with you for this collaboration as well. I don’t know if I would have written about my connection with Central Park over these last years- from meeting my love to returning with our son- without our collaboration. Thank you for this gift.