Natalie Goldberg, photo: Wikipedia
How rare, and how delightful, to spend the day with a teacher as gifted as Natalie Goldberg. I’ve read most of her books, beginning years ago with Writing Down the Bones, the guide that introduced a generation of women to writing. However, yesterday was my first experience with one of her workshops, given in collaboration with The Upaya Zen Center here as a fundraiser for their programs. I was amazed to see something like 240 participants on Zoom for the all-day event, many from other parts of the world.
I’ve never been enthusiastic about writing prompts, but these were of a higher imaginative quality than anything I’ve encountered before. A list may even inspire some of my readers:
- “Directions to your house”: as Natalie reminded us, in this day of Google Maps many of us can no longer give verbal directions, even to our own homes (which means the end of landmarks—that big tree at the corner, etc.)
- In writing, “What I’m thinking of/ What I’m not thinking of?”
- “How lost am I?”
- “What do I take for granted?”
- “Write a letter to a person, object or place”
- “Write a list”—any list
- “Let us instead consider…”
Number 7 gave me free rein to write about something that has been on my mind here in Santa Fe for the last few days: our police are rounding up some of the participants (all women except for one man) from the Indigenous Day that resulted in the toppling of the obelisk in the center of our plaza. So “let us instead consider” that day in the life of one of the soon-to-be arrested participants:
Who getting up in the morning and fixing coffee thought, “I’m going to go down there. I want to be a part of that.”?
Who thought about what she would wear to go to the Plaza?
(It was warm that day so no coat but still something protective—hiking boots, gardening gloves—because you may have to brace yourself against something solid in order to pull, you may have to grab a rough rope.)
Who said to her daughter still half asleep because no school, staggering into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, “I’m going down there, Honey. Down to the Plaza for the protest”?
(And her daughter, yawning, stared, the first time her mother had done something that surprised her.)
Who had trouble finding a parking place and wondered why so many of the meters were hooded and finally pulled into the city parking lot where a nice man used to hand out tickets and take your money but now there was only a machine that doesn’t work?
Who worried about parking in the lot without being able to pay while walking to the Plaza?
Who on the approach missed music—singing, anyway?
Who missed drums and drumming?
Who wondered whether the people this was all about were smart to stay away?
Who at the edge of the small crowd around the obelisk wondered why there seemed to be no spiritual leaders and then remembered that you can’t always recognize them?
Who moved cautiously into the center of the small group and didn’t see anybody she knew?
(And felt the end of a long rope pressed into her hand.)
As Natalie said about writing and so much else, “Just show up.”
Everyone thinks about what to wear, or at least I think so. I always do, mostly comfort factors driving the function and that always means work gloves. I have to protect the hands that touch the guitar strings. That aspect of your response to the workshop prompts is one of the reasons I love your writing. My fav writing prof, the late Jack Mathews, pointed me to the little facts that move the reader to discover the whole character. I love the way you do that.
The more I learn of life’s loves and heartache becoming inspiration from your writings about Santa Fe, I come closer to my grandparents.
They shared dignity, respect, and deep affection with the Santa Fe School students, early potters, and international peers of theirs in the 1930’s.
Such a heritage is a treasure and personal lore I’m always discovering more about.
Thank You Sallie Bingham