SEE YOU IN SEPTEMBER

I saw on Facebook that the date was September 11th, and recognized, with the surprise of one for whom time moves with distressing haste, that seventeen years have passed since terrorists attacked and destroyed New York’s World Trade Center. And when I remembered that 2001 day, I saw, in my head, the same things I’ve seen every year since.

I’d flown, then ferried, then bused to Hollyhock, that mecca of a retreat center on Cortes Island in British Columbia, for a writing conference with the indomitable Natalie Goldberg. I settled into my cabin with the one other woman who arrived a day early, both of us anticipating two more women.

I don’t remember exactly how, the next morning, we and eight or so other early attendees ended up sitting in a circle in a room next to the dining hall. Natalie Goldberg, barefoot and in blue flannel pajamas, sat with us, all of us anxious and confused. An attack? What? The twin towers? Surely not. We had no TV or wifi, and little contact with the mainland. What?

“It must be an internet rumor,” one woman said, flapping a dismissive hand. “Just a joke.”

“No,” Ms. Goldberg said, and then, in her wonderful Brooklyn accent, which I can’t adequately convey here, “My partner called me! She called me! It’s true!”

She asked us to bow our heads while she prayed. She prayed for the victims of the attack, their families and loved ones, the firefighters and other rescuers, and our leaders. And then she prayed for the attackers, the perpetrators, for their hearts to soften and our differences to heal. I was surprised at the last prayer, and then admired her expansive heart.

The workshop continued, with far fewer people than expected, as air travel was shut down. We wrote to start lines, read our writing aloud, practiced walking meditation, and spent a few hours in silence. We praised the magnificent ocean views (“It’s f-ing gor-geous here!”, Ms. Goldberg said.) We ate delicious meals. And we cried. We saw no photos of the attack, no scenes, heard only a little Canadian radio, and it felt so strange, so surreal, and every so often, one of us would break down as we imagined the devastation back home.

One afternoon, sitting on the porch facing the ocean, swallowing to keep back sobs, I looked up and saw, at the porch’s other end, a young man with long wavy brown hair watching me. Tears covered his face. “We’re so sorry,” he said. “We Canadians are so very, very sorry this is happening to you.”  “Oh, thank you,” I told him. I wish he could have known how much his caring meant to me.

At home, I finally saw the horrendous photos and scenes, and I grieved again. It was different grief the second time, more awful, more real. But that time at home is a blur, with no distinct images. I don’t know what combination of sequencing and shock and emotional overload affected my memory, but all I see every year on September 11th is Natalie Goldberg’s bowed head as she prays and a sweet young Canadian man weeping along with me.