The dictionary tells me that anchorages are places of safe harbor, where one can presumably drop a toothed iron into a sea bed and expect it to keep you in place, unmoved by storms or tides. The act of being at anchor. But anchors—and anchorages—are, after all, by nature meant to be a temporary station. All anchors get pulled up at some point. Living in Anchorage can sometimes feel like the anchors of all anchors, one I can’t seem to shake. I keep tugging, testing, waiting.
This is a triumphant piece, Freya. I kept thinking to grab bits and pieces to comment on but it deserves so much more. Ultimately, this near-closing bit....
"How to live in the anchorholds of now so that we can find spaces to imagine and create new ideas out of the worn grooves of routine, refuse the noise that tries so hard to tell us what to think about how to live in this world. How to be a part of a community in times of withdrawal—or of long anchorage."
... really sums up my struggle. As someone who thinks about solitude and hermits and withdrawal and all of it, this work resonates deeply with me. Thank you.
This is a triumphant piece, Freya. I kept thinking to grab bits and pieces to comment on but it deserves so much more. Ultimately, this near-closing bit....
"How to live in the anchorholds of now so that we can find spaces to imagine and create new ideas out of the worn grooves of routine, refuse the noise that tries so hard to tell us what to think about how to live in this world. How to be a part of a community in times of withdrawal—or of long anchorage."
... really sums up my struggle. As someone who thinks about solitude and hermits and withdrawal and all of it, this work resonates deeply with me. Thank you.
Thank you so much friend, it means a lot that it resonates.