Narrated Essay: Anchoring in the Drift
On learning to move unexpectedly and with great care into the new year.
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Dear friend,
I’m writing today from a quiet harbor in the West Indies where, for the past few years, my family has come to rest during the liminal week between Christmas (or this year's portmanteau, Christmukkah) and New Year’s.
In the final days of 2023, in an essay about thresholds and time, I described an overlook I like to walk to here on the island of Grenada — a cliff at the top of a grassy knoll from which water shimmers into a circular horizon. So much has changed since then, a reminder of how the business of time is to change.
If I could, I would tie the gentleness of this place with silk ribbon and dispatch it across the sea in every direction. Nearby, a kindly breeze rocks a resting child in her hammock. My father whispers in my son's ear, laughter buoying up from their bellies as kids scamper barefoot across the thick green lawn and a pot of fresh mint tea rests on the table, its fragrant steam unfurling in the air.
In this place of warbling, white-breasted flycatchers and shading palm fronds, of lilting afternoon voices filtering through muslin curtains, a certain fatigue I can no longer ignore lays its hands calmly on my shoulders. For months, I’ve been brushing aside signals of this heavy tenderness, but now my mind and body settle into them. I begin to wonder about the texture and tone of this fatigue, about its intentions and layers and causes. I watch a ripening calabash tree and imagine what it might feel like — not good, not bad, but simply laden.
I am beginning to re-learn the science and art of rest. I get slower and quieter, simplifying my days by shoring up against the instinct to do, fill, get, and rush. I visualize silk-ribboned gentleness delivered by tiny boats of breath to my nervous system. My mind loosens, and I remember a childhood lesson from my father, who has spent most of his days on or by the ocean, on re-finding equilibrium when feeling sea-rattled: relax as much as possible, breathe deep, and fix your gaze on the horizon, kiddo.
And gradually, my bones begin to feel their weight again.
How many of us carry a quiet knowing, unnoticed or avoided, until stillness brings it into view?
My mind drifts to “The World," a poem by William Bronk that my friend Jess Lazar introduced to me this past year.
I thought you were an anchor in the drift of the world;
but no: there isn’t an anchor anywhere.
There isn’t an anchor in the drift of the world. Oh no.
I thought you were. Oh no. The drift of the world.
—The World
It is a sorrowful, even devastating poem, but Bronk’s revelation also carries benevolence. The brimming honesty of “I thought you were...” “but no” reflects and comforts my grappling at the precipice of this new year. Truth be told, I have moved between hope and apprehension, promise and disappointment, acceptance and fear — and it’s exhausting. I’m learning to find a more nuanced, intentional way of leveling my gaze amidst the world's drift.
“The World” is hopeful insofar as its author reaches outside the confines of his one lonely boat to connect with us, his readers. The drift of the world is unrelenting and amoral, he intimates. We are human and, therefore, subject to attachments, grievances, foolishness, and all the rest. Our anchors moor us in their brevity, and our lives, too, shimmer with wakefulness. It’s all so precious and immutable, yet we can tap into unexpected harbors and safe ports, not despite but because of and given the facts.
Rumi reminds us, “Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds’ wings.” We are of the nature to wake up. We are of the nature to let go. “I thought you were an anchor in the drift of the world; but no….” Looking out over azure water, I’m reminded of how life emerges and regenerates from these tidal rhythms — we expand, we contract, an ocean falling and rising again from within.
So lovely and full of wisdom!
A beautiful reminder of life’s fragile beauty.