Twenty-six ways of noticing

Reflections from A to Z.

Inspired by Ross Gay who— in the preface to The Book of Delights— “wrote a delight a day,” I realized that, if I am really going to write, I need a structure. I need to— at the very least— start with the spine. So, I’m using the alphabet. I have a running list with each letter and ideas for the word that will “anchor” my writing; I assume that the word chosen will depend on the day. If the dog has puked on the carpet or I’ve lost my wallet, I imagine that the “word of the day” will be infused with irritation. But, who knows? Also, if you’ve some words to add for letters that I’ve not yet written about, please let me know.

Thanks for joining me— or bearing with me— as I commit to 26 short, imperfect pieces.

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I’ve not spent a lot of time on boats with anchors. I didn’t sail and I’m not often on motor boats. Most anchors I’ve dropped at the bottom of Ahmic Lake to moor the Sunfish were not entirely reliable, much to Jan’s (the idiosyncratic sailing coach who arrived and departed in secret) dismay. In truth, movement serves more than stasis; the chaos of packing and organizing and shedding provides purpose. And, when there is “purpose,” there is just that– purpose, justification, quiet.

Schools, places of learning and creativity, of mission coupled with wasted time, of meanness and light, cacophonous lockers and lilting PDA, vulnerability and ego. This is my anchor, and teenagers and collaborative teachers my bouys. Whether public, private, or international, a school– a high school in particular– feels like home.

And yet, it’s the 27th of August. There is no cardigan covering armpit-sweat stains; no fears that Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese” will fall flat. No re-arranging of desks and chairs to optimize belonging; no walls decorated with terms and quotes and artwork attempting to snag the students’ attention when they– inevitably– tune out. It’s strange, uncharted.

But, maybe that’s all anchors are meant to do — not hold forever, but long enough for us to steady ourselves. Afterall, boats drift while anchored.

When I used to teach the Fagles translation of Sophocles’ Antigone, students were asked to consider what Haemon communicated to his father to “live by the law” to be anchored by “single-minded[ness]” (789). Haemon continues: “ You’ve seen trees by a raging winter torrent, / How many sway with the flood and salvage every twig,/ but not the stubborn– they’re ripped out, roots and all / Bend or break” (797-99). Creon, Haemon’s father and the king, is fixated on holding firm to HIS law (not Zeus’s) and sending Antigone to be “walled up alive” for what he calls “Anarchy.” Haemon attempts to say, “Dad, I get it, but look at those trees on the river bank when the water is raging. While anchored, they are lithe and pliant.

If you know Antigone, you know that nothing ends well. Haemon was right; the king, anchored in “law” was wrong. Like trees, we anchor ourselves. People, professions, places, purpose tether us.

But, perhaps we should think less about the anchor itself and more about the slack it provides. Perhaps what steadies us is being rooted enough to bend, to find steadiness in the drift.

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