Welcome to the Anchorage
A newsletter for those seeking beyond the horizon, rooted in place.
Having once lived in a place called Anchorage, I’ve thought a lot about the meaning of that name—of how places of anchorage allow for a safe harbor, a protection from storms.
The word anchor is traced to a mix of styles that situate its roots in Greek, Latin, and Old English, meaning crooked, curved. When I read the etymology I felt the word already offering more than I had expected: I thought of the curved and crooked paths life takes. Of how an anchor can be a weight, but also grants the power of refusal—to be able to stop in the middle of tides and currents, offering the capacity of removal from the flow of time, speed, winds—the power to claim a stasis that would otherwise be impossible. Anchors can steady us in rapid currents, that give gravity when we most need its pull.
Anchors latch on to different parts of us in ways we can’t see, in ways that we didn’t know existed. Scarless holds that beckon for return, that leave parts of its iron in the soft flesh of our feelings, identities, histories. When I think of the pulls made on us—those of where we think we should be and the pull of a somewhere we’re still uncertain of—I’ve come to think of anchors as starting points to memory, a means to understand the details of our surroundings and recognize what offers safety in a coming storm. A connection between where we are and where we are headed, so that we might measure the distance.
The Anchorage is a place that understands the straight road to an ideal never exists. It’s a place to examine the pull of both the vertical and the horizontal, the inclination of an anchor that allows us both movement and rest. To look beyond the horizon, while paying close attention to place and our surroundings. To use the anchor of gravity to incline towards others, the boat rock of back and forth, less a position of stasis, alone and easily blown off course, but to become practiced in the rhythm of help and need, knowing that strength comes from the care of what is around us. This is a space to explore how to live in the anchorages of now, to find space to imagine and create new ideas out of the worn grooves of routine, to refuse the noise that tries so hard to tell others what to think about how to live their lives in this world.
A word on subscriptions
The Anchorage is a newsletter delivered (mostly1) twice each month. If you enjoy what you read here, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. With a paid subscription you will receive Commonplacing posts—weekend links of favorite recent reads, ideas, obscure finds, and poetry, along with full access to the archive. With an annual subscription, you will receive a digital deck of cards with quotes from favorite, mostly obscure, women writers.
Free subscribers receive:
a monthly newsletter
As a paid subscriber you’ll also receive:
commonplacing posts with links, reads, and poetry
occasional long-form essays and deep dives into obscure histories
full access to the archive (past posts are paywalled after three weeks)
About me:
I’m a writer, curator, and archaeologist, with a passion for archives and hidden histories. I have an MFA in creative writing and an M.Phil in Archaeology, and the combination of those interests often gets reflected in my writing. My poetry and essays have been published in several places, including Electric Literature, The Catamaran Literary Reader, Colorado Review, and Bellingham Review, where my work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
I’ve lived in many northern places, including Scotland, Norway, and Anchorage, Alaska, where I learned to love the cold, and the dynamic twilights of high latitudes—and it often plays a role in my writing. I’ve now returned to live in the Pacific Northwest, my original home, and the more temperate realm of the rains I love.
You can find links to some of my other published work at www.freyarohn.com.
A note on frequency: It’s important to me that my readers receive work I am proud of and want to share deeply with others. This means that there are times when I’m unable to produce content on a regular schedule, and I want to honor that we all have times where schedules do not work for the vagaries of daydreams, let alone the noise of daily life. Paid subscriptions help support more opportunities for research and creative work.
