Anchor

For every bike analogy I have, I probably have an equal number of water ones.

Maybe that's a signal for what my next book will be.

That's not entirely a joke. I've thought about it for years. I just haven't started collecting the stories yet. Cycling Shorts incubated in a one-inch, three-ring binder for close to a decade before it became a book. 

Maybe it's time to buy another binder.

But this isn't that story. At least not yet.

One morning, I was reading a novel when one sentence made me stop.

“It was funny how this simple ritual, coffee and the ocean, had become her anchor.”

I knew exactly what she meant.

Most mornings, I wake up without an alarm. Usually somewhere between four and five, my eyes open and my body seems to know it's time. I make coffee and head to the porch. The world isn't awake yet. There are no meetings to attend. No emails to answer. No schedule to juggle. No one needs anything from me. 

There is coffee. Sunrise. Silence. A hummingbird, if I'm lucky. Stillness. And I love it there.

For a long time, I thought an anchor was simply something that held you in place. Drop it to the bottom and the boat stays put.

Except that's not really what happens, is it?

The boat still moves. The wind blows. The current pulls. Waves come and gently rock it, then move on. The anchor doesn't make the water behave. It just keeps the boat from being carried away.

Maybe that's why that sentence stopped me.

There have been seasons of my life when mornings began very differently. An alarm jolted me awake and, almost instantly, my brain was off and running. What do I need to do today? Where do I need to be? What needs my attention? What am I forgetting? And the big one: What am I already behind on?

Seriously? My feet weren't even on the floor yet.

I don't miss that. 

Now I wake up. I make coffee. I sit outside and watch darkness slowly become morning. Some mornings I write. Some mornings I read. Some mornings I stare at absolutely nothing. Turns out I'm pretty damn good at that.

Time feels different here. Slower, somehow. Fuller.

Maybe that's what an anchor gives us. Not control, but presence.

I've found it other places, too. On a bike, when my legs finally find their rhythm, and my brain slows. In yoga, when I'm focused on my breath. On the water, letting the waves come, gently rock me, and move on. Sometimes it's in an embrace from someone I love, when I have the good sense to stop thinking and let myself fully feel it.

Sometimes it's writing. Creating something. Laughing so hard I forget what I was worried about five minutes ago. Doing something for someone else and getting out of my own head for a while. Standing somewhere so beautiful that my brain finally gives up trying to be useful.

The anchors are different. But I know the feeling. My brain goes to neutral. Or, better yet, mush. No replaying yesterday. No trying to get three steps ahead of tomorrow.

Just here. Now. Breath.

Maybe that's part of why I've always been drawn to water. Water doesn't care about my schedule. Waves come and go. Tides rise and fall. Currents shift. Storms roll through and eventually move on. It has a natural rhythm that doesn't need anything from me.

Life has a rhythm, too, although I've spent a good portion of mine trying to manage the hell out of it. Plan it. Schedule it. Push it. Fix it. Hold on to the parts I love. Hurry through the parts I don't. Maybe even outrun a few.

I'm not sure that's how any of this works. Because being anchored doesn't mean nothing changes. It doesn't mean the water stays calm. It doesn't mean I won't get rocked around sometimes. And it sure doesn't mean I get to decide when the next wave comes.

Maybe an anchor just gives me enough steadiness to let life move around me without letting it carry me somewhere I don't want to go.

And the anchors themselves? They're temporary, too. 

Coffee gets cold. The sun comes up. Yoga ends. The ride brings me home. Arms eventually let go. The wave moves on. And tomorrow morning, I'll probably get up and do it all over again.

Make the coffee. Walk out to the porch. Watch for the hummingbird. Wait for the sun. Breathe.

That's the part I hadn't understood about anchors. They aren't there to keep me from moving. They're there so I can move, get rocked around a little, drift sometimes, live through whatever weather comes...

and still know how to find my way back to myself.