Anchorholding: Viewing our Workspaces as Anchorholds, Part One
If you should walk up the stairs to the second floor of my stone house and make a sharp right, you would find yourself in a room that appears to be an office or workspace of some sort. There are two desk top computers, a small portable one, and the technological paraphernalia needed to keep everything running. There is an old-fashioned land line telephone, stacks of books, two large white boards covered in scribbles, a large paper note pad on a frame, many files, baskets of ragged notes, and stacks of journals. I am supposing it looks like a writer’s workspace.
But what it really is, is an anchorhold. And I, the only person to spend time in this space, am an anchoress. Yes, like Julian of Norwich, though I claim not for a moment her spiritual depth or reach. But we have this in common. We have devoted ourselves to the life of larger questions and the offering of this spiritual exploration into the world. Ten centuries separate us in time. Many miles and an ocean separate us in space. But Julian and I have the same purpose in daily life.
It makes sense that you would see my anchorhold as an office, because in the twenty-first century that is our context, work is the thing around which our lives appear to orbit. We awake in the morning and we go to work. It could be work as a professional job. It could be work we do in our home, on the land, at a local store or school or factory. It could be the job of looking for work or taking time from work. But notice we always see what we are doing as work. We divide our time into work time and break time. We see where we do our work/job as our workspace. And we think of ourselves and others as working, or workers.
I want to make a pitch for thinking of ourselves as anchoresses or anchorites who dwell in an anchorhold, albeit in a modernized form. It is as good a place to start as any to open the landscape, to issue new light on our thinking without having to alter a single thing about what we do during our days and nights, or where or how or with whom we do it. We may continue with our current employment yet find ourselves aligned with the larger adventure of the on-going shift in human consciousness.
A traditional anchorhold, as it was experienced in the Christian tradition, was a cell-like dwelling built onto the side of a church. Here an anchoress or anchorite would retire from society to live a solitary life of intense prayer and spiritual practice. From this concentrated effort they served the public as spiritual guide, with elements we might recognize in our time as that of a public therapist, civil theologian, social justice advocate, political strategist, mindfulness practitioner, or influencer. Though they lived a life physically separated from the world, anchorites were not unaware of what went on in the wider sphere because they served it in all its complexity. Leaders of various kinds sought anchoresses out for council and comfort because they offered a unique viewing from their place of solitude. They offered an enhanced view, perhaps, a more distanced lens. This early form of individual monasticism was widespread in Europe from the 12th to 16th centuries as the gifts of considered thought were offered freely to all who wished to partake.
Being an anchoress was a serious matter. The cell like dwelling was sealed in permanently and the practitioner given the last rites. The length of their service continued until their death. Anchorholding being a serious business, only those with fertile, scholarly minds were chosen, those who were thought to be able to attend to matters unknown and uncertain, those gifted in imagination, those thought to be able to birth new understandings and, most importantly, share them.
Though sealed off in a permeant way, anchorholds nevertheless had three points of entry, each with a separate purpose. One opening allowed connection to the church, which sustained the dweller in their faith tradition and connected them to community worship. The window would open to the nave, so that services could be attended, the priest could administer communion, and the singing and teaching that took place could offer spiritual and intellectual sustenance. Remember that this was a time and context, for both good and ill, when the formal religious monoliths were the principal suppliers of education, spiritual nourishment, community building, and succor to the general populace. They were the centre of all towns and cities, the core around which people gathered.
A second opening, leading into a parlor, was for the temporal needs of the anchoress, allowing for the cleaning and caring of the space and its dweller. A single person, or group of persons, provided daily nourishment, laundry services, personal attentions, and any writing/reading/practical materials that would be needed. This care could be simple, or elaborate, depending on the resources of the anchoress’ friends and family and that of the parish to whom they were attached.
The third window in a traditional anchorhold opened onto the street or garden of the town or village where it was located. Here the people could visit for spiritual direction or council. Here the anchoress made her contribution to the welfare of the surrounding community. As certain anchoresses became known for their writings or council, a visit to their anchorage became a valued destination and added prestige to both the church it was attached to and the community it served.
So, let’s remove the specifically Christian elements from anchorholding and strip them down to basics and see what we have.
A person desires to offer their intellect and energy to consider the larger matters, to tackle problems that affect everyone. In our current context, you may imagine any number of challenges. Paradoxically, focusing on a small specific within a person’s immediate context is how they may help the larger collective.
They decide to do this in silence, contemplation, prayer, reflection, writing, singing, drawing, whatever their medium might be, while working through their thoughts in a concentrated way, eliminating as many outside distractions as possible.
They have a supportive base to which they are attached, however loosely, that upholds them spiritually, intellectually, and emotionally.
They have a person or persons or community who provide their temporal needs and perhaps they supply some of that themselves.
They offer up their considered thought to all people without prejudice or calculation or agenda, simply because that is what they feel called to do. This does not eliminate the reality that they may well be paid for their ongoing work. But within that scenario, there is also room for the larger view, and the larger giving. There is a grander reciprocity that extends past the mere exchange of coin, though this exchange may be vitally important for the anchoress’ ability to house, feed and clothe themselves and their family.
I think there is great value in reframing our work, our workspaces, and ourselves in this model. Let us consider, then, the three entrances to an anchorhold, the modern interpretation of each of their purposes, and what that might look like in the physical/digital space where we live and work.