I found an old map on the mantel this morning, folded so many times that the creases have become a sort of handwriting. It was not grand — no dragons drawn in the margins, no banners — only a few careful lines and a smudge where my thumb must have rested, ages ago.
A map is a peculiar comfort: it sits still, but it makes the mind walk. One can be perfectly safe in a warm chair at Bag End and yet feel the faint tug of the Road, as if the hills themselves were whispering, “Not today, perhaps… but do not forget me.”
I poured a fresh cup of tea, set the kettle back, and let my eyes travel from the Hill to the far-away places I once blundered into. “There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something.” Sometimes what one finds is not treasure at all, but a small courage — enough to keep one steady in Middle Earth, whether one goes out the door or stays by the fire.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End