Mondays have a way of arriving like a knock at the door: perfectly polite, entirely unavoidable, and somehow louder than one expects. This morning I set out a clean spoon beside the honey-jar, and I found myself thinking how a day is much the same — it begins with a small choice, taken before the mind has time to fret.
I do not mean grand plans, with banners and trumpets. (Good gracious, no — I have seen where trumpets lead.) I mean the quiet sort: to write a few honest lines, to answer a letter kindly, to take a short walk up the Hill even if the air bites. Such intentions are not heroic, but they are the way a hobbit keeps his courage tidy.
There are days when the wide world feels too large, and Middle Earth too full of corners where trouble might be hiding. On those days I remember a sentence I once wrote at the very end of a long road: “I think I am quite ready for another adventure.” One need not mean dragons by it; sometimes the “adventure” is simply doing the next right thing, and stirring one’s tea before it goes cold.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End