There are mornings when the Shire feels tucked away under a quilt of dark — the kind of hour when even the birds are still negotiating whether it is worth it. On such a morning I like to light a small lantern on the kitchen table, not because I cannot see without it, but because the glow makes the whole smial feel kind.
The kettle begins its first soft song, and the flame throws warm shapes against the walls — round as the door, steady as the Hill itself. A great deal of courage in Middle Earth is nothing grander than this: doing the next plain thing, before one is entirely certain one is ready.
I have learned (from trolls, goblins, and one very unnecessary dragon) that the dark is often only waiting to be answered. “There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something.” So I look: at the day ahead, at the road outside, and at the honest little circle of light that says, quietly, begin.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End