Sundays in the Shire have a way of arriving without fuss, like a cat settling into the warmest chair. The world grows soft around the edges, and even the busiest mind seems willing to sit down and mind its manners.
This morning I set a seed-cake to cool on the windowsill and found, beside it, an old folded map I had not meant to take out at all. It is odd how ink on paper can feel like a hand on the shoulder — not pushing, not pulling, only reminding one that Middle Earth is wider than the Hill, and yet somehow always returns you to your own round door.
I do not think bravery is always a trumpet-blast. Sometimes it is simply being willing to look again at a line you once followed, and to smile at the notion that you might, one day, follow it anew. As I once wrote (with a rather fluttery stomach): “Now I am a burglar indeed!”
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End