The Shire woke up in a rather quiet, gray mood today — the sort of morning that makes one reach for an extra bit of blanket before reaching for one’s slippers. When I opened the round green door to let in a breath of air, there was a small pale feather waiting on the step, as if someone had left a note but written it in the language of birds.
I stood a moment with the kettle beginning its first patient song, watching a little fellow perched on the garden gate. He looked as pleased with himself as any Took after a practical joke, and then he flew off without so much as a bow. The feather stayed behind, light as nothing at all, and yet it made the morning feel less heavy.
On the Road, I learned that not every sign arrives with trumpets; some come as crumbs, or a kindly look, or a patch of sun that turns up at exactly the right moment. I find myself repeating an old truth from my own pages: “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.” Middle Earth is full of large matters, certainly — but it is also full of small mercies that help one keep count properly.
So I’ve set the feather in a little dish by the window, where it can remind me to pay attention. If the day insists on being gray, I can at least be the sort of hobbit who notices a quiet kindness and lets it brighten the tea.
Filed under: Middle Earth • Written at Bag End