Finding Courage with None

I want to start off by wishing all of you a very Merry Christmas! (To those who celebrate it.) 2014 certainly had its up and downs, but this Christmas was a particularly blessed one for me, which promises much for 2015. :)

However, this blog post is dedicated to the wonderful works of Tolkien.

As we are all well aware, the last Tolkien movie was recently released. I went to see it the weekend it came out, and found myself battling a mix of conflicting emotions sparked by the finesse, or lack thereof, of the movie.

There was disappointment in execution, but also a sense of accomplishment that can only be felt after watching a three hour, drug out, over CGI'd film. Some parts I felt were unnecessary and horrible excuses for screen time in the world that is Middle Earth. I was more impressed by Lord of the Rings, and saddened that Jackson had managed to butcher the movies like he did.

So why go see it? To me, it's something of a milestone, the need to see this memorable book on the big screen; to witness how it all ends.

So backstory time, because the Hobbit means more to me then acting and big screens.

When I was around the age of eleven, I was already frustrating my mother and proving to be a challenge. I was simply not learning. Anything. I would not read, I would not write, and certainly was not going to listen to lectures or math lessons with a dry eye. My dearest older sister had already read Pride and Prejudice at the age of ten, and by that time had pretty much devoured any lengthy book that she could get her hands on. She devoured other subjects and was showing promising excellence in math.

Now, everyone learns at their own rate, but I was considerably behind my peers. What little I read I could not retain. IT ended in tears, and multiple tears as my mother scraped everything she could to find something that would spark my interest enough so that I could read anything. IF maybe I could find a subject I enjoyed, perhaps I would do better in my other studies.

I began reading some of Margaret Henry's work. (Brighty of Grand Canyon, Black Gold, etc.) Still, it took my weeks to read those, and even more teeth pulling to even get me started.

My elevnth birthday was swiftly approaching, and still reading and learning in general were fights for me. We all have our time, but mine was coming quite late, and being an introvert (and shy to top it all) I had nothing to me. No interests, no friends, and an immense hate for socializing and school. I was odd and had something of a dark humor.

Then comes the most prominent memory from my childhood.

On a sunny July afternoon, I had become quite bored. Nothing, not even my horses that I played with, were keeping me occupied. My sister recommended I read, which I quickly declined. Reading was frustrating for me. When I finally read, it gave me headaches and I couldn't ever remember anything, there was no point to reading.

"No," she said, "You just haven't read something you enjoy."

This was a new concept for me. Reading was painful, who in their right minds would enjoy it?

She had looked at me desperately, for she had tried every book in our small library to try and get me to like something, before her eyes fell on a weathering, old and faded, light orange copy of the Hobbit.

She had picked it up gingerly and softly placed it into my hands saying, "Now, I know you will enjoy this. "

NAturally, I panicked. I recognized the author of the Lord of the Rings, movies I hated because they were scary, and tried ot give the book back.

She had just shaken her head, "No, at least try it. Please, I really think you'll enjoy it. It's not Lord of the Rings anyways, it's different. Funnier, full of quests, with ridiculous little men."

I had frowned at her, grumbled, and then really looked at the cover. On it, this was an old version, was a picture of an eagle's nest with a tall man in blue robes, and a smaller man who looked funny.

This was our cover, but ours was faded and yellow.

I went against my better judgement, cuddled up in my mom's old, white, arm chair, and prepared for torture.

"In the hole in the ground, their lived a Hobbit..."

I devoured that poor book. For the first time I was intrigued by something other than picture books. It was the first book I lost that I destroyed the house looking for. When I stayed up late to finish it my parents weren't even angry; she was reading.

The first book I cried, laughed, and became attached to. For my birthday I begged for Lord of the Rings, which they gave to me happily. I devoured those to, so when I heard they were making a movie, I simply had to see it.

I no longer feared people, the world was suddenly a happier place knowing Hobbits existed. It showed me being sad was ok, but so was being happy. Adventures were scary, but worth the risk. It's ok to change, to be laughed at, to be loved and to have unexpected parties. Suddenly to be a Hobbit my entire life wasn't so endearing. I met one of my best friends that year, and lost another. Tolkien taught me that that was me growing, and people would often come and go. He told the dangers of pride, the dangers of detachment, and the heart breaks of loving someone. Not in any romance, but so beautifully platonic IT hurt to love, but to not love was perpetual lonely pain.

So yes, It's frustrating that Jackson butchered the movies that meant so much to me, At the same time, I'm glad he gave a face to my fictional friends. I got to know some of them. I got to say farewell to my favorite character, Thorin Oakenshield. Who will always and forever be my favorite character. For his bravery, flaws, and love of what's noble.

So, thank you Mr. Tolkien for showing my who I was. I honestly don't know what I would have done without you.

With love,

Gwen Keller.