On Pain: A Hobbit-Riddled Understanding
I thought about it many times, but didn't actually cry until the credits.
"Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping"
That stupid song always made me cry.
I hate this song, I thought bitterly. But I love it. I hate it and love it and hate loving it and love hating it. This whole movie— this whole idea, hobbits and rings and kings and shires, is like that.
I scuttled upstairs, wiping away the tears only so my eyes could replenish with fresh ones.
I curled on the floor of my four-by-four feet library, tears writhing behind my eyes, unable to come out and unable to stay in. I sat and lay in my existential pain. No— it wasn't that. It was pain. But—
It was human pain. The most raw, unanalyzed, human pain I'd ever felt. It was real. It was the pain of so many people— without being the pain of anybody that I could attach appraisal to, or try to fix. It was pain that I had to just sit in and experience without being able to even try and fix it. That was the beauty of it. I loved it. But it was pain. And in a way, I hated it.
Above all things, it hurt. It hurt in a way that shouldn't be understood, shouldn't even be thought about. Only experienced, only lived through. It hurt in a way that things hurt when you're learning, and you're glad, but you're mourning something too.
I thought about the ring. I thought about Sméagol. I thought about the battles, the bravery, the fear, the light and dark of the war for Middle Earth. I thought about Aragorn. I thought about rebuilding, about hope and love. But most of all, I thought about Sam, and about Frodo. About what it'd be like to lose your best friend without warning. More than your friend— your partner in survival. The only person in the world who might really understand you, and all you've gone through. To have him leave, after all that, and to try to pick up the threads of an old life. Sam always managed to do these kind of things Frodo couldn't. Sam was able to keep moving. Frodo had been cut— in every way— too deep. I thought about coming home and feeling empty. Not that home is empty, but you're empty, and you can't belong in a full place anymore. I thought about what Frodo really was; what kind of life he'd lived. It really ought to have been called "The Tragedy of Frodo." His life had been wanting adventure, and then it had been having unwanted things thrust upon him, and then it had been wanting to save his home, and then it had been just wanting it all to be over. Unfulfilled. Empty. But full, in a way. Full of pain and fear and exhaustion and wanting. Full of humanity. Full of courage and strength and saving Middle Earth. What a strange and beautiful and pained little thing Frodo was. And what pain he brought me.
Eventually, as with all things, it passed. My mind slipped into other things— story ideas, thoughts of other books, of other times. My headache subsided. I was growing aware of how uncomfortable the position I'd chosen to lay in was.
I got up. I went to my bed and sat. I breathed. I dried my tears.
There was a knock at the door.
Mom came in. "Are you okay?"
I smiled away from her, out the window. "I am now."
"You didn't each your chicken dinos."
"After watching Lord of the Rings, I... I just need some time. I'm okay now."
Mom leaned against the door handle with concern, trying to find my eyes, hidden below the edge of the bunk bed. "The movie upset you that much?"
"It's... It's hard to explain."
"Okay. Are you going to come down at some point?"
"I'll be down in a minute."
And so, the normalcy began to creep back in. Where pain had stabbed and sliced, understanding and peace began to soothe and bind. But Pain hadn't left. Only shape-shifted, evolved. It was old and wise now, and quiet. Gone was the rocking, bawling child, and in its stead, Pain sat cooly, watching the stars with its sword across its lap. Now was a time for healing.
You're welcome, Pain tells me quietly. Now you can understand.