When I was in the fifth grade, I was deeply entrenched in fantasy and science fiction. I went to Brian Jacques book signings, (gracias padres) and voraciously read any Black Cauldron and Young Merlin books. Naturally, ten year old me progressed to reading J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings Trilogy. One day, I walked into my school homeroom early, and thus decided to continue to read The Two Towers. I was entranced in a world and I delighted at the prospect of the unknown. I was made fun of, but no matter. While I was reading, advancing, and relishing every word, my best friend who was also reading the same book enters the classroom, sees my thumb holding a page, and misjudges the location. He exclaims that you’ve gotten to that part and he’s alive! Gandalf is alive!
I fled the room weeping. Nothing I write now can convey the depth of my despair. My teacher literally had to chase me down and console me the rest of the day. I did not speak to my friend for months. Spoilers are traumatic.
To say that I care about Lord of the Rings is an understatement. It’s themes are of the upmost importance, which is why it endures. Personally, those books taught me about what life is, and what hope should be in the face of hardship.
Back in 2011, I walked into a small chapel in Cuzco, Peru and saw a Joan of Arc stained glass window. It solidified and inspired my idea for the Eowyn tattoo that I wear proudly on my thigh.
Every year, I watch the Lord of the Rings Trilogy with an ardent passion. It’s difficult to explain to others, yet easy. No other film trilogy will ever touch it.
Storytellers, take note.
st augustin FL