Concerning Hobbits (Becoming an Adventurer Part III)

One of the problems with resolving to start a new adventure is of course that sudden realization that this is a pretty big deal and that it might involve blood and stuff. Blood can be fun occasionally… as long as it is not coming out of you. That is sort of the opposite of fun; although it makes for great stories afterwards.

But you can never see those stories before they happen, and your mind somehow finds the incredible ability to focus only on the negative aspects of going on an adventure. There is that temptation to just sit and plop down on your front step just after striding out the front door with so many good intentions.

Recently I read through the Hobbit to my little sister as a bedtime story over the course of three weeks or so. In addition to converting her into a Tolkien fan, I also found reading the story to be immensely convicting. Suddenly I found myself more closely related to Bilbo than ever before, his feelings on life the universe and everything. Often times during the day I find myself being sucking into the narcissistic hole of Facebook, watching my “friends” who seem to be living their lives while I... stagnate. And I'm jealous, but not nearly jealous enough to actually go and live my own life and have an adventure. "Horrible, nasty, uncomfortable things... make you late for supper!" the Baggins side of me screams.

I have grown so complacent and soft lately that the Took side of me is all but completely repressed. I no longer listen to it, and now the Baggins side is all depressed anyway, because staying in my Hobbit hole has gotten dreadfully dull. No one visits, no one really wants to since it's so gloomy in here. Every so often someone will come in from the town and make his way up my steps and knock on the door. I don't really want to answer it anymore though. For as soon as I do, they will simply let loose with a tirade of words and platitudes about what I am doing wrong. They will offer advice, books, words, pithy little sayings. None of it will help though. I know this.

The Baggins in me curls up, crosses his arms, sits on the floor and pouts. Not very polite or gracious, mind you, but he does it all the same. It's my father at the door. He wants me to go on an adventure. I continue to glower at him. He has all the audacity and spirit of a Took and all the practicality of a wizard. He is odd and I don't understand him, but all the same I cannot deny that he is a far greater hobbit than I am... sitting here moping and whining.

He's had many adventures, and I am quite sure that he has only told me a handful of all the tales he has been a part of. He's fought dragons and goblins aplenty, been in wars in far off lands, won a beautiful woman and then raised me... a little terror who now refuses to take his advice or even grace him with polite responses.

"Cheeky little sod."

I look around. That was most definitely not my father. He's off in the town planning his next adventure while I sit and sulk. It's coming.... from the Took. He had remained quite for so long that I had nearly forgotten he existed. He starts pushing me… he starts punching and kicking until I pick myself up from the front step and take another. It’s a small one, but it is a few feet further from my doorway.

As I continue to move away from my hole, the steps becoming easier… my stride becomes longer. I start to drop some of the bags I was carrying… I want to walk faster. I want to feel the grass fly between my toes like a smooth, shock-resistant carpet. I want to feel the wind howl by me like a freight train.

It has begun. This Took will have stories to tell when he returns home.