. . . the mother of this hobbit — of Bilbo Baggins, that is — was the famous Belladonna Took, one of the three remarkable daughters of the Old Took, head of the hobbits who lived across The Water, the small water that ran at the foot of The Hill. It was often said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but certainly there was still something not entirely hobbitlike about them, and once in a while members of the Took-clan would go and have adventures . . .
As they sang the hobbit felt the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him . . . Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves . . .
~ J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit
It started, more than anything, as a thing to pacify grieving. We said it to each other — “We’ll come back!” and “Surely we’ll come back,” and “Well, if the UKBA gets upset with us cancelling our visa application, we shouldn’t do it – we want to be able to come back.”
Coming back was obviously on both of our minds.
But …why? Weren’t we the people complaining about the drunk Uni students singing Rule, Britannia! at 2 a.m. on Woodlands Road? Weren’t we the ones who had the neighbor with the six foot speaker and people sleeping in the hallway in front of his flat, on mattresses on Kent Road? Weren’t we the ones who got sick to death of opening the window and having grit blowing in — or worse, seeing BOOTS as the elevator went up and down the building on Cranston Street? Not to mention the people who peed on our back steps, the time we got the fly tipping ticket for doing what the rubbish collectors told us and putting our boxes next to the garbage bin, who hated stepping over vomit and other less savory things on the walks in various areas? Weren’t we the ones who moaned about the rain and the wind and the darkness? — and the SNOW!? Weren’t we the ones who hated it here?
Well, erm, yes. And, no.
Into each life, a little rain must fall – well, A LOT of rain, if one is in Scotland. And, if you’re us, a lot of complaining and whinging and moaning about the things we deal with day-to-day. You, as unwitting members of our extended families, have heard all of our vexed complaints as well as our lighter moments, but you might have been able to step back from the Seurat-life in the making as we could not. Suddenly all of the impressionistic blotches that made up our day-to-day existence, when we stepped back to look, formed a life. A life that we were going to have a hard time giving up.
So, we told ourselves we were coming back.
And then, after our last concert, when T. was quietly mopping reddened eyes (much to the mockery of her dear Mr. S., who took one look at her and stared, mesmerized by horror. “You are not crying,” he stated, as if that would make it so. Foolish mortal.) we realized all the saying wasn’t going to make it true – unless we made an effort.
T. learned that a friend-of-a-friend, an acquaintance whose blog she had lurked on, had died suddenly, from, of all horrible things, a pulmonary embolism. Because so many of our friends we only know through blogs, and, because her own mother escaped that just in November, she was horribly shaken. Coming back from the glorious weekend of music and cathedrals – we attended a lovely service at St. Mary’s, and went right on to rehearsal and did our concert after that – a long day, but well worth it — to find that life had ended, and everyone was left in grief and shock — that was awful. But, it underscored a horrific truth we often don’t want to face: stuff like that happens daily. Hourly. And the difference is the kind of life you live in between the darkness.
We didn’t want to be the people who always said we were “going” to do something, or wanted to do something, or planned and plotted for “someday.” That day, regrettably, has never yet arrived. Today is a much better option. As is, “now.”
Jane Yolen, celebrated author and poet, called American’s Hans Christian Anderson – lives half the year in Scotland, and half in New York. Author Elizabeth Wein – currently rising in the NYT bestseller list (T is ridiculously proud of her, and considers her a friend – albeit a friend who tried to kill us once, dragging to see salmon spawn on a drizzly day, when no one had on the right shoes) has lived here for many years now – and even has children with dual citizenship. There are others who come and go – but take pride in loving this prickly, cold, and sometimes difficult place.
Strangely, we do too.
So, we’re coming back. At least a third of our lives will be spent here. We have no children, no dependents, nothing but the ties of love to knit us to other places – but the knitting is no less strong to this place. We’ll divide up the rest between necessity – seeing our family and living someplace warm enough to garden – but we have decided that it’s okay to leave our hearts here.
They’re in good hands.
So, we started this blog as Hobbits At Home, and later, Hobbits Abroad. We’ve lately wondered, now that we’re not quite going home, can we even be called Hobbits anymore? Aren’t hobbits the folk who stay at home and read and eat well, and basically just enjoy being somewhat hermit-y and nerdish and bookish and quiet? Well, yes. And, no. We’re the Tookish sort of Hobbit, descended from that one, quirky bit of lineage somewhere up the family tree – the ones who struggled with authority, the ones who never did fit into our regular lives very well, and the ones who are going to do this thing, this living thing, right for once.
We expect we’ll see you around, as we do it.
Notice
Steve Kowit
This evening, the sturdy Levi’s
I wore every day for over a year
& which seemed to the end
in perfect condition,
suddenly tore.
How or why I don’t know,
but there it was: a big rip at the crotch.
A month ago my friend Nick
walked off a racquetball court,
showered,
got into this street clothes,
& halfway home collapsed & died.
Take heed, you who read this,
& drop to your knees now & again
like the poet Christopher Smart,
& kiss the earth & be joyful,
& make much of your time,
& be kindly to everyone,
even to those who do not deserve it.
For although you may not believe
it will happen,
you too will one day be gone,
I, whose Levi’s ripped at the crotch
for no reason,
assure you that such is the case.
Pass it on.
~ from The Dumbbell Nebula, 2000
