I’ve mentioned this in other recent posts, but I’m currently reading the works of J.R.R. Tolkien for the first time (so far, I’ve read The Hobbit, The Fellowship of the Ring, and The Two Towers).
*Caution: A slight Lord of the Rings spoiler ahead*
I’m at the part in The Return of the King when Frodo and Sam have made it into Mordor and are trudging along on their way to Mount Doom. Tolkien spends a significant portion of the book discussing how difficult this stretch of the journey was for the duo. Frodo and Sam become desperate. They run out of food and water, they are unable to sleep much, they live in constant fear of being discovered by orcs—or worse, the eye of Sauron. And on top of all of the danger lurking about, the weight of the ring becomes heavier and heavier on the chain around Frodo’s neck, clouding his judgment, making him physically and mentally weak.
Yet despite the immense distress and adversity that the two Hobbits face, it is Sam who remains hopeful. Several times, Frodo says that he has lost all hope, that he will continue on in the journey but that he does not expect it to end well, and Sam responds every time that he will get Frodo to the top of that mountain, even if it kills him. There is even a moment when Sam has to throw Frodo onto his back, carrying him to the peak of Mount Doom.
At its crux, this is what the Lord of the Rings is about: the sacrifices we make for the people we love, our friends. Without Sam’s sheer determination to help no matter the cost, Frodo would never make it to Mount Doom.
It made me think a lot about the people in my life. Who are the Sams to my Frodo? And more importantly, to whom am I the Sam?
As we grow older and the responsibilities of life increase, we have less time for other people, meaning that we have to forfeit time devoted to the casual acquaintances in our life and instead commit to a few trustworthy and loyal companions.
Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862), a highly introverted and solitary figure, understood this well. In his book Walden, a chronicle of his experience living alone in a small cabin near Walden Pond in Massachusetts, he discusses the people who came to visit him:
“As for men, they will hardly fail one any where. I had more visitors while I lived in the woods than at any other period in my life; I mean that I had some. I met several there under more favorable circumstances than I could any where else. But fewer came to see me on trivial business. In this respect, my company was winnowed by my mere distance from town. I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude, into which the rivers of society empty, that for the most part, so far as my needs were concerned, only the finest sediment was deposited around me. Beside, there were wafted to me evidences of unexplored and uncultivated continents on the other side.”
In other words, once he was a considerable distance from town, only the most important and genuine people came to visit him. At some point we must all ask ourselves, who is making an effort to visit me in my “ocean of solitude”? And who should I be making more of an effort to visit?
Friendship is no easy thing. As I mentioned before, life becomes busy. We lack the time to stay in touch with every friend from high school, college, our professional careers, and so on. It might feel as if there are periods in which we lose touch with everyone. In fact, Thoreau often felt a profound lack of connection in his life, which he outlined in his Journal:
“What if we feel a yearning to which no breast answers? I walk alone. My heart is full. Feelings impede the current of my thoughts. I knock on the earth for my friend. I expect to meet him at every turn; but no friend appears, and perhaps none is dreaming of me.”
But when we do find someone who we can truly count on, someone who visits us in our “oceans of solitude” or who carries us on their back to the peak of Mount Doom, we understand—in the deepest sense—how to love. Thoreau exults:
“Ah, my friends, I know you better than you think, and love you better, too.”
And such is the story of Frodo and Sam. Sam knew that it would be his duty alone to help Frodo destroy the ring, and ultimately, it was his love for Frodo that drove him to succeed.
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I’ve mentioned this in other recent posts, but I’m currently reading the works of J.R.R. Tolkien for the first time (so far, I’ve read The Hobbit, The Fellowship of the Ring, and The Two Towers).
*Caution: A slight Lord of the Rings spoiler ahead*
I’m at the part in The Return of the King when Frodo and Sam have made it into Mordor and are trudging along on their way to Mount Doom. Tolkien spends a significant portion of the book discussing how difficult this stretch of the journey was for the duo. Frodo and Sam become desperate. They run out of food and water, they are unable to sleep much, they live in constant fear of being discovered by orcs—or worse, the eye of Sauron. And on top of all of the danger lurking about, the weight of the ring becomes heavier and heavier on the chain around Frodo’s neck, clouding his judgment, making him physically and mentally weak.
Yet despite the immense distress and adversity that the two Hobbits face, it is Sam who remains hopeful. Several times, Frodo says that he has lost all hope, that he will continue on in the journey but that he does not expect it to end well, and Sam responds every time that he will get Frodo to the top of that mountain, even if it kills him. There is even a moment when Sam has to throw Frodo onto his back, carrying him to the peak of Mount Doom.
At its crux, this is what the Lord of the Rings is about: the sacrifices we make for the people we love, our friends. Without Sam’s sheer determination to help no matter the cost, Frodo would never make it to Mount Doom.
It made me think a lot about the people in my life. Who are the Sams to my Frodo? And more importantly, to whom am I the Sam?
As we grow older and the responsibilities of life increase, we have less time for other people, meaning that we have to forfeit time devoted to the casual acquaintances in our life and instead commit to a few trustworthy and loyal companions.
Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862), a highly introverted and solitary figure, understood this well. In his book Walden, a chronicle of his experience living alone in a small cabin near Walden Pond in Massachusetts, he discusses the people who came to visit him:
“As for men, they will hardly fail one any where. I had more visitors while I lived in the woods than at any other period in my life; I mean that I had some. I met several there under more favorable circumstances than I could any where else. But fewer came to see me on trivial business. In this respect, my company was winnowed by my mere distance from town. I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude, into which the rivers of society empty, that for the most part, so far as my needs were concerned, only the finest sediment was deposited around me. Beside, there were wafted to me evidences of unexplored and uncultivated continents on the other side.”
In other words, once he was a considerable distance from town, only the most important and genuine people came to visit him. At some point we must all ask ourselves, who is making an effort to visit me in my “ocean of solitude”? And who should I be making more of an effort to visit?
Friendship is no easy thing. As I mentioned before, life becomes busy. We lack the time to stay in touch with every friend from high school, college, our professional careers, and so on. It might feel as if there are periods in which we lose touch with everyone. In fact, Thoreau often felt a profound lack of connection in his life, which he outlined in his Journal:
“What if we feel a yearning to which no breast answers? I walk alone. My heart is full. Feelings impede the current of my thoughts. I knock on the earth for my friend. I expect to meet him at every turn; but no friend appears, and perhaps none is dreaming of me.”
But when we do find someone who we can truly count on, someone who visits us in our “oceans of solitude” or who carries us on their back to the peak of Mount Doom, we understand—in the deepest sense—how to love. Thoreau exults:
“Ah, my friends, I know you better than you think, and love you better, too.”
And such is the story of Frodo and Sam. Sam knew that it would be his duty alone to help Frodo destroy the ring, and ultimately, it was his love for Frodo that drove him to succeed.
