Writing Out of Doors

I suppose it's simple enough to write with only four fingers. At any rate it's not so bad as writing with your left hand…

The leaves are falling again. The yellow leaves in the grass look almost like the golden sunstar elanor, and the wood is still golden above. A pair of gulls just flew by, pale against a bright blue sky, crying in their mournful voices for the sea. The Sea! oh, how it calls to me, though I cannot half imagine why. I have seen it in my dreams. It is sad, I think, but not unhappy, fair and wise and wild. They told me in Rivendell that it calls to those whose hearts are akin. I wonder about that, for I am none of those things. I think it is simply a gift.

It is growing chill now beneath Sam's mallorn, but I am loath to go in. The whole earth is singing today, a sad but peaceful sort of song. I think if there were words they would be memory and loss, but not of the angry or self-pitying sort. They simply are. This too is a gift. I suppose it is always so, when things are in danger, that someone has to lose them so everyone else can find and keep them. But the leaves are no less beautiful when they lie on the ground. And they are still singing. It's a lovely song, though, almost unearthly, as if they've gained some great thing by their loss, and they have joy in the midst of their grief. And I suppose that is always so, too…

--an excerpt from the journal of Frodo Baggins, 25 Winterfilth 1420