The mythical forest of Lothlorien was brought to life amidst the ghostly incomprehensible croons accompanied by the symphony of solemn horns and trumpets. I allowed myself to walk through the slivers of sunlight peeking from the canopy of leaves above, dwarfed by the sheer majesty of the robust trunks that populated Lothlorien, residents of the ancient whose silence masked the witnessing of thousand years of conflict. I walked through the bubbling brooks, flowing harmoniously to the serenading soprano in the background, through the rock formations that seemed to stare upon me with grave expressions, through the forest clearings where curious eyes peeked from within the darkness at this human intruder. I walked and I saw the radiant Lady of the Forest, Galadriel, who held out her hand for the Ring. And for the first time I realised that I was bearing the Ring all along, a burden made greater with my reluctance to bear it through the rocky path that lay ahead.
“Come,” she said. “Give me the Ring and I will set you free of it.”
The sopranos halted abruptly at her utterance, and there was the pounding of war drums accompanied by high-pitched songs of Rohan. The trees around me fell like dominoes and burned, and out of the thin air both Riders and orcs sprang and battled each other fiercely. Cries of the dying echoed in the air, and the invisible voices of the sopranos returned, this time chorusing to a fearful and urgent tune. In the horizon of the chaos and destruction three ominous figures stood tall, and they were Saurons, one for each demon within me that I still fight.
There I stood in the burning battlefield, with death and decay all around me while facing my three demons, armed with nothing more than the Ring my burden. The sopranos, as though sympathetic with my personal war, sung a complex matrix of tunes, one concocted with ingredients from the whirlwind of conflicts that still rages within.
The war is still being fought, the demons undefeated, and I am still holding on to the Ring, desperate as I am to be rid of it but let’s just hope in miracles that always seems to be in abundance in fiction, fantasy and the symphonies of Howard Shore.
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Miracles appear in unrecognisable forms. Somehow within those raging whirlwinds, there is a calm spot, and if you seek that, recognise it, and draw strength from it, you will find that the miracle is already existing, just concealed. Even on a burning battlefield with vast decay, the fighting spirit that lives on against all odds, that's something beautiful.
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