Things Great and Small

My train of thought is a weaving, waving bit of transportation, but sometimes I end up at the depot of "How Would I Teach This (If I Were Still Teaching)?"  Last night's excursion went something like this.  Bear with me down this rabbit hole...

I am currently reading Starless by Jacqueline Carey (highly recommend!) and was thinking of how much I'm enjoying it.  And then I immediately compared it to another book I'm reading:  Homer's Iliad.  The Iliad is keeping my attention a lot less than Carey's novel, and so I got to thinking about why.  I never had to teach (or read) The Iliad, but I did teach classic Greek plays and Beowulf, and my goal was always to get my students to make connections between these ancient "classics" and contemporary literature, TV, film, pop culture, etc. because many of the elements of storytelling, of tragedy, of comedy, remain the same.  So how could I teach something like The Iliad if even I wasn't liking it?

So of course I went to asking students what they like about things they read and watch right now (particularly in the sci-fi/fantasy genre).  When I've taught, this is the section where they just get to shout things out loud and I get to write on the board (writing on the board was a huge reason why I started teaching in the first place).

• Epic
• maybe meaning large scale, like creating entire worlds
• maybe meaning giant, impressive battles
• Attention to detail
• So much food!
• Fashion!
• [more on attention to detail/world-building later in a wholly different blog post]
• Great deeds
• swords and dragons and rescuing people from monsters
• saving people from famine, being a voice for the downtrodden

And then I thought about The Lord of the Rings (frankly, when don't I think of LotR?).  While I will always contend that Jackson's adaptations of the trilogy are fairly faithful, incredibly well done interpretations of Tolkien's text (FIGHT ME!), there is one large, huge almost (pun intended; wait for it) difference:  Jackson's films have some beautiful, "epic" even, battle sequences.  I'll never forget the intense anxiety and fear I felt watching the battle in the mines of Moria for the first time on the big screen ("They've got a cave troll!").  There were so few of the Fellowship and so, so many of them, the orcs and goblins.  [Sidenote:  what is it about attempting to barricade a door against an oncoming horde that gives me palpitations?]  And at least four of "ours" were so very, very small.  Literally.  Small and woefully unprepared for battle of any kind.

And therein lies the difference.

Tolkien purposely did not write an epic heroic adventure filled with the usual heroes -- strapping swordsmen cutting a swath through the fray.  No, his heroes were two very small, very usual hobbits.  And while the battles do happen in the books, they often feel removed from the main action, almost in the background.  Because the main action is that of our two small heroes doing an awful lot of walking.  Seriously.  So, so much walking.  And then more walking.

(And occasionally breaking into song.)

Then we walk some more!

Because Tolkien's point (in addition to attempting to create a mythology specifically for Britain) was that small, "normal" folk can do epic things.  People who aren't martially trained, people with no talent for statecraft can accomplish things simply through virtue of being themselves with their own points of view.  They'll not come out of it the same as they went in, of course, because this is still a hero's journey (and that is the foremost marker of a hero's journey:  change), but they're a different kind of hero altogether.

And I think that, both in Tolkien and in other pieces of literature, touches on the very heart of human existence:  we want to do great things -- not just good things, but great things.  We want to complete a great quest, we want to bring salvation to a group of people, we want to be a hero of some kind.  But we are also so very small and normal, walking around in these very fragile bags of skin and water.  So the bringing together of the great and small like that is something we all hope to achieve, being able to accomplish these things just by being ourselves (and, apparently, doing a lot of walking; even hobbits have to do cardio).

And while I was sitting outside on the steps of my patio last night, with a drink and a cigarette, having these thoughts about things great and small, Dogzilla turned and rushed in the darkness to attack something.  It was an owl.  I know it was an owl because, thanks to a street lamp, I could see her/him/they outstretch their wings and silently, gracefully lift up and away from Dogzilla's reach, effortlessly, like pulling silk backwards.

Sorry, Dogzilla, but you are neither hobbit nor orc in this scenario; you are meddling mankind, and the owl is Gandalf.  And the wisdom of wizards (and owls) is always just out of reach.

Prosaic Little Epilogue:  As soon as the owl was out of sight, I scooped up my tiny circus dog and put him inside.  And Dogzilla soon followed.  And then I refilled my glass of Prosecco and went back outside to see if the owl would return.

In a few moments, there was a flicker of movement out of the corner of my left eye; the owl had landed upon the power line running between my house and the next.  That same street light reflected just the tiniest bit off of the owl's lighter-colored breast feathers.  That and those first occasional flutters of movement were the only way I could tell the owl was there.

[When you've worked around animals for years, you learn to not look directly at them, but to look towards the center and use what we Viewpoints actors call "soft focus" -- let your gaze relax; the periphery opens just a bit further, and then pay attention to the movement that happens.  Ask me about the ways to see "hard to find" zoo animals!]

So I continued to sit there, drinking and smoking, attempting to make my movements smooth and slow so as to not disturb her/him/them.  It wouldn't have mattered.  S/he was far enough away that I wasn't a threat and I'm fairly certain they gave zero fucks about me.  Sometimes I even reached for my wine glass to my right without looking, not wanting to lose sight of them in the darkness (and my very poor eyesight, particularly in the dark) as nearly any and all movement had stopped.  At one point I raised my glass to them.  Salut.

I stayed out in the sweltering heat as long as I could (over 90 degrees after 9 p.m.!), through two cigarettes and down to the dregs of my wine and finally went inside.  The owl didn't move.  After I was inside, I looked out the giant dining room window at the power line, but due to the angle, I couldn't see if s/he was still there.  And then I went to bed, dare I say somewhat peacefully.
Salut.

Goddess Artwork by Emily Balivet