And the meek said, "Thanks for nothing."

When I first saw Return of the King, I was a soggy, crying mess for at least the last 20 minutes. Knowing how long it takes for the most epic of epic films to wind down, that's not saying much. All I know for sure is that even after repeat viewings, it started around the time Sam says "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you!" Preceded by the familiar strains of the Shire theme, and reminiscing about the comforts of home, the sweetness of that moment and the surge of strength and courage it engenders in Sam contrasts so completely with the bleakness of everything that surrounds it that I am completely disarmed.

But starting with about the second time I saw it, that wasn't the biggest tear-jerker at all. The moment when Sam and Frodo are reunited in Rivendell, now that's truly a magical one. And yet. The moment that brought me to my knees the second time through was at the coronation. When the hobbits bow to Aragorn and, with a look of profound disappointment, he corrects them. And the assembled crowd bows, instead, to the hobbits. That's the one.

That scene affects me so because it's the sort of thing we seem to want so badly, and yet can never quite seem to achieve. The meek shall inherit the earth, according to our dominant religious tradition. The kind and the charitable are to be exalted above all others. And yet. And yet. We are not kind. We are not charitable. And we insist, sometimes cruelly, that those who are meek and sensitive get tough or get run over. It's dog eat dog, and you've got to keep up because nobody is going to help you. Frodo succeeds through sheer courage and force of will. But he also succeeds because he is pure of heart, and because of Sam. Hobbits in general seem to be less affected by the Ring's power, because they are simple in their desires. They are not particularly ambitious. An ambitious hobbit is one who wants to impress the whole shire with their fantastic beets and throw the best party.

I know perfectly well that I have the ability to keep up. I'm not devoid of courage or ambition or even anger. It takes a lot to set me off, but when I go off, it can be impressive. But I feel like a hobbit sometimes. I don't want to be big and impressive. I just want to share the comforts of a good life with others. And I don't understand why we should have to be mean and scary to do that. And I want to believe that, even when we have to be strong and brave, we can accomplish what we need to with the best of ourselves, instead of the worst. That even a hobbit can change the world for the better.

And I can't stand the idea that the helpless and small should be left to fend for themselves. Because I see myself in them. I feel helpless and small, too, and it makes me deeply sad and frightened when it seems that there's no safe quarter, that the world cannot abide helplessness. At the coronation, the assembled humans of Middle Earth seem to be collectively apologizing. Aragorn's face and tone of voice seem to express a profound sense of pity and shame. As if they acknowledge that it was their failings, their inability to resist the lure of power, ambition and pride, that brought this to bear. That if Isildur had been stronger, or if Aragorn had been braver, or the people of Middle Earth had not broken their alliances, Frodo would not have had to put himself in mortal danger. If they had all been a little more like Hobbits.

I realize that other people are probably inclined to see all of this as naive. But I can no more change what is in my heart than they can. Which is to say, maybe a little, but why would I want to. I cope as best I can. Sometimes I feel like I really need to do something more with it. Maybe I'll think of something.