J. R. R. Tolkien

I brought Tolkiens Lord of the ring to my little cabin, for his wonderful wealth of words had drawn me to outdoor life again after some time of absence. Tolkiens fabulous depictions of nature as the richest of all treasuries had given me back the joy of life after a sorrow took it away, and again I yearned for traveling in the green, or as now: in the falls flaming coloured mountain kingdom of Trysil.

When I woke up the first morning in the mountains, the rhyme was lying on the ground glittering in the sunshine as if the Milky Way itself had fallen during the night and laid like a silver shimmering carpet between the trees. The air was crisp and clear and scented with ancient forest and blushing blueberry heather.

When I had arrived at the cabin the night before, the silence felt so deafening that I hurried to light a fire in the fireplace only to hear the sound of flickering flames eating through crackling logs. But where I stood on the trestle this morning, the silence had been broken by the songs of the wilderness from owls and small birds and undergrowth rustling under light paws. I inhaled the fresh autumn air deep into my lungs while my mind wandered between the choice of paths I could walk during the day; over mountains, into valleys and along emerald green creeks.

Where darkness had taken up residence in my heart, Tolkien had filled it with new, bright light, and where my soul was dyed gray with loss and loneliness, it rang again with the melodious voices of fairies, trolls and elves. Traveling through his universe is like learning to know the world, mankind and life all over again, because it is true that all his creatures exist if you only look hard enough with a clear mind.

Blessed is he who saves the grieving heart with fairytales and true adventures.

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