We finally watched Tolkien, the 2019 biopic (starring Nicholas Hoult, Lily Collins, Colm Meaney, and Derek Jacobi). The film focuses mostly on Tolkien’s early life: his childhood, his education, his war service, and most especially, the creation of Tea Club and Barrovian Society (the TCBS—this is a friend group formed before the famous Inklings). Now, Reader, I am no Tolkien scholar. I enjoy his books very much, and I know a little about him. I enjoyed the movie, and have no idea how accurate it is (although from what I’ve read, it’s a good representation of his early life). But what has absolutely captivated me about this movie, Reader, is “Helheimr!”
In the movie, Tolkien is reading about Norse language and mythology, and he explains to the TCBS the Norse idea of Valhalla. In order to reach Valhalla, you must die on the battlefield, a glorious, warrior’s death. Or, if no battlefield is available, you must commit acts of bravery and daring, trying to avoid at all costs an ignoble death. An ignoble death will send you to Helheimr, the realm of the dead, ruled by the goddess Hel (that probably sounds familiar, it’s where our word for Hell comes from).
The TCBS gloms onto this, and from then on, they make this their mantra. They spur each other on, and shout “Helheimr!” as a battle cry to do the brave thing, to seize the opportunity and to put themselves out there, to really risk themselves, in order to achieve a goal or dream or self-growth. I don’t want to give specific instances, because spoilers, but you get the gist, Reader.
And yes, I am completely in love with it.
I’m going to pivot, like I do, to T.S. Eliot’s “The Love of J. Alfred Prufrock.” In it, the narrator asks “Do I dare disturb the universe?” (and Reader, not to get too carried away here, but this question is the central question to Robert Cormier’s brilliant 1974 YA novel, The Chocolate War, which, well, oof. My creative writing teacher, Mrs. Land, loved this novel. It’s searing and brilliant and devastating. Read it if you haven’t.). A college professor I had in my MA program said that he read this poem every year, and every year he got something different from it. Reading it this year, it reads like a question of midlife: do I dare disturb the universe? Do I continue, as I have before, on this same path, or do I diverge? Do I demand a promotion? A new job? A new home? Do I squirrel away for retirement or take some of that and do something now? In the poem, the narrator says, “And indeed there will be time/ To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and ‘Do I dare?’” but the implication, reading it this time, anyway, is that too much time spent wondering, and not daring, leads nowhere. After all, at the end of the poem, our good narrator says that he does not think the mermaids will sing for him.
Now, The Chocolate War doesn’t turn out so well for the young protagonist who dares to disturb the universe. But maybe that’s why daring to disturb the universe is so important FOR ALL OF US. We should disrupt and disturb and question and dare. There is so much going on right now that we should dare to disturb. And it’s hard, because risk is real. The risk of repercussion, and speaking out, and standing up. The risk of asking for a raise or changing jobs or submitting your art out into the world. But how else can we expect to achieve a place in Valhalla if we don’t dare and risk at some level?
I’m kind of conflating two things here, personal change and societal change, and risking for personal growth and risking in order to change the system, but Reader, these are both important, so here we are.
The point is I’m trying to make, in a weird, meandering sort of way, is that I think it’s time we take greater risks. And yes, I’m roping you into this, Reader, because while I am absolutely sure that I need to take greater risks, I’m guessing that you do, too. And for me, what happens in The Chocolate War (seriously, read it!) happens because the protagonist didn’t get a group together to disturb the universe. And in Tolkien, they do disturb the universe as a society, each encouraging and supporting the other in their endeavors. Community is important, Reader. Fellowship, even. So instead of watching the world burn itself into a giant dumpster fire while we all just grow older, let’s grow braver. Let’s dare. Let’s risk. Let’s change the world. Let’s get into Valhalla!
But maybe not do the whole Ragnarök thing.
Takeaway: grow braver, not older.
I’m here for that!
You were channeling John Lewis when you wrote this: Speak up, speak out, get in the way.