For me, along with the arrival of fall comes an almost innate desire to watch “The Lord of the Rings.” I think I associate cold weather with the trilogy because the movies debuted, years ago, in the winter months. (The movie adaptation of “The Fellowship of the Rings” came out in 2001. Can you believe that?) Whatever the reason, autumn and cold weather makes me think of “The Lord of the Rings.”

J.R.R. Tolkien was an English professor in the middle of the past century, the author of (can you see where I’m going with this?) “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy. The three books that make up “The Lord of the Rings,” as well as Tolkien’s other writings, are complete with their own internal mythology and invented languages. Tolkien included original poetry in the books as well, and one line of his poetry in particular has caught popular attention, by which I mean there is a “bumper sticker” for it on Facebook.

“Not all those who wander are lost” goes the popular quote; it’s a line from a poem in “The Fellowship of the Ring.” I’ve liked the phrase for awhile, but I had never stopped to figure out why. I had some vague notion that it meant that taking a road less travelled can be a good thing, that what some people (insert an image of your favorite authority/establishment type here) consider the “wandering” or aimlessness of others is just a path of life unfamiliar to them, not one that is wrong or bad. Now I still think this is true, but I also think there’s more to the phrase.

“Not all those who wander are lost” is the second line of the poem “All That is Gold Does Not Glitter.” I’ll try not to bore those of you who don’t like or are not familiar with “The Lord of the Rings,” so, simply, the poem means that appearances can be deceiving, that something can be “gold,” or valuable, and not appear so. Or, more to our point, though an individual’s actions may seem aimless “wandering” to others, there is in fact a far-sighted logic to his decisions. As my friend the RA said one night, over milk and cookies, the fact that you do not, in this moment, have a specific goal toward which you are striving daily does not mean that you don’t have a larger purpose directing your steps. Things are not always — indeed, are almost never — what they appear at first blush.

In “The Lord of the Rings,” Tolkien’s characters go through trials and tribulations and suffer seemingly for no reason: Circumstances in the story are bad, worse than bad, and to me it never seemed right that this was so. There is, however, a sense of ultimate, if hidden, meaningfulness that pervades the story, no matter how overwhelming the odds or how many orcs there are. Though Frodo and company experience moments of utter depression and hopelessness, they are moments only; the overall tone of the trilogy is never one of despondency, but, rather, poignancy. The sorrows and deaths in the books cut to my heart because I have a vague feeling that this isn’t the way it should be, but also that such grief can’t last forever.

And I am right, to an extent: Gondor has its rightful king; Gandalf isn’t dead; Sauron was not invincible. There was a bigger picture, a greater purpose, behind the aimless wanderings and deaths and sorrows. But I was also wrong, because while the sorrows and deaths ceased, the scars and grief lingered. Those dead remained so; friends parted ways; and Frodo and Bilbo, still pained by old wounds, crossed the Sea with the Elves, never to return to Middle-earth.

Now this may mean nothing to those of you who haven’t read the books or seen the films, but to me, it’s very sad. I want the ending to be happy, and everything in the book led me to hope it would be. So I am left with a sense that I haven’t seen the whole story, that there is another resolution coming, a final purpose I cannot see, that will make everything right.

I think this matters so much to me (I mean, I just took up all your time writing about it), because I fervently hope that this is true in my own life. I want there to be a guiding purpose and higher meaning to the pain and sorrow and death. I want, after a long, sad night, for joy to come in the morning. I believe that it does, and that it will, but at the same time I long to the point of heartbreak for this to be so now.

— Leigh Dickey is a junior in global studies. She can be reached at [email protected].