Mithril

on staying strong through gentleness, on finding our own cloak of protection

Images generated by Substack with prompts by the author

Over the holidays, Rick and I had great fun watching Peter Jackson’s entire extended editions of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, two of my lifelong favourite books by J.R.R. Tolkien. One of my favourite scenes from The Hobbit is when Thorin Oakenshield gives Bilbo Baggins a shirt of Mithril, “a small coat of mail, wrought for some young elf-prince long ago. It was of silver-steel…and with it went a belt of pearls and crystals…a silver so light it feels like air, yet so strong it can turn away a blade.” It was quiet protection for Bilbo, Mithril, worn close to the skin, unseen but unwavering in its protection. We don’t have elven silversmiths or dwarven treasures in this world, but I wonder…what if we each had our own kind of Mithril? Something that allows us to stay present and gently fierce in the often chaotic and ugly happenings of the world of powerful men—who are never held accountable—without being too open or unguarded, to see the world clearly without being undone by it? What would it mean to find, or forge, our own shield of light, to able to move through the world, eyes wide open without being pierced by it? What if Mithril is an answer—not a wall of armour, but a kind of permeable, poetic cloak of protection?

There is something I carry, unseen but unyielding, woven into me like fine silver threads of moonlight—my own kind of Mithril. It is not armor in the way the world expects; it does not gleam in the light or call attention to itself. It is quieter, worn under my skin, forged from years of holding space for beauty, for grief, for the uncertain and the unfinished, for the infinite ache of loss and betrayal. It holds the weight of all I have experienced and all that I have created, the softness I refuse to surrender in a world that demands hardness. It is my ability to see—to notice the way light shifts, to feel the hush between words, to honour what is fleeting yet still worth cherishing, what is aging, scarred and battle-weary, yet still so full of resilience and life. This is my protection, my strength: not an impenetrable wall, but a deep knowing that I can walk through any storm and still keep the shimmer of something gentle and beautiful inside of me.

In a world that seems to swirl with chaos, where sharp edges and lies are mistaken for progress and power and noise is mistaken for truth, to remain soft is an act of quiet defiance. Gentleness is not weakness—it is resilience in its purest form, the strength to keep one’s heart open when the world would have it close. It is the courage to listen, to whisper, when others shout, to notice the small and sacred, to move with care instead of force. The strongest things are not the hardest; water wears down stone, roots crack concrete, light finds its way through even the smallest chink in the roof of the barn. To be gentle is to refuse the brittle armour of cynicism, to stand unguarded yet unbroken, knowing that true power is not in domination, but in the unwavering choice to help, to love, to create, to hold space for beauty, even when the world offers every reason not to.

For me, Mithril is something both protective and deeply poetic, something that shields me without numbing me, something that allows me to continue seeing and creating beauty without being overwhelmed by the weight of suffering and destruction, even as I look it in the eye. My creative practice is Mithril. My work is an act of attention, a way of transmuting the world’s harshness into something of the everyday being imbued with presence and reverence. With awe. The act of drawing, or writing, is like an alchemical shield that can help me to be engaged without being consumed. My Mithril is also my ability to hold ambiguity, to resist blanket statements and following anything or anyone in a blind or absolute way. It is my ability to find beauty in subtlety and my ability to see through the lies. In a world of extremes, this allows me to move between darkness and light without being shattered by either. I have a deep connection to the unseen, to intuition, to the numinous and I feel it’s more important than ever to protect it and nurture it in every way I know. I find solace in the edges of things, especially in the threshold between night and dawn and this is why I rise so early. And honestly, the communities that gather around me on Patreon, here on Substack, feels like a space of trust, where others resonate with my words and reflections and feel safe to share their own. This shared quiet space is Mithril in its own way and reminds me that I am not alone in experiencing the world as I do. Thank you for that.

Mithril will not look the same to everyone, but I see it so clearly in things like these: daily creative rituals; boundaries that are both firm and soft, a personal spiritual practice that holds us steady that can be as simple as meditation or watching the morning sunrise; a talisman, a line of a poem, a scent that reminds us of our own resilience; deep friendships and relationships that anchor and shelter us; music, literature and art that remind us of something greater and more enduring than the noise of the current news cycle and happenings in the realm of politics, corruption and power. And perhaps most important of all, a commitment to noticing beauty in the smallest, most humble of ways and places, every single day and finding a way to share it. I am choosing to give my attention to these kinds of things so that I am better equipped to be present in the world without losing my greatest strength—my softness.

What already protects you without you even realising? What small ritual, habit, object or perspective allows you to move through the world with soft resistance and esilience? What do you turn to when the world is overwhelming? What allows you to remain present and gently fierce without being consumed? What is your Mithril? I would love to hear from you in the comments below.

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