Finding Utopia
Substack, The Lord of the Rings, & Transcendence
I once inherited a milky white Irish cottage in County Cork, Ireland. The overrun cottage garden nearly hid the stone fence covered with thickets of wild roses and honeysuckle. A glass greenhouse with old, flowering geraniums, long neglected, beckoned on the right, a stand of towering and mysterious bushes gave shade on the left. From the kitchen windows one could see all the way down into the emerald valley crisscrossed with hedgerows and more stone fencing.
My children and I ate nothing but Irish sausages, baked beans and digestives (Irish cookies with chocolate on one side) for three weeks as I set to tidying up the place. My ex-husband’s grandparents had changed their will to give us their three acres because I had written them letters from America. Their old things lay everywhere—his pipes by the hearth, her Irish sweaters neatly folded in her tiny room.
An enormous hutch stood in the kitchen (my dream hutch) with mix and match China and glassware. I tore through every room, painting, cleaning, dreaming. I had only recently come back from the dead and imagined this place as a kind of reward for all I’d been through and what I’d lost (a baby). In my mind there was not a single imperfection with this place. In fact, there hadn’t even been a single gray day the entire time I was there except for the last.
My husband, despite being a Lord of the Rings fan, didn’t see this acreage as the shire of his dreams. It was hard to blame him. On a hill that towered over the fourth side of the cottage, just across the road stood a monstrosity of a house, a monument to everything that was not quaint and quiet.
My ex-husband’s father had hated his parents (the ones who had given us the farm). The gift had been given to us in spite because they knew that my husband’s father had built his house expecting to inherit the three acres. To him the little cottage was filled with memories of abuse. He often talked about the time he went to Dublin to take exams, didn’t do as well as his parents had hoped and received an envelope from them with breadcrumbs inside and a note that said only: This is what we think of you now.
The monster house was almost comically hideous in its ostentation. Fixtures and tiles from Italy, seven bedrooms with seven baths, a kitchen the size of the cottage below (for two people who never cooked). At the local pub people smiled wryly at how out-of-place the house looked and how obvious the motive was for building it.
My ex-husband could not bear to live in the shadow of his father’s bitterness—a bitterness that sucked all good feeling from any room the poor man entered. I say poor though it had been his choice to let life eat him alive. Soon after we sold the cottage, he followed suit, retreating to his old life in Dublin. I heard that a few years ago my ex-husband was given a fiftieth birthday party there. My ex had flown in from New York. His father drove him to the party but refused to come in to celebrate—just as he had done at our wedding.
I spent New Year’s Eve watching The Lord of the Rings for the first time (all three extended versions). The thing that struck me most was the utopian Shire. My feed on Instagram for the last few years has been a mix of Shire-like settings, slow living afternoon teas and girls in flowing dresses twirling around in slightly embarrassing ways. I’ve read pages of comments on how wearing three-hundred-dollar reproduction Civil War era Little Women dresses while doing farm chores is totally doable. I’ve also seen featured on Instagram and on Substack the notion of leaving all (or most) technology behind—posts like these usually have photos of candlelit table settings or misty fields on perfect summer days (long after the mud season has passed).
I live in my imagination most of the time and am not immune in any way to the fantasy of finding a shire to live in and to live in it slowly and happily. The danger I see in it is the same danger I see in the big house on the hill—it’s just got better filters and tagged “a e s t h e t I c”.
I see a lot of truth, goodness, and beauty in these mini-shire utopian movements, but there’s a catch—these places are mere shadows of the real, the heaven that awaits us (hopefully) in eternity. Maybe in eternity we will be like the Hobbits—able to handle our liquor, have second breakfasts without getting diabetes, and only doing farmwork under the most delightful of conditions, but that’s not here on this planet.
I’m glad people create beautiful posts about teacups. I love the Shire and would love to live in a hobbit house. My pony is named Hobbit. Questioning technology is good too. But as humans we sometimes tend to turn moments into movements. We want that one writer to lead us on a purification journey. We want that one twirling dress to take us out of our humdrum little apartment complex and set us down in a field of sweet-smelling wildflowers where all our questions will be answered.
Utopian communities were a big thing in nineteenth century America. Some were led by Christians, some weren’t. It didn’t matter. They all failed. Now we can create utopian villages on our phones, too.
One of the characters in my first book series travels with a pretty girl to a “Christian” community very much based on the Oneida Colony in upstate New York, where a charismatic man and the promise of romance and belonging cause Buck to eventually become unmoored. Perfection is elusive.
“He wants you to know that He has blessed Middlemay with healings of the mind, body, and soul. He has sent me such words of joy and compassion for you all. Here there is no competition, no selfish hiding away of one’s own things when we have agreed to share all we have for the good of the community. Did not even the apostles give of themselves completely? Some of you are searching, searching for the love of God. And here it is presented to you—the sun in all of its glory sets alight the very gifts of God. How simple if only we stay still enough to see them. Here we have a group, a family not bound by the ordinary and life-deadening cares and expectations of this fallen and capitalist society. Here we recognize that everyone has something to offer—no lights under a bushel here. There is no best person or worst job when all is done for the common good of Middlemay and God.”
India sat back down with a glow of satisfaction and excitement as the leader moved on. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she whispered.
“If everyone is equal then why is he the leader?” Buck asked, more curious than cynical.
“God chose you to be a hero. Why can’t God choose him to be a leader? Richard’s words are inspiring,” India said, flicking her small fan.
“I don’t mean to spoil your enthusiasm. I suppose I’m not sure what capitalism has to do with anything,” Buck ventured. He did not want to lose this new friendship, and he was unsure how far he could push her in debate.
Richard droned on.
India listened for a moment, her expression rigid. She leaned in to Buck. “Capitalism is selfish. Look how the trains have stolen from the poor and the Indians.”
“I like the trains, and in the West everyone likes them. Even the poor and the Indians. I’ve sat next to a few.”
“People are too foolish to realize what’s not good for them,” India whispered. “Even your friends, the Weldons. They sold away their company for nothing. My father is making a fortune off the old man’s designs and contacts in the South. Someone should have been there to protect the Weldons from themselves.”
His ears burned at the idea of Mr. and Mrs. Weldon being taken advantage of. “Well, maybe you should have done something about it. Capitalism isn’t responsible for your father’s lack of integrity or your lack of will to stop him.”
She laughed. “And what could I do but watch? In my father’s eyes I am only smart enough to marry and have children.”
“Having children mustn’t be all bad,” he said, realizing he’d offended her. “Well, I like them anyway.”
“You can like children all you want and still do other things.”
Buck sighed. Who would have children with him? But he stopped himself. Today might still be saved from dangerous debate. He was trying to figure out how this might happen when Richard called to India again.
“Young lady, I see that while I speak up here you and your friend are in a heated discussion. Do my words trouble you?”
India turned to Buck, who replied, “Sir, I’m sorry to have distracted you. It was rude.”
“Young man, I’m past my prime and have trouble hearing you,” Richard replied, cupping his ear.
Buck stood up, glancing around at the crowd. “I’m sorry I was rude. It was my fault. I wasn’t sure if capitalism was the problem.”
Richard’s grey beard and spectacles softened his features, and he smiled with large white teeth. “You remind me of myself at your age,” Richard said, “roughed up by the world and questioning all things. I admire you for not being gullible. It takes strength and intelligence to question authority. Let me ask you a few things. Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you believe he has a purpose for you?”
Buck glanced at India, who was smiling at him. “I hope so.”
“I know I have a purpose,” Richard said, “and my friends know they do too. It is to bring the kingdom of God to Earth. Do you feel loved? What is your name?”
“Buck.”
“Buck, do you feel loved?”
Buck couldn’t say anything in front of the crowded room of strangers.
“I will ask again, do you feel loved?”
“No, I don’t.” He took his seat. India clasped his hand, but he hardly noted it.
Of course, part of the problem with access to so much is the painful awareness of what other people have that we don’t. A book deal, a cozy cottage, a slow life, a true love.
I experienced a transcendent moment on the NJ Turnpike (one of the last places I’d ever expect to have one) few weeks ago, after delivering gifts down in Jersey. In six lanes of rushing traffic with gargantuan shipping cranes on one side of the road and the Newark Airport on the other, the sun came out for just a few minutes and made every ugly thing golden. The jet that flew overhead became a monument to human creativity, the cranes spoke to me about our ability to keep so many things going at once. Yes, ugly plastic toys were being shipped across the ocean, but lifesaving inventions, too (despite being aware that big Pharma is not always our friend). I had a brief feeling of love for all the hurried people in their tiny cars. And then the feeling was gone. Yesterday a bald eagle flew over just as my favorite song came on and it gave me the same feeling.
I delivered a copy of my new book to the garden store owner just before Christmas on a whim. Two springs ago as I wandered around picking vegetable flats he’d noticed that I had been humming and told me it was a good sign and that I had a musical soul. That line which I used on one of the first few pages of my book became essential to the story. His words had sparked the idea that Waldo, the quiet farm boy I write about, would have the same musical soul. The garden man was so blown away by his part in the writing of the novel he attempted to give me multiple Christmas trees and wreaths for free when he’d already given me a gift. We spent the next hour discussing ancestors, near death experiences and all things spiritual.
These moments aren’t nothing. They slip away so quickly, and we forget about them too fast. No trend, no outfit, no society can give us transcendent moments.
Our adopted daughter came to us with a long list of issues with labels. She’s been constantly promised that this new medication or that new therapy will make things perfect. She’s given workers and excuses and utopian game plans that never really work out. At therapy this week her worker and therapist fed into the loss she was feeling for someone she hardly knew (a worker she’d known for only two weeks). I lost my patience a little after hearing the same old gripes about what she needed and wanted and how the therapist goaded her on. Finally, I suggested that maybe she should look at these temporary workers as people she could affect by brightening their day. Maybe it didn’t always have to be about someone or something pulling her out of her victimhood. She liked the idea of being a hero and not a victim for once.
Even in The Lord of the Rings there is no promise of utopia. Frodo has to say goodbye as soon as he wins the day. All novels end, Instagram reels last an average of four seconds, a child becomes an adult (it feels) almost as quickly. There’s plenty about life to keep us stuck or victimized but it’s our choice to make those moments into a lifestyle.
The Christian life never promises the perfect hobbit home on earth. The hero’s journey is the other choice. It’s terrifying but also sprinkled with moments of bliss and delight if you’re open to it.
A little more of fictional Richard Rhinedale’s sermon:
“Here at Middlemay we eschew any modern convenience that interferes with our ability to treat each other as equals. Men and women take turns at the chores. No one complains of boredom when the sand is constantly shifting, and you will see that great contentment comes from communal living with a firm devotion to the Lord. Here, my child, you can put aside the restlessness that afflicts the youth of modernity. Listen, will you? To the sounds of the babbling brook and the mewing cow. These are the sounds of God, more beautiful than any piece of music contrived to fill the longing of man’s soul in the deep hours of the night. Do any of you—the newcomers and curiosity seekers—realize the peace one has when the world is turned off for a while? ‘Be still and know that I am God!’ it says in the holy book. Be still, for heaven’s sake. When two or more come together—what does Jesus, our lord, say? Yes, his presence is here.”
Needless to say, things don’t go as planned.
Adrienne! This is SPOT ON! Thank you for putting to words all the angst and concern swimming about in my head - and with such captivating words, as always. You're absolutely right - we often trade just one aesthetic for another, clinging to it as if it'll solve our issues and take the pilgrimage out of our pilgrim lives.