Imagine Frodo Baggins as the Bag Lady

A woman named Alexandra Penney, who at one time was the editor of Self magazine, has been posting occasional essays on The Daily Beast under the title “The Bag Lady Papers.” The general gist is that Penney invested all her savings with Bernie Madoff and, consequently, lost everything. In December, a friend pointed me to Penney’s first post on the subject.  And at first, I found some level of sympathy for the woman. I don’t care how much money you start with—having to let go of things you like very much is hard. Downsizing and adjusting is hard—even if it’s by choice, to afford a more meaningful career or a child’s college education. To suddenly lose one’s savings, in your 50s, is a huge hit. 
But still, I was surprised at the extremity of her reaction, which, she said, included thoughts of suicide. Suicide? You might have to give up your studio in SoHo, your laundered shirts, and your cleaning lady, and you’re contemplating suicide?  Wow. What on earth would you do if something really bad ever happened? 
I recognize that people respond differently to adversity, and some kinds of adversity can be scarier to some folks than others. There are the legendary tales, made current again by the suicides of some recently-ruined financial titans, of Wall Street bankers jumping to their deaths after the 1929 stock market crash. But it’s the equivalent of someone who’s just been in a plane crash in the mountains jumping off a cliff rather than even trying to fight for survival or a way out of the woods. Which I know actually happens in real life, but it’s still a puzzle to me. 

As the “Bag Lady” posts have continued, Ms. Penney has continued to rant against Madoff, expletives not deleted, and bemoan her dire straits. Recently, however, she’s gotten a little sunnier, because she got a book deal to write about her terrible experiences. Which she celebrated in fabuloso style, to great relief and in the company of marvelous friends, with $200 Cristal champagne. 
I don’t know the woman. I can’t see inside her head, heart, or psyche. But judging only from her posts, I would say this: it doesn’t appear that she’s learned a thing, or grown at all, from her experiences. Which is too bad. We all have such a tremendous amount to learn in life, and a very short period of time in which to learn it. 
To put Penny’s posts in perspective, imagine Frodo Baggins, the hobbit hero in The Lord of the Rings, reacting similarly. Imagine him railing in the woods about how unfair it was that he had to go return this stupid ring to fix a problem someone else created, complaining about the rain, the uncomfortable leaf piles he and Sam had to sleep on, how hard the walk and journey was … and getting a bit happier only if some opportunist or kind soul took pity on his victim-pout complaints and installed him safely back in a warm, cozy house with ease, comfort, and good food and wine. Or, if you haven’t read or seen that particular story, you could try the same exercise with Luke Skywalker from Star Wars, or Ulysses, in Homer’s Odyssey. Or any epic hero, for that matter. 
Needless to say, we wouldn’t be cheering that character’s exploits by the end of the movie. We’d be hoping fervently that the screenwriters dumped them from the story as soon as possible so we could focus on more interesting people. Or perhaps the complainer would serve as a foil to the real heroes, who dug in when the going got rough and managed to think about something besides their own comfort, even as darkness fell around them. 
Adversity isn’t easy or fun. But philosophers high and low, from Nietzsche to Joseph Campbell to Oprah Winfrey, repeat over and over again that what doesn’t kill us can make us stronger. The epic heroes of old weren’t perfect or indestructible. They were ordinary people who found themselves having to make their way through challenging, dark forests. What made them heroes was that they didn’t shirk from the task—from what it forced them to learn about themselves, as well as the world. And, as a result, they emerged from their journeys wiser, stronger, and role models for the rest of us. 
I have a Maya Angelou quote on my desk that says, “We are living art. Created to hang on, stand up, forbear, continue, and encourage others.” I’m embarrassed to admit that even though I have several of Angelou’s books on my bookshelves, I can’t place the source of that quote. But solving that mystery might offer a worthwhile project for Ms. Penney.
Ms. Penney could spend an afternoon in the New York Public Library, no entrance fee required. As a writer, she should appreciate the history and thought that went into the creation of all those works, throughout all the good and bad times of the world. She could wind her way slowly to Angelou’s poems and stories … remembering, in the company of all those giants, why it is we storytellers labor to bring stories into the world, in the first place. And then, when she found Angelou’s books, she could spend a few hours looking for the source of that line. Not because the source itself is that important, but because along the way, she would encounter vibrant, wonderful women who’ve also had to learn to do without, struggle with adversity, and find inner strength they didn’t think they had. And in their stories, she might also discover a reassuring and educational kind of comfort. A comfort crafted not of purchased wares, but of shared experience, beauty, laughter, and song that costs far less, and lasts far longer, than a $200 bottle of Cristal champagne.