Life Without Mother

Dear Mom,

I’ve reverted to my bookworm self this month. Perhaps too far as I need to catch up on a few life-things. But, there’s a certain joy and comfort that comes with the thrill of reading a book in just a couple of days or, in a few cases, only one!

I’ve largely been re-reading books, with the intent of not becoming too engaged with the story. Yeah, no, it’s not quite working out as I’d hoped. No, I’m not obsessing over the book for days — but this is because I finish it in two!

The latest book has brought me back to my childhood. Anne of Green Gables. I read the whole series over the span of about three-four weeks the summer after my eighth grade year — the summer I had physical therapy for my PCL injury. (I remember because my PT always commented on the fact that I had a different book each time I came in — and I came in at least twice a week.) Do you remember how I fell in love with the story, with Avonlea, with Anne? I used to think I was her — or that I would have been if I had the courage to speak my mind and musings. However, in re-reading, I’ve found a bit more likeness in Diana. The consolation lies in her own kindred-spiritedness with Anne. Diana just needed that dear, imaginative friend to pull her out of her own shell — she is first introduced to Anne with her nose stuck in a book, you know — and live life to the utmost. And, as I used to long for, Anne has the propensity, especially when young, to speak her mind frankly about everything. For Miss Never-Leaves-the-House-Without-Her-Filter here, the notion of speaking freely without over-analyzing every little nuance in conversation feels frighteningly alien.

Truly, Mom — I was in a pastoral care meeting this week and was given full permission to say things as I felt/thought them just to address the heart of the issues — and I felt mentally paralyzed. Then, after finally regaining a few words, I realized halfway through my next comment that the filter had slipped right back into place.

Don’t get me wrong, Anne certainly learns tact as she grows up and the ability to recognize when something might ought not to be said. So, I’m not over here idolizing the ability for utter frankness — but, it is interesting to now read this beloved character’s story once more, nearly twice the age I was at the first, and see more clearly where my notion of being kindred spirits with Anne came from being more like her best friend, than the girl herself. And came from the longing to be her.

In some ways, as I’ve grown, I believe I’ve achieved at least more of a confidence and freedom in my imaginative musings and tendencies. Especially where abstract thought is concerned. College opened a whole new world of appreciation for both those of similar interests, and the appreciation of those with different but complimentary interests. My friends who chose different paths would express their second-hand excitement for the world of literature and writing simply from my (for once) unfiltered outpouring of passion (arguably “venting”) for the intersection of language and the human heart.

I used to “use big words” as Anne did with flowery phrases. And I still do, as evidenced above, I’m sure. Why merely communicate when you can delight in doing so? Of course, there is a time and a place. And I’m grateful that a letter to my dear mother — to whom many of these verbal flourishes were directed aloud — could not be a more appropriate time and place.

Your daughter,
Hannah