anne shirley

I admit that I am prideful about the natural color of my hair. This is not because I think the color itself is anything altogether special. Plenty of other women have auburn heads, and some even have eyebrows to match, which I do not. No, I am proud of my hair color because of how I attained it. When I was 12 years old, I gave myself red hair using only the power of my imagination. It happened in a moment of deep connection with Anne Shirley of Green Gables. And it hasn’t washed out since.

I wish that my miraculous transformation occurred as I was reading Anne of Green Gables, but truth be told, I prefer the movie. This is partly because Meghan Follows embodies the character of Anne Shirley so honestly, and also because Prince Edward Island, (to quote Anne), "is more beautiful than even I could imagine it." Also, the first sentence of the book runs exactly 152 words long, and I do not believe that a sentence of that magnitude was ever permissible, even in Canadian literature.

Watching the movie is nearly a half-day commitment, and one I never made half-heartedly. Even in my early days of Anne, around the age of eight, I would plan out my viewings with great intention, and would pause only for bathroom breaks. Despite the poor quality of VHS tapes, I remember feeling entirely transported into her world from my living room couch.

In fact, the feeling of transportation was so complete that I reflect on Anne's story as though I lived it alongside of her. I remember sitting next to her at the orphanage as she stared into the windowpane at the friend she had made in her reflection. I remember ducking under the blossom-laden branches as she rode from town to Green Gables, soaking in the sights of Prince Edward Island for the first time. I remember feeling like the future bloomed with promise when Marilla told her that she could stay at Green Gables. I remember the flame in my girlish heart that lit up when she met Diana and finally had a true friend. I remember feeling a different kind of flame in my heart when Gilbert first entered the scene.

Anne lived her story repeatedly throughout all of my girlhood. And eventually I realized that I was not simply living alongside of her, observing her. Eventually, my memories read as though Anne was looking into the windowpane, and my face was the one reflected. And the fact that I would say something so dramatic is mere proof that Anne is somewhere inside of me, or that I am somewhere inside of her.

There was one detail that Anne and I thoroughly disagreed upon. Anne considered her fiery head of hair something to despair, while I thought it a gift to be coveted. Here is how it happened:

I was 12 years old. I was lying on the couch, holding a glass of 7up while a pan lay poised on the floor in case I needed to hurl. Anne’s eyes were glazing over as they often did when she imagined the world differently than it was. She could imagine she had a “beautiful, rose-leaf complexion,” she said, and “starry, violet eyes.” But then she looked straight into reality and said, “But I cannot imagine my red hair away.” I thought for the umpteenth time how Anne's hair perfectly reflected her passion for ordinary life, and how lucky she was to have it. And while Anne couldn't imagine her red hair away, I closed my eyes and imagined myself with hair that glimmered like a new copper penny.

That summer, mysterious red highlights began forming out of my brown hair. And by August, someone called me a red head for the first time. "You think my hair is red?" I had asked. My friend looked at me suspiciously and said, "It is red. Right?" I agreed, "Yes, it's red. I just didn't know if anyone else could see it." I had successfully imagined my red hair into existence. Actually, the result of my imagination was more of an auburn, which is what Anne had always hoped would eventually come of her hair. My eyebrows are still a dark brown, and I'm not sure if that means that the red is temporary. But I've had it for nearly nine years now.

Shortly after I married last September, I watched Anne of Green Gables and the sequel, Anne of Avonlea, for the first time in nearly two years. For some reason, I felt close to tears throughout the whole film. I cried at the appropriate times, like when Matthew dies or when Diana is forbidden from seeing Anne. But I also cried at parts that I had never cried over before. I cried when Josie Pie falls into the lake and Anne says with jealousy that it would be "such a romantic experience nearly to drown." I cried when Anne gets Dianna drunk on what she thought was raspberry cordial. I cried when Anne nearly did drown as she acted out a scene from poetry in a little boat.

It wasn't until the end of the sequel that I understood exactly what was going on inside of me. At one point near the end, Anne tells Marilla that she is “18 now, and just as stubborn as ever.” And the last scene finds Anne and Gilbert standing on a bridge at the onset of their overdue romance. It was then I realized that I was older than Anne for the first time, and that I had just spent five hours mourning the end of my childhood with her.

I still see traces of Anne inside of me, but when I watch Anne of Green Gables, I am remembering when my life ran parallel with hers. In that sense, I miss Anne. And this is okay, because every season eventually moves into our memories so that a new one can unfold. And maybe someday I will have a daughter who I can share Anne with. If she doesn't connect with Anne in the same way, that will be okay too, because this world is full of characters who we can find parts of ourselves in.

At the end of the first of the first tape, Diana is forbidden from ever associating with Anne again, and they swear to be secret bosom friends for all of eternity. With tears running down her blotchy, tormented face, Anne asks Diana for a lock of her black tresses. Diana wails, "I don't have any black dresses!" and Anne says, "I mean your hair." Diana snips off a lock of her hair, which Anne tucks into her pocket before they depart to live separate lives.

Of course, my adult self knows that my red hair was genetically destined to reveal itself in the summer that I was 12 years old; perhaps the sun drew out highlights that had been forming all year. But the girl inside of me likes to believe that they are locks of Anne's tresses that she gave to me at a time when our lives coincided. I believe that I imagined my red hair into existence. And the Anne inside is proud of the creative power of my imagination.

priority(s)

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I use the word "priorities" more often than I use it's singular form: priority. You wouldn't think it, but the words really have two different meanings. Priority means "highest in importance." There can't be more than one thing that is highest in importance. So we use the word Priorities to mean "important things."

Priority, when made plural, loses its meaning.

I should have but one priority.

Psalm 27:4
One thing I ask, and this one thing I seek;
that I may dwell in the house of the Lord
all the days of my life,
to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord
and seek him in his temple.

One. Singular. Thing.

Priority.

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scars and secrets

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There are two pieces of information that I request from him on a nearly bi-monthly basis. One I request right before he falls asleep, in hopes that delirium might make him uninhibited. I pull the blanket over our heads and say, "Tell me your secrets."

So far, I haven't asked him at just the right moment before sleep, because he always responds with, "Joy, I don't have any secrets. I've already told you all of them." One time I told him just to make some up, which he did. They were all either boring or unbelievable. I fell asleep unsatisfied.

My other favorite thing to ask him is where the scars on his hands are from. I usually notice them at the dinner table, and I find them personal, endearing, and manly. One is from the time he jumped off the stage at high school and caught his hand on a music stand. Another is from his watch when it got pulled in a game of football. He can't remember what the other three are from, but I keep asking him in case he suddenly remembers.

I have a feeling they are from a secret government mission that he has yet to tell me about.

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end of the month starvation

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I haven't quite figured out our food budget. Actually, I have figured out our food budget, but I haven't really implemented my knowledge and made the right decisions. As a result, we tend to eat steak and asparagus at the beginning of the month, and bagels with peanut butter at the end of the month. My body seems to be adjusting to this cycle.

It's not that there isn't money in the spending account, in the gas account, the savings account, one of the other 11 "accounts" we have arranged on a spreadsheet. It's a matter of discipline, of principle. With the right amount of planning, I can make substantial meals for one month on the budget we determined.

In my world, "giving up" looks like an extra bottle of peanut butter in my shopping cart. I currently have two in the pantry.

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ordinary days

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Predictable:

Like the inflection in a newscaster's voice.

Bland:

Like the wall color of a new condominium.

Uninteresting:

Like a story from Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul.

Repetitive:

Like every movement under the sun.

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I don't know where, I don't know why, I don't know how
But your love can make these things better.

- Jars of Clay

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accomplishment

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I've discovered that I can only use the word accomplished in a singular situation. "I have accomplished my goal to finish my school assignment due today." I never actually feel accomplished, in a global sense. There is always something else to be done. No matter how satisfied my brain feels as it drifts off to sleep, it awakes the next morning with a whole new set of goals. I can make lists and I can check items off. But I am never accomplished.

I think about how writers or other professionals are often deemed "accomplished." I wonder if any of them, at the end of their career actually feel like they got it all done. I suppose it comes down to knowing your purpose. But how do you put a limit on your purpose? There has to be a limit if it's going to be realized.

Even when Jesus said, "it is finished," he didn't mean all of it. I guess in a sense, he did: salvation is here, it's done. But he wasn't FINISHED finished. He sent his spirit so that we could continue the work and join in on the story that is still unfolding.

I find rest in the fact that eternity is written on the hearts of man.

I don't think I'll ever feel entirely accomplished. I think that is because I was made for eternity.

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The blog spirit moves me

I don't know why, after three months of silence, I decide to post.

I'm reading Crime and Punishment right now. By "reading," I mean that I have a bookmark between the fifth and sixth page where I left off a week ago, and I carry the book with me everywhere. I don't think I will ever progress much further, because most places that I go have some other kind of reading material that is preferable, such as a brochure or phone book.

I am certain that some writers purposely make their readers work very hard. Is it for the benefit of the reader, who then feels a great measure of satisfaction in the drudgerous effort she applied to the act of reading? Or are some writers simply so arrogant that they think their work is actually worth all of the effort?

I'm sure it is worth the effort. But for now, a spankin new issue of the yellow pages is in, and I'm afraid C&P will just have to wait.