Reading Anne Again: The Girl I Was, the Woman I’ve Become
I recently saw posts on Facebook about the 40th anniversary of the Anne of Green Gables movie, and had to sit with that for a few minutes. Forty years. Somehow, that feels both impossible and completely true. I remember watching it for the first time and loving how faithfully it captured the novels as I’d imagined them. I used to reread the entire Anne series every year or so (I even own every book L.M. Montgomery wrote), but it’s been at least six or seven years since my last visit to Avonlea. It felt like time to go back.
Returning to Avonlea
I’m only a few chapters into Anne of Green Gables, and I’ve already found myself on the verge of tears more than once.
There is something about the book that is hitting differently this time. The trauma of Anne’s origin story, the way Marilla hears the unspoken words about Anne’s young life before she arrives at Green Gables. The abuse she endured. The loneliness. The friends she “makes” with the girl in the mirror and the echo in the canyon.
And then there’s Anne’s unending joy and her desire to find the beauty in ALL the things, and the way she doesn’t ever, ever stay discouraged for longer than a beat or two – even when she finds herself in the “depths of despair”.
The Child Inside Still Reading
The young girl I was when I first read these books is here again, sitting beside the adult me, remembering how much we love this story. We’re both happy and sad at the same time.
I have flashbacks to sitting in a small, dark walk-in closet with the door only slightly open, letting in a fraction of light. It was just light enough that I could see myself in the mirror that hung on the door in the closet, but I could also pretend I’m talking to a friend. Just like Anne.
One of Anne’s deepest desires is to be heard, to have a bosom friend, to find kindred spirits. I remember that longing from my preteen (and teen and young adult) years, and if I’m honest, I still feel it. I recognize myself in her resilience, her imagination, and her delight. I’m not sure if I was self-aware enough back then to see it, but I certainly do now. And more than ever, I still want to be like that young Anne, with a heart full of joy, and an imagination that never ends.
Stories That Grow With Us
So I read a few pages, then pause when the emotions rise. I’m fascinated, and grateful, that rereading a childhood favorite can feel like a conversation across time, between who I was and who I’ve become.
The girl I once was, full of grief and longing (and quite often feeling “the depths of despair”), has grown into a 53-year-old woman who still carries those feelings, though they’ve shifted and in some cases, deepened. There is more, and different, grief. The trauma is slowly healing. The fear loosens its grip, year by year. The longing remains…and maybe it always will.
I’ll finish this re-read with tissues nearby and a full heart, and I won’t wait so long before returning to Avonlea again.
