Something In Common

I've loved Jane Eyre ever since I saw the 1996 version with William Hurt as Mr. Rochester. But it wasn't until I read the book that I realized why I loved it so much. There are the obvious reasons, of course. Jane's spirit, Rochester's uncanny ability to make any level headed girl swoon, and the love that outlasts a crazy wife locked in the attic. What's not to like, right?

As I was reading the book, my sister, Kathryn commented, "You relate to Jane, don't you?" And I suddenly realized she was right.

Now, don't get me wrong. I wasn't abandoned by my family at a young age and never at any time have I been frozen and half starved. My best friend didn't die and while I am Jane's age, the only thing I teach is a weekly dance class.

But I understand her.

After she saves Rochester's life by putting out the fire, they share a tender moment. "My cherished preserver, goodnight!" he says. Jane waits eagerly, anxiously, all the next day for a chance to see him and speak with him. Only to discover he has left to visit the beautiful Blanche Ingram.

And what is Jane's response to this discovery?

"When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through imagination's boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night - of the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own quiet way, a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and rabidly devoured the ideal; - I pronounced judgement to this effect: -

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar."

Then, in punishment for her fanciful thinking, she draws a portrait of herself, plain and poor. Next she takes her softest, purest, pastels and paints a picture of Blanche Ingram, based on Ms. Fairfax's description. (Side note, why do blonds always get cast in the roll of Blanche? She's supposed to have black hair. I know, I know, it's a silly detail and the blond women cast in that roll have all played their parts well. But really, it's not that hard to play a supercilious, avaricious woman, when you think about it. Could't they have found a brunette to do the job? I digress. Back to Jane and her self imposed punishment.)

After having drawn both, she vows to keep them to remind herself of her worth, or lack thereof, and to compare them should she ever be tempted to imagine herself in love with him again.

As I read this, my heart went out to Jane. I understood the rush of emotion, the internal abandonment of caution, and the daring to dream and hope. I knew the crushing blow, the bone jarring halt of disappointment. I recognized the immediate self blame and the resolve to never let unrealistic expectations cause hurt again.

Yes, I understood very well.

In fact, I think I've been comparing emotional portraits for a long time. And finding my own lacking, I've lived in deference to the more beautiful and deserving.

Please don't mistake my meaning, I don't refer to romantic attachments, per say, but to life in general. I've spent the last few years minimizing my own importance and needs to avoid being hurt and disappointed. Just like Jane, drawing a plain portrait to remind herself of her place in life so that she wouldn't forget herself and hope for more than she should.

It didn't keep her from being hurt, however. And it didn't keep me from being hurt either. Rather it simply caused a different kind of pain.

Jane still loved Rochester. She couldn't help it. She loved him with every fiber of her being. Yes, this love brought her great pain, but it also fulfilled its promise of happily ever after, in the end.

As for myself, I added more and more portraits to the walls of my heart, closing up the rooms that needed too much cleaning and attention. I became almost numb, in some respects, convinced that I was doing the right thing by comparing my plain portrait to the beautiful people around me.

But, over the last six months God has done a lot of healing and a lot of growing in me, giving me my own personal Thornfield.

When Jane first arrives at Thornfield, she is controlled and withdrawn, having spent years learning to suppress her passionate nature and cater to the needs and desires of those above her. Then, as she is treated like an equal, as her opinions and feelings are considered with value, she becomes free to be herself. She learns not only to accept, but to claim her rights as a free, independent, human being with a soul just as valuable as those belonging to her "betters."

In that same way, God has placed people in my life, both family and friends, who have encouraged me to accept my value and my worth. I am learning that my identity is not based on the Blanche Ingrams of this world who would stereotype us governesses as either "detestable or ridiculous."

My self portrait is not the first to be painted in my likeness. God painted the original. He knows and created every shadow, every feature, every detail. So why am I asking an outside observer how much it is worth? Shouldn't I be asking the Artist?

You know, I really hadn't intended to go into all of that when I began this post. So if you actually read this far, I thank you for taking the time to read about my love for Jane Eyre, and the mirror it held up to my own heart.