To learn a language is magic. In the real sense, a wonder. It is putting your hand in the hat to discover that it is not a trick, that the rabbit really disappeared. I remember it all too clearly — the day I embarked to learn, the tongue of angels we call ‘Italian.’ To me, the sounds were distant, a melodic static void — but oh, there was a mystery, a force that pulled me in. What drew me to this language? What draws us to any language at that, to the deep, to the vast world within our own?
To learn a language is to strip yourself of age and to be born again. It is to curl yourself up in a dark womb. For nine months, I didn’t understand. I was surrounded by the blackness of gibberish. There was the pain and toil of study, the incessant agony to know. Then, alas — the light. I began to understand somewhat but not quite, there were still the squints, and the slow and ever-expanding eye. And oh, how all was new in this world full and bright, of sounds and sights fresh and foreign.
Me, a grown man had to put on pampers. Many times awet in error and in need I wailed. Consider this, the kings of eloquence too must learn to condescend to babes. William Shakespeare must learn to say, “mother” in a language not his own. Dante Alighieri must set aside his laurel wreath, and learn to crawl with feet and arms of limitation.
As a beginner, growth is more apparent. Like a teen I grew quickly in the language, my voice cracked and deepened in the puberty of progress. I went from knowing inches to knowing feet. Behold the rapid spurts of stature, I walked with a grammar disproportioned, dangling limbs and a head ballooned.
As I matured, I found myself in the “intermediate plateau,” where growth hid its face, where progress was slow and imperceptible. For many years, I asked for wrinkles and the signs of aging. I know not when the grays will grace my speech — but when it comes I hope to speak as wine and oak.
For oft we ask, “How long will it take to learn a language?” To me this seems a question strange. How odd to ask a friend, “How long will it take to know you?” Indeed, we’ve become mad, with our tools we stretch the limbs of infants. We water the green with firehoses, and hammer plants with clubs: “Why won’t you grow! Why won’t you grow!” we shout, our echoes far and wide. But let us sit at the feet of snow and learn of patience, of what it means to be alive — to receive language as a gift:
"An unexpected gift. Falling snow is perhaps the purest manifestation of uncontrollability. We cannot manufacture it, force it, or even confidently predict it, at least not very far in advance. What is more, we cannot hold of it or make it our own. Take some in your hand, it slips through your fingers. Bring it into the house, it melts away. Pack it away in the freezer, it stops being snow and becomes ice.” - Harmut Rosa
Language is the metaphor of nature. To learn a language is to be tutored by the trees. It needs to seep into us, into the soil of our speech, to spring forth like fruit and not as ornaments hung on branches bulbed. But, oh how often impatience chokes us, how it slithers into our hearts to bite with the tongue poisoned. May we listen to the wisdom that surrounds us, and imitate the slowness that beats within the earth. As Hadden Turner noted,
“Trees and plants grow imperceptibly. Landscapes take generations to form. The water cycle runs its slow course. It is well known that when a plant grows too quickly it makes itself vulnerable and weak - its stem is not strong and is susceptible to being blown over in the wind. Slow and steady growth is essential to its health - a truth the modern-day farmer armed with his rapid-growth fertilizers is apt to forget.
But, ads stand atop hills with chest wide and voice bold before crowds many. They promise to speed up the process, to transform infants to adults in a matter of months mere. We long for the microwave of acquisition, to twirl on the plate of Duolingo, but our bones need poetry, and the slow cycles of prose.
Don’t memorize words, eat them. Stand before them in the flicker as they burn within the wood. It is a flame to be swallowed, now become a firefly.
Words are little torches on the page. Behind a book my face is lit and set ablaze. Reading in a language foreign is a movement towards a light, a blooming flame. When I acquire, it is not that I just understand more, but it is that I move closer to the warmth of meaning. It is not only that it is more clear, but more vibrant. A shade of dimness sheds it skin. The smoke is chiseled and a chip is seen in flight.
Do you know that sensation when you gaze at the sun and then close your eyes? There is that lingering light in the blackness that spreads like clouds before us. This is memory. Words are kindling flames with varying degrees of brightness. Behold them with the steady gaze of wonder and they will shine upon you when the book shuts its eyes to sleep. Try to remember, and you will forget. Shall we grasp the cloud of light? Trust that words will rain upon you and thunder in the darkness of your speech.
Across my feed, there came an ad: an AI video translator, an app that clones your voice and syncs your lips to speak in any language of your choice. I read the comments hailing. They rejoiced, but I am weeping. It is empty. A true sadness, dark and grave. It is life without a life — it is to strip us from the beauty that language bestows upon us. To learn a language is to experience the sweetness of knowing. But we prefer to bite the hollow fruits of plastic, to skip eating altogether. Oh, where’s the human hunger, the longings lush and brave?
To learn a language is to look at yourself with eyes your own yet not your own. It is to see what you can’t see through the lens of monolingualism. To learn a language is to put on binoculars, not only to see out, but to see in. Italy taught me the immense beauty of little things, and exposed the horrors of my fret and soul in speed.
To learn a language it is to become a seed, it is to learn of community, the hospitality of sun and rain. It is to become a tree with many branches with birds of color bright. To learn a language is this — to taste the wonder, and the mystery of life.
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---“How long will it take to learn a language?” To me this seems a question strange. How odd to ask a friend, “How long will it take to know you?”--- This is a fantastic line. Also, love the Rosa reference!
Ronald, you are a poet! This post has inspired so many ideas and I resonate deeply with this: "I read the comments hailing. They rejoiced, but I am weeping." Your memory skill and perseverance in language learning will take on the feel of "magic" to those who will fall for the lure of AI. Will save your post and think more on it....