The New Reality

Summer language school is accelerated. A lot. It's not one but two semesters of Greek or Hebrew squeezed into about six weeks. This has been, so far, a good way for me to learn. I like it very much. There's a side effect to that acceleration: it works the same way in our social lives. I think I anticipated this in some vague form, but I had no clue what a blast it would be. I use the word "blast" both in its slangy form to mean "a really fun time" and in its closer-to-literal form to mean "an explosion, a sudden movement, a momentary unleashing." "Whirlwind" would be appropriate as well.

We do this because some of us are scared (not me, not really), all of us are starting anew, for a few days we were a little bored and unmoored, and since class started we've embodied the "work hard, play hard" mentality. Friday afternoons we are as restless and frightening as caged animals, and when we load up the cars to go wherever we go, or pour into someone's apartment, the energy is frenetic and loose and fast and wild until Sunday evening when the Greek students buckle down to study. (Hebrew doesn't meet on Mondays, but we also begin to wind down about then.) We talk over movies and over each other. We make ourselves known in church. We are unignorable. We travel in packs. We are well matched in darts. We learn from everything, and we are always thirsty and we are always full. We have so much steam it takes three days to let it off, and then we have none for four.

During the week, the pace is smooth and almost lethargic in the best way. There is yoga and swimming and groceries and a series of foods I aim to eat each day and each week. The classroom is cold and the breaks are long. My stack of flashcards will soon be as tall as my hand, the long way. The rhythm in which we gather and disperse is like a slow and reliable breathing. Everything shines, but it does not hurt my eyes. When I felt sad for the first time since moving here, I said to myself, "Oh no, reality is setting in," but then I said, "That is not reality. The new reality is this." My cup overflows with joy and peace and freedom from fear and friends and health and love.

There's a Hebrew word you say when you drink coffee with someone. It means not only "thank you," but "forever and ever," as in, "May this state of affairs last forever and ever. We are not being chased, we are not at war, we are not starving, we are enjoying this together and we would like it to last." Unfortunately, I do not actually know the word. But that is precisely how I feel. May this last forever and ever. Amen.