Action as Alchemy
What French Class Taught Me That Had Nothing To Do With Learning A Language
Fog settled over our town overnight, and winter arrived immediately—metallic, silvery, and sharp. I usually resist the cold months, but more and more I find myself welcoming the season, excited even.
While I usually prefer my home to be minimalist in style, I go full maximalist for Christmas, covering the house in paper chains cut from vintage print paper; cedar garland wrapped along the banister and hanging over the frames of our windows; a handmade wreath on the front door; and, of course, a tree covered in lights, ornaments, and tinsel. In the evening, we light candles and have been projecting old classic Christmas movies on the wall—Miracle on 34th Street, Little Women, and It’s a Wonderful Life are my favorites.
The food, too, becomes a kind of embellishment—soups and roasts and stews—warming the house as well as our bodies. And for morning coffee, big dollops of homemade whipped cream on top, with sprinkles of cinnamon.
Deer have been roaming outside a lot, and as a city kid, it captivates me every time. Remi, too, finds excitement in seeing them tromping across the white mushrooms and grazing on the clover just below our window. I’m glad it’s still exciting to her, though it’s probably something of an ordinary sight by now.
Like many of us, I am looking back on the year as it comes to its curtain call. A curious one that I sort of rumbled my way through, often dancing with grief, fear, and the like.
I think one of the more significant things that happened was that I enrolled in a French class for no reason other than pure enjoyment (and maybe to secretly push closer to my dream of one day living in France). For five months, after dropping my daughter off at preschool, I drove 45 minutes twice a week to attend a two-hour class. Homework took up an additional six hours a week, and I would stay up late after bedtime to get it done. I thought a lot about the parents out there putting themselves through school while also working, because honestly, it was a challenge to get everything done. Still, I have to admit I was proud to push myself in this way.
On the first day of class, my default was to look for a seat in the back, but instead I sat front and center. This being French 01 at a college, most of the students were fresh out of high school, so I was indeed the old lady in the front. Luckily, an older couple planning a trip to France also joined, and I wasn’t the only oldie.
During the semester, I did all the things I used to be afraid of—I raised my hand all the time, even when I wasn’t sure my answer was correct or whether my question was dumb. It was energizing to be exposed in this way. To be intentionally uncomfortable in the midst of growth, for the sake of growth. I studied as hard as I could, attended after-school tutoring, and put a lot of effort into my final presentation.
It was rewarding in many ways, but mostly it was empowering to take notice of what I was feeling called to, and to immerse myself in it completely—an action not driven by results or logic. Spanish would have been the logical, much easier choice if it were simply about learning a new language. Spanish is in me, having grown up in a neighborhood that was predominantly Puerto Rican and Dominican—a language comfortable in my mouth and familiar to my ears. French was entirely awkward, and I don’t know anyone who speaks it fluently. But I have been pulled to it for so many years now—not only the language, but the culture and history too.
I am someone who lives in my mind, and it’s easy to become stuck in the realm of imagination. While there’s some beauty in that, it can be a prison of sorts, too. When you step away from the dreaming and into the doing, often you will find there’s not much glamour in the doing part, especially when starting out. When fantasy collapses into reality, it quickly loses its luster. I’m here to tell you, taking a French class in a windowless room in Sacramento was a far cry from my 1960s Godard-girl dream. But imagination, unchecked, can become a holding pattern—and then you aren’t living or moving toward any version of the dream at all.
In choosing to touch reality, a thousand doors unlocked, and the action itself was a kind of alchemy. I became witness to possibilities hidden in plain sight. Dormant ideas lit up, roused from bed by bells ringing loudly.
The lesson was this: if it’s imperfect or mundane, or if I’m old or inexperienced—begin anyway. Begin as a means to become. Begin before your life becomes unyielding.
The year is ending, cold and dark, but I am adorning interiors in warmth and light—bathing in a time between selves, where two halves are met. I am both running toward and away from who I have been and who I will become.
Becoming is not linear. There is no arrival, but a continuous collision—a pirouette through a hurly-burly love affair. Stick your hand out and gather what you can.
Loved it! Makes a real “oldie” keep trying new things. Thanks for the gentle push to do it.
This felt like the proper holiday feeling. Full of warmth and contentment. Self grace. Thank you Hannah.