My First (Ob)Session of Masochistic Fun

At 7 tonight, I had the first session of my Mandarin lessons. I am, to say the least, exhausted. Two hours of mental acrobatic translations can do that to you. It's been almost two years since I last conversed in Mandarin for more than fifteen minutes and I am now all drained of whatever Chinese words that inhabited my brain.

But it was fun. Because my brain particularly enjoys getting a linguistic beating from time to time. It thrives at the sweet logic of language and the sensual sound of words as they roll off my tongue and escape my lips. It delights at each discovery of a new word, phrase, pattern... very much like a lover thrilled at the little pleasures of a new affair, so much more pleasant as they come to her in surprising little bursts... A new language, like a new lover, comes with so much promise, so rich with potential that one cannot just say no for fear of what one might miss.

Although come to think of it, Mandarin is hardly new to me; but a lover nonetheless--teasing and mysterious, revealing itself one day at a time. Just when I think I know enough, it takes off one more layer of its clothing, and then I realize again and again and yet again how there is always so much more to know. Because just as it reveals, concealed underneath is even more than I could ever fathom. For when does it end? Does it ever really end?

And oh it demands so much of me! How it demands so much of my time and energy, my patience and devotion, my passion and love. But despite it all, it refuses to be possessed. And that only makes me want more.

Thus the exhaustion.

It should be worth it. To love is to exhaust oneself for the beloved. Otherwise what's the point?