Sometimes I wake up thinking in French. It’s quite a disorienting experience, given that I am by no means fluent. I feel like a toddler, frustrated and unable to communicate my needs. I’m confused, my words and thoughts stunted by a language that I love. I usually read my French Bible, go to work where I am surrounded by native English speakers, and eventually the difficulty of “translating” everything into English wears off, and I mindlessly communicate with fluidity once more.
Though frustrating, I’ve come to value these mornings, bizarre as they are. For how often do I truly think, consider, and choose my words so carefully as when I am trying to do so in a non native tongue? I think that’s why I often like to incorporate French into my writings (for example L’Amour et la Perte). I imagine this might be the experience for those who live in a land which speaks a foreign tongue. Does anyone else wake up thinking in another language? The worst and funniest is when I wake up thinking in Welsh, because I have few words of my heritage; those that I do were learned in school and tend to be around themes of pets, school, and the National Anthem!
Ps. For my work colleagues: I am writing this snivelling in bed. I’ve tried to sleep but I can’t! But honestly, I’m not skiving. You really don’t want to see the amount of snot that’s pouring forth from my dizzy body.