The Cosmic Egg had cracked open, but this brand new universe was very simple. World only consisted of opposites.
Light and dark.
Up and down.
Sky and Water.
In this realm, the gods began to form from the raw essences of life. It first there were only two gods: Perun and Veles.
Perun, God of the Sky
Perun, god of the sky, floating on the surface of the water.
Perun is a pivotal diety in Slavic mythology, often associated with thunder, lightning, storms, rain, law, war, fertility, and oak trees.
Regarded as the chief god by many Slavic tribes, Perun’s imagery frequently includes weapons like axes or hammers. He is sometimes pictured riding a chariot, or taking the form of an eagle. He embodies the might of the heavens and is revered as a powerful protector and warrior. But he is also seen as fiery, quick-tempered, and rigid.
But when this story begins and the universe was new, the mighty god Perun did not have much to rule over. In the beginning, he found himself floating on a boat in a vast ocean, staring up at the empty sky. Sometimes, to alleviate his boredom, he would take the form of an eagle and soar over the waters.
But everywhere he flew, there was only sky and water, and nowhere to land except for his scanty little boat.
Veles, God of the Waters
Veles, god water and the underworld, walking along the ocean floor.
Veles is the Slavic god of the underworld. He is the god of earth, water, forests, the underworld, music, magic, trickery, cattle, livestock, and wealth. And, yes, he is also the god of the afterlife.
Known for his shapeshifting abilities, Veles can transform into various forms, including a mighty dragon or serpent, animals (particularly cattle or sheep), and even as trees, showcasing his mastery over magic and his role as a protector of livestock. His favorite tree was the willow.
Veles was also known as being a bit of a trickster, similar to Hermes and Loki. In Slavic mythology, he often used his his cunning to prod Perun and evade his wrath.
When the world was new, Veles’s domain was everything below the water. He watched over the chaos and wildness of all the creatures of the sea. The fish and crustaceans and sea serpents, and all the wild and magical monsters that later humans would draw in unexplored corners of the map.
And yet, when Veles looked upward toward the surface of the water, into Perun’s domain where he saw a vast expanse of nothingness, he saw potential for so much more.
The Genesis of Land
Veles swam up to the surface and approached Perun, floating in his boat.
“The world yearn for complexity,” Veles said. He proposed the creation of land, as an in-between space above the waters and beneath the sky, upon which life could grow. “But I can’t create this land myself. I will need you help.”
Perun, too, longed for more, and so he agreed to work with Veles in creating this new plane.
Veles dove down into the waters, down to the deepest, darkest depths of the sea. When he reached the bottom, he scooped a handful of sand into his mouth, and swam back up to the surface.
Up at the surface, he spit the sand into Perun’s hand, and Perun scattered the sand across the surface of the sea.
Where the sand hit the water, land formed.
How the Land Grew
The first patch of land was very small. Barely big enough for the two gods to stand on, side by side.
They began to argue over who would be in control of this land. Soon, the gods were pushing and shoving each other, fighting for more room. Veles pushed Perun. Perun shoved Veles back.
Veles tried to toss Perun down into the water, but everywhere Perun stepped, the land extended beneath him. He was the god of the over-world and could not be drowned. Perun changed into a bird and tried to carry Veles up into the sky so that he could drop him. But Veles was the god of the underworld and could not be lifted without his consent. Everywhere he stepped, the land extended beneath him, because he, too, had had a hand in its creation.
After age of fighting, the two gods paused for breath. When they looked around, they saw that the land had extended around them as far as the eye could see. They realized that there was now plenty of land for the both of them to share.
And in the place where the first land had been created, there grew an immense oak tree that extended up to the heavens and down into the soil. This was the tree of life, the world tree.
The two gods agreed to make a temporary peace.
Perun created an eagle, which flew him up to the very top of the world tree, a place he called Prawia, which was a place of gods and spirits yet to be born.
Perun, flying to the top of the World Tree on his white eagle.
Veles created a dragon-serpent called Zmej, and the two of them burrowed down to the upside-down world among the roots of the world tree, where Veles made himself a throne of gold, and Zmey curled among the tree roots in a nest of wool. In this place, they created a paradise of the souls of the dead.
Veles, in his underworld kingdom with his dragon Zmey.
Each god had retreated to their own kingdoms, one above and one below.
Life Hatched From a Firebird’s Egg
Perun, up in the sky, looked dow at the barren landscape and felt profound sadness at its emptiness. From his height, Perun could see the vast complexities of life in the oceans and in the soil—in Veles’s domain—and felt envy. He would not be outdone by Veles. He wished for the same richness of life to exist on the surface of the earth.
Up in the land of Prawia, Perun met with the other gods to seek their council.
It was believed that Perun’s parents were Svarog and Łada, who were believed to be the first two gods to have formed from the cosmic egg. Svarog was the god of fire and blacksmithing. Łada was the goddess of love, marriage, beauty, and joy.
Svarog, god of fire. Łada, goddess of love.
And Rod, god of newborn souls, of family, kinship, and birth. He was a gardener, tending the upper branches of the World Tree, where new souls were born.
Rod, god of family, kinship.
With their help, Perun, conjured a golden bird that glowed so brightly it looked as if it had been made from fire. Indeed, it was made of fire. This magical bird has often been imagined as the first firebird, the phoenix, a creature with the ability to create itself anew from the ashes of its former self.
Firebird/Phoenix brought the golden egg to start life on earth, Yawia, the land of the living.
Perun, Łada, Svarog, and Rod sent the bird down to the barren landscape. The rooster laid an egg, which cracked on the dry landscape. The egg whites oozed over the surface of the shell, and wherever it touched the land, a river sprang up from the soil, bringing fresh water all across the land. From the golden yellow yolk of the egg, all other forms of life emerged. Vast, golden fields of wheat and grass spread across the land. Animals emerged to eat the wheat. Humans emerged to tend the wheat and the animals.
And from the yoke, a new god emerged. The goddess Mokosh, diety of the earth and the fields, of fertility, fecundity, spinning, and everything having to do with women and childbirth.
Mokosh, the Earth goddess
She was beautiful and and so enchanting that both Perun and Veles fell in love.
But that’s another story for another day.
To explore more tales from the Slavic pantheon please consider signing up to for my Reader’s Club newsletter to receive monthly writing updates, book reviews, and notifications about more blog posts like this one.
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UPDATE — This blog post includes text and images generated with the assistance of OpenAI’s models. I provided detailed prompts, curated the outputs, and made edits, but the majority of the content was created with AI assistance. This disclosure aligns with my commitment to transparency under the EU AI Act. Disclosure added on November 18, 2024 to align with transparency requirements under the EU AI Act.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Portions of this content were generated using OpenAI’s models, with significant curation, editing, and creative input by E. S. O. Martin. AI-generated portions may not be subject to copyright under current laws.
After the Cosmic Egg hatched and have birth to the universe, a vast tree began to grow. While the Cosmic Egg initiated creation, the World Tree organized the universe’s structure.
While you may be familiar with Yggdrasil, the World Tree from Norse Mythology, the Tree of Life in Slavic Mythology was said to be a colossal, sacred oak tree with that not only spanned the cosmos, but also served as a metaphor for understanding one’s place in time, and our connection to past and future generations.
Trees were holy to the Slavs. Oak trees in particular were seen as holy representatives of the World Tree. The oak tree was where people celebrated, prayed, and worshipped. If they wanted to talk to their ancestors, they would lean against an oak tree and speak to it.
Roots in the Underworld, the Land of Nawia
The roots of the tree also represented the past. All the ancestors and past generations — their triumphs and struggles — lay rooted in the soil, bringing nourishment and stability to the present.
According to some interpretations, the Slavic land of the dead was a place called Nav, or Nawia. Nawia was a paradise—a vast grassy field surrounded by water, and with a wetland near the center where Veles, god of the underworld, had his throne among the roots of the world tree.
Veles was the god and guardian of earth, water, forests, livestock, wealth, magic, music, and the underworld. Unlike the Greek god of the underworld, Hades, Veles was seen as a fundamentally kind and just god who was revered for his care of everything under the sky.
In folk art, a coiled snake or dragon is often painted among the roots of the World Tree. While this may be reminiscent of the Midgard serpent, in Slavic mythology, this serpent-dragon was one of the forms that the Slavic god Veles would take.
To reach Nawia, the souls of the dead might wander the Earth as bird for up to forty days. After this, they would cross through an underwater portal and over a bridge, guarded Veles’s dragon, Zmej, whose job it was to keep demons and bad spirits out of the paradise that was Nawia
The Slavs believed that at certain times of year, the souls of their ancestors could transform into birds and fly to the land of the living to visit their descendants.
Yawia, The Trunk: The World Stage of Present Time
The trunk of the World Tree stands firmly on the earthly plane, bridging the gap between the heavens and the underworld. It symbolizes strength, growth, and the everyday world we inhabit. The trunk is where the physical and spiritual meet, reminding us that we live in a world that is both material and spiritual.
The present plane of existence was called Yav, or Yawia. In the present period of time, the Slavs believed the world was filled with all manor of creatures. There were humans and animals, but also supernatural beings, such as spirits and demons—the later of which were believed to be humans who had either lived unnatural lives or died unnatural deaths. The present time was the stage where the action took place. All eyes were on the present, both the ancestors of the past, and the souls yet to be born.
The trunk, or stem, of the tree also represents the axis point between past and future. We are the actors on the world stage today. Our existence is the culmination of the hopes and dreams of past generations, and we are also the funnel through which time flows, so that our actions will also affect future generations.
In Slavic and Baltic folk art, you will often see a woman in traditional dress standing near the trunk of the World Tree. This is Mokosh, the Mother Earth goddess. She is the guardian of life, of fertility, of the harvest, of childbirth, of weaving, of fate, and of sexuality. She nourishes, nurtures. She creates and sustains. It is said that both Veles, god of the underworld, and Perun, god of the sky, were her consorts. From her union with these two gods, she gave birth to the twin gods of the seasons. Jarilo is the god of spring and agriculture; Marzanna is the goddess of winter and witchcraft.
Prawia: Branches Reaching the Heavens, Toward the Future
Soaring high into the sky, the branches of the World Tree touch the heavens, home to gods, celestial beings, and the spirits of future generations. These branches represent our highest aspirations, dreams, and the divine. A new soul could spring from one of the branches of the World Tree, like a blossom.
As we look up past the leaves of our ancestral oak tree to the Milky Way above—which were believed to be one of the far away branches of the cosmic World Tree—they remind us of our connection to the greater universe and the cycle of life that will continue beyond our earthly existence.
In Slavic art, you will often see an eagle perched among the branches of the World Tree. The eagle is the symbol of Perun, who was the god of the sky, lightning, thunder, war, justice, and everything having to do with the sky. If Veles was the god of everything down below, Perun was the god of everything up above.
The World Tree in Daily Life
The World Tree remains a powerful symbol today, inspiring environmental awareness and a sense of global connectedness. It reminds us that we are part of a larger ecosystem, and that the drama of life is bigger than just our one, small part.
The World Tree’s symbolism extends beyond mythology into the daily lives and rituals of Slavic and Baltic peoples. It’s symbolism is frequently seen in folk art, carved into furniture, painted on the sides of buildings, and embroidered into traditional clothes.
The Tree of Life is a living symbol that serves as a reminder of our connection to the earth, the divine, and each other.
If you are interested in hearing more about the Slavic gods Mokosh, Veles, and Perun, and their children, check out the rest of my “Slavic Spirits” series. Also, consider signing up for my Reader’s Club newsletter. You’ll receive monthly updates of my works in progress, book reviews, and a free short story.
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UPDATE — This blog post includes text and images generated with the assistance of OpenAI’s models. I provided detailed prompts, curated the outputs, and made edits, but the majority of the content was created with AI assistance. This disclosure aligns with my commitment to transparency under the EU AI Act. Disclosure added on November 18, 2024 to align with transparency requirements under the EU AI Act.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Portions of this content were generated using OpenAI’s models, with significant curation, editing, and creative input by E. S. O. Martin. AI-generated portions may not be subject to copyright under current laws.
Among the Slavs, there are a variety of creation myths. One of them is of the Cosmic Egg, which represents the potential for life and the genesis of all we know.
The Cosmic Egg: A Universe Waiting to Hatch
Our story begins with a void—a vast expanse of nothingness where the seeds of the universe lays dormant. Within this primordial emptiness, a miracle occurred. An egg formed, and within this egg lay the seeds of all creation. It held the raw materials and forces necessary for the birth of the cosmos.
The Egg Cracks Open and a Universe is Born
The moment the Cosmic Egg cracks open marks the Slavic mythological equivalent of the Big Bang. As the egg’s shell fractured, it didn’t merely break apart; it gave structure the the chaos within.
The upper fragment of the shell ascended to form the heavens, like a vast dome across the sky.
The bottom part of the shell formed the Earth—a vast cradle that held all the mountains, valleys, rivers, oceans, and plains.
The Egg and Slavic Spirituality
The egg is a powerful symbol in many cultures. For the Slavs, it the egg was seen as both the beginning and the container of life, its breaking open was a metaphor for the sometimes chaotic process of creation. The belief that the upper shell contained the sky and the bottom shell contained the earth mirrors the dualistic nature of the world, where balance was achieved by the interplay of opposing forces.
Life and Humankind Sprung From a Rooster’s Egg
One of the myths about the creation of life in that when the universe was first created, it was completely barren. The gods wished for there to be more, so they send down a rooster which lay an egg of immense power. (Roosters don’t lay eggs, but whatever. We’re talking magical creation myths here, so there doesn’t have to be any logic.)
This egg cracked open and its golden yoke spread across the land. Everywhere the yoke touched, life sprang forth. A vast diversity of rivers, mountains, plants, animals, and humans arose from this golden yoke.
Faberge and Pisanki Easter Eggs: Modern Celebrations of the Cosmic Egg
The Cosmic Egg has remained an important symbol in Slavic culture. Its enduring legacy is most visible today in traditions and customs surrounding Easter Eggs, where Christian and pagan beliefs have blended.
In Slavic cultures, there is a long tradition of dying and decorating eggs in the spring that pre-dates Christianity. Archaeologists have found decorate clay and egg-shaped stones that date back to the 10th and 13th centuries, but the tradition of dying and decorating spring eggs is speculated to be at least a thousand years old.
There are many methods of decorating eggs, from pickling, to using wax and dyes, to watercolors, to oil paints, to removing the yoke and creating an egg-shell masterpiece by carefully breaking away parts of the shell so that it resembles lace.
The gold and silver Faberge eggs of Imperial Russia are perhaps the most famous decorated eggs.
I remember every Easter, there was a great deal of ceremony around placed around dying our “pisanki” Easter eggs.
First, the eggs would be hardboiled. Then, my grandmother would fill a vast pot with beets, red onions, and berries to dye the eggshells red. The eggs would be set aside to dry and cool. Then, we would use a sewing needle to scratch designs into the shell of the egg, which created white lines on a red background. We would draw geometric designs, and sometimes floral and tree patterns—symbolizing the World Tree, the rebirth of spring. By the end of this egg-decorating process, our fingers would all be stained red from handling the eggs.
Our spectacular designs did not last long, though, for these beautiful creations were intended for our traditional Polish Easter breakfast. (If you are planning on eating the eggs, it is very important to only use non-toxic, natural dyes.) We would pass around the basket of colorful eggs, each and break them apart, and eat them with salt and horseradish, nourishing our bodies with this vessel of life—a symbol of spring, of renewal, of the Cosmic Egg.
If you would like to stay up to date on my Slavic Spirits blog series, feel free to sign up for my Reader’s Club newsletter. You will also receive updates every month or so on my works in progress.
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UPDATE — This blog post includes text and images generated with the assistance of OpenAI’s models. I provided detailed prompts, curated the outputs, and made edits, but the majority of the content was created with AI assistance. This disclosure aligns with my commitment to transparency under the EU AI Act. Disclosure added on November 18, 2024 to align with transparency requirements under the EU AI Act.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. Portions of this content were generated using OpenAI’s models, with significant curation, editing, and creative input by E. S. O. Martin. AI-generated portions may not be subject to copyright under current laws.
When I was a child, I would always hear my mom and grandmother speak Polish together, but since their husbands were both monolingual English speakers, they mostly spoke English when their husbands were around so that nobody would feel excluded.
Me, age 10, wearing traditional Polish dress.
The way they tell it, I was bilingual as a small child, but since English was the dominant language at home, my vocabulary never really expanded beyond that of a toddler’s. The fact that I never really learned how to speak Polish has always felt like something of a family shame.
In fact, it’s not unusual for the children of immigrants to lose their heritage language, unless tremendous efforts are made to preserve it and pass it on. My experience is pretty similar to that of Marissa Blaszko of Relearn A Language, who grew up speaking Polish but who lost her native language when she started attending her English-only public school. (If anyone else is in the situation of wanting to relearn their heritage language, I highly recommend her website and her YouTube channel @Relearnalanguage!)
“I had no idea that the language could be so easily lost,” my mom said. “For some reason, I thought it was just going to be transferred to you in utero. I thought that because I spoke Polish, you would also speak Polish.”
It’s hard to explain how deeply I yearned to speak Polish. The sound of the language is like poetry to my ears. It is the sound of love, of my mother, of laughter, of warm food, of soft hugs and kisses, and of being cared for. For me, the language of love is Polish.
I would have dreams in Polish where I could fluently speak and understand the language. And then when I would wake up and feel so disappointed, because the language-barrier was back. Not being able to speak Polish felt like there was a wall cutting me off from a whole section of myself. Not having access to this beautiful romantic, cherished language was like not having access to a piece of my own soul.
Multiple times throughout my childhood, I would try to learn Polish. But we didn’t live in a place with a large enough Polish community to offer external support. There were no Polish Saturday schools in our area. Polish is such a minority language that it was really hard to acquire study materials. Polish was not one of the foreign languages taught at my high school. (Or at my college, or at my graduate school.)
So we’d start at square-one—over and over again. Just naming things around the house. Bread; chleb. Tea; herbate. Food; jedzenie.
We never got very far.
The amount of times I would need vocabulary repeated far outstripped everybody’s patience. We didn’t know it then, but what I needed was a spaced repetition system (SRS). Spaced repetition is a learning technique where you basically get reminded of something at ever-increasing intervals until it moves into long-term memory. But we didn’t have these tools then. It was just me and my mom and my grandma, walking around the house naming things. Within a few days, all efforts would be abandoned. I would feel stupid, and everyone would feel frustrated.
When I was in college, I decided to study abroad to learn more about my Polish roots. Unfortunately, my school didn’t have a direct relationship with any universities in Poland. The closest I could get was Charles University in Prague—which is in the Czech Republic. (Not Poland, but at least on the same continent!)
Before my semester began, I spent a month traveling in Poland. My grandmother had a couple of contacts in Warsaw and Krakow, and these two women were my hosts. They took me all over: Warsaw, Malbork castle, Gdansk, Krakow, the Wieliczka salt mines, Zakopane, and the Tatra Mountains.
Me, WarsawMe, Malbork Castle
Getting to visit Poland for a month was an incredibly meaningful experience to me. It touched a deep place in my heart to hear the language surrounding me, spoken everywhere. And I even started to pick it up, because the sounds and grammar were so familiar to me from when I was a baby.
And it was exciting to me to see modern Poland. It is sometimes said that people know more about Mars than about Poland. Poland is a medium-sized country of 41 million people. It has a larger population than Greece, Canada, Taiwan, Sweden, and Australia—and yet few Americans could find it on a map. The Western perception of Poland is frozen time with black-and-white photos of World War II rubble and communist block housing.
But then my semester started. I had to go to Prague—which was a wonderful experience, but it didn’t bring me any closer to learning Polish. When I returned to America a few months later, I was glad to be reunited with my family, but I also felt tremendously sad at leaving Europe. I felt like my time there was not yet finished.
When I was a graduate student earning my MFA in creative writing at San Francisco State, I made another attempt to learn Polish. And this time I got further than ever before. I studied the Pimsleur audio recordings, which used an audio-only spaced repetition system. That year, I was finally able to have rudimentary conversations in Polish with my mother and grandmother.
This was a good start, but the Pimsleur language course only stopped after only 30 lessons, and then I was stuck again.
Occasionally, I would try to write letters and translate recipes, using Google Translate, but at the time (in the early 2010s) it was a terrible translator.
It would be another ten years before I studied Polish again.
So what changed?
Firstly, I underwent a series of traumatic health issues. You can read more about that here, but the upshot was that I became much more pro-active and intentional about my health and well-being.
One of the things that was especially transformative for me was strength training. This was something I never thought I would do, and yet week after week I was constantly surprising myself by doing things I never thought my body could do. I saw amazing benefits applying consistent pressure over a long period of time.
It was incredibly empowering. My body felt transformed, but I was also noticing inner benefits.
“You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”
A. A. Milne
I was two years into my strength-training journey, when the thought occurred to me, If I can do this, what else can I do?
There is a saying that the best time to plant a tree is 10 years ago. The second best time to plant a tree is today. The same can be said of language learning. So I dug in my heels and decided that this time, I was finally going to learn Polish and I wasn’t going to stop until I could speak it fluently.
My 40th birthday was a few years away, and this was a gift I wanted to give my future 40-year-old self.
(I also committed to finally following through with all my paperwork to confirm my Polish citizenship and get my Polish passport. My son and I both qualify for dual-citizenship, but the paperwork is a multi-step, multi-year process…and I’ll leave that for another blog post.)
It was around this time that I saw this Kurzgesagt video: “Changing Your Life—One Step at a Time.” There is a moment in the video that talks about becoming the person you want to be with daily habits to shorten the distance between who you are and who you want to be. One of the examples they give is of learning a language while doing push-ups. And I thought, I could do that.
Thankfully, language learning technology has come a long way since the last time I attempted to learn Polish.
I started with the Duolingo, which had finally created a Polish course.
Duolingo is an excellent, free language learning program that gives you quick 3-minute immersive language lessons that are in a gamified format. Duolingo is so good that students can actually learn a language faster with Duolingo than if they were taking a college class. The sentences are funny, the courses are built around spaced repetition, so that they remind you of a word just when you are about to forget. And you can look up words if you need to: no judgement.
I love Duolingo and I’ve even gotten the rest of my family hooked. My husband is learning Spanish. My mom is learning Italian. As of this writing, my son has a Duolingo streak that is more than 460 days long in Polish and Spanish!
Starting in July 2022, I studied like a mad woman, fueled by 30+ years of existential frustration. For an entire month, I was working at a pace of one whole unit a day. I was studying three hours a day at least, sometimes more. I studied until my brain felt like mush.
I completed the entire Polish Duolingo course less than 100 days. There were only 42 units in the Polish course (as opposed to 400 units in Spanish) but this was enough to finally get me over the hump!
In language, learning terms, getting to the end of Duolingo, plus having studied Pimsleur probably put me at the late beginner, CEFR A2 level. If you want to know what the CEFR levels are, you can watch this helpful video by Olly Richards. When I went to spend Christmas with my mother and grandmother that year, I was able to have full on conversations with them in Polish, and start reading simple graphic novels.
After completing Duolingo, I started doing a whole bunch of research about what to do next. Marissa Blaszko at Relearning a Language has a great resource for putting together your own language-learning plan. I found a whole host of amazing resources for learning polish, which I will link down below.
This is my current learning strategy:
Learn 10 new words a day from a frequency dictionary using the Anki mobile app.
According to Paul Pimsleur’s book How to Learn a Foreign Language, the slowest part of language acquisition is learning new vocabulary and moving that vocabulary from short term memory to long term memory. He recommends aiming to learn about 10 new words a day. It’s possible to do more, but given that language learning usually takes a few years, most people can sustainably do about new 10 words say. That has been the most comfortable pace for me.
One of the best way to get those new words into long-term memory is to used a spaced-repetition system. I like using Anki, which is basically a flashcard app, favored by language learners and medical students.
I put a lot of effort into making high-quality flashcards, but once I have them all set up, the daily practice of studying new words usually takes less than 30 minutes, spread out in short bursts throughout the day.
Choosing which words study is incredibly important for making progress because not all words are used equally. As Nathaniel Drew explains in this video, it’s best to focus on an essential core of vocabulary and then extend that in widening circles.
I’ve been putting my flashcards together using this series of Polish Frequency Dictionaries:
As of December 2023, I’m currently about two-thirds of the way through studying this book and I have been astonished at how effective it has been in expanding my vocabulary.
By the time I finish studying this book, my vocabulary will be big enough to know 92% of spoken Polish, and 82% of written Polish.
Polish grammar is different than English grammar. It has seven grammatical cases, and it doesn’t have a lot of articles. Instead, the beginnings and endings of the words themselves change to indicate what is happening in the sentence. Basically this means that it is complicated enough to warrant getting grammar books and just slowly plugging through them, one lesson at a time.
– Marissa Blaszko recommends the Krok po Kroku textbook series. However, this book is written all in Polish, which is great in some ways…but also intimidating.
Polish grammar resources I have found helpful…
Basic Polish Grammar by Dana Bielec—Has English explanations of Polish grammar rules, along with plenty of exercises, exceptions, and an answer key in the back.
Polish for Dummies by Daria Gabryanczyk—Really breaks down basics of Polish grammar and provides a list of common phrases a person might use while traveling.
I also like the Course of Polish YouTube channel because the teacher draws helpful charts and comes up with cute mnemonic devices to help remember the rules.
The biggest help of all has been asking ChatGPT to be my Polish language tutor. This video by Bri Does AI has some helpful tips for how to go about this. My strategy has basically been to ask it things like:
“Can you explain the nominative grammatical case to me?”
“Can you give me 25 example sentences of the genitive case, with the words in that case written in bold?”
“I’m going to write 10 Polish sentences in the present tense. Could you rewrite these sentences in the past tense and future tense, and show me in bold what you changed about my sentence to change verb tenses?”
Immersion in 5 main areas
Reading—Years ago, I was really inspired by this blog post on LinguaTrek, which was about the author’s experience of learning Polish by reading Harry Potter. I really love the idea of this method.
Round 1: Get the gist of the passage. Underline words you don’t know, but don’t look them up. Just see if you can figure out what the passage is about. It’s really great to have the audiobook as well, so that you can learn the pronunciation and inflection of what you are reading.
Round 2: Slow, detailed read where you look up every single word you don’t know, and make a list to add to your SRS system.
Round 3: Once you’ve learned all the new words, read it again.
Round 4: Read aloud, either along with an audiobook or with a native speaker. Your aim is for speed and fluency.
I love reading, and I’ve been working up to being able to do more of this. This year I only managed to read five books in Polish (mostly graphic novels or audiobooks), but I’m hoping that I’ll be able to transition to middle grade and young adult novels in this upcoming year. It’s rather difficult to find Polish books in America, so I’ve been ordering them online from The Polish Bookstore online and the Apple Bookstore, which seems to have a wider selection of books in Polish than Amazon or Audible. There are also a handful of public domain Polish classics on LibroVox and the Project Gutenberg.
I’ve also had the language on my phone set to Polish for about a year.
Writing—I’ve been writing weekly letters to my mother and grandmother in Polish, with the help of Google Translate. I’ve also been Bullet Journaling in Polish since September 2022.
Listening— Linsdey Does Languages has a helpful tutorial for setting up your Netflix account to show films in your target language. I’ve set up multiple language accounts for both our family’s Netflix and DisneyPlus accounts. Truthfully, though, I don’t watch much TV so most of my Polish listening has been YouTube channels like Dave z Ameryki, podcasts, music playlists, and audiobooks.
I asked ChatGPT to create a music playlist for me based on the music I like. You can listen to that playlist here. What’s neat about YouTube Music is that it will also show the lyrics, so occasionally I will translate the lyrics, if I can’t figure out what the song is about just based on listening.
I found a really cool app (that I haven’t made much use of yet) called LingoClip, which is basically an app that helps you learn language through singing karaoke. Awesome!
Speaking—This is my weakest area. I could be doing so much more, but I’m still quite shy. My mother and grandmother are absolutely thrilled every time I speak to them in Polish, so I aspire to do it more often. This year, I did recently have a conversation with my mom that lasted 30 minutes, all in Polish.
Culture and History—I found this wonderful website called Culture.PL which has excellent articles on Polish history and culture. I subscribe to their newsletter.
Since I’m a writer, I’ve also been reading as much as I can about Polish history, literature, mythology, and about slavic culture for some wonderful books I’m planning on writing at some point in the future.
I have begun writing historical fantasy short stories set in Poland. I hope to collect these interconnected short stories into a book, tentatively called Beads of Amber. I’ll keep you all posted on my progress.
I’m also considering writing an illustrated collection of Polish fairy tales and myths, tentatively titled Slavic Spirits, similar in style to D’Aulaire’s books of Greek and Norse myths.
One of the things that I realized when I was writing the stories for What We Talk About When We Talk About the Apocalypse was how naturally the horror-genre voice came out of me. Horror stories are all about imagining the worst-case scenario—and wow am I good at that!
I think writing scary stories came so naturally because I have a slightly anxious personality. I don’t think I have an anxiety disorder, but my mind definitely leans in that direction, sometimes. I recently took the Brain Health Assessment online questionnaire by Dr. Daniel Amen, and it said I had a “cautious” brain type. In reading about that brain type in his book, You, Happier, I was like, “Oh yeah. This is totally me.”
My husband sometimes refers to the voices in his head as his “committee members”—kind of like the characters Joy, Sadness, Fear, Anger, and Disgust from the Pixar movie Inside Out. I think this is a helpful metaphor. Whatever is going on in my mind is just chatter, and the more I recognize it as chatter, the easier it is to ignore the destructive committee members that are not helpful to me.
This is an interesting Peter Attia interview about the process he took in changing his own negative mental chatter.
This brings me back to my changing relationship with my writing, and with genre.
I’ve been a journal-writer since I was eleven years old. Sometimes when I would write in my journal, I would notice myself entering the same old tracks of thought. “This is self-pity mental track #395.” “This is procrastination-busywork mental track #219.”
I can recognize when I’m on the track, but sometimes I have a hard time getting out of that track. I’ve read that, neurologically, repetitive thoughts are kind of like sledding down a snowy hillside: the more often you ride down those same trains of thought, the deeper the groove gets, and the harder it is to change course. Thanks, brain.
My tendency towards doomsday future-tripping became especially apparent during the pandemic—as I’m sure it did for many of us—when it seemed like the end of the world was literally outside our window.
These last few years, I’ve also had a number of health problems that have forced me to pause, slow down, and take a long, hard look at my habits—both physical and mental. You can read more about my health journey here.
Back to genre…
When I write horror stories, I find it incredibly cathartic because it’s like I get to take one of my many fears, lift it out of the pile, and let that movie run all the way to the end…usually to a climax scene where a hero figures out how to defeat the villain.
What I love about the horror genre in general—and about Stephen King books specifically—is that those stories are often about resilient characters. They don’t just stop and quiver like frightened rabbits. They fight back.
And one of the classic horror-genre moments is the “Hero at the Mercy of the Monster” scene, where the protagonist has their back against the ropes, all is lost, and they are about to be beaten…but then they somehow find a way to harness their inner gift to defeat the monster.
Usually that inner gift is some variation on “Rationality” or “Cleverness” or “Magic” or “Teamwork” or “the Jungian wisdom of integrating one’s Shadow and thereby triumphing over it”… or whatever theme the author was working with in that story.
I would say that in 90% of horror stories, good triumphs over evil and the heroes survive.
(Which is more than can be said about “literary” fiction. I think fictional protagonists have a much higher chance of surviving and finding happiness and meaning if they are in a horror novel than if they are in a literary novel—especially if the protagonist is female. Just think back to all those classics you were forced to read in high school English, and you’ll see what I mean. Antigone dies. Tess dies. Hester dies. Anna Karenina dies. Thanks a lot, AP English!)
In the rare occasion a horror-novel hero dies at the end, it is usually because they sacrificed themselves to save someone weaker than them. Altruism triumphs over selfishness! Heroes do exist! — And that, my friends, is the meaning of Christmas!
I love this. Horror stories have been great for me because they are a way to externalize fears, dramatize them for entertainment (maybe even laugh at them) and ultimately attain catharsis by triumphing over them.
But that’s not the whole story.
Although writing these scary stories feels powerful, and they bring me a lot of satisfaction and peace for learning how to triumph over a particular fear…I’ve also noticed that they sometimes leave me in a jumpy frame of mind.
There is a reason horror is a niche genre. Not a lot of people like feeling freaked out all the time. Heck, I don’t like feeling freaked out all the time! The whole reason I wrote horror was to get it out of my mind and onto the page, where the monsters in my mind could be defeated and neutralized.
And I wonder if constantly being on the lookout for horrible things for story material is actually reinforcing the negative confirmation bias in my brain? At what point does writing horror stop feeling cathartic and start feeling like a downward spiral?
A therapist would probably ask, “Does this behavior serve me?” Does this thought pattern of constantly looking out for danger serve me? Does anxiety serve me?
In some respects, yes!
As Dr. Daniel Amen says in his book You, Happier: you actually need a little anxiety to stay healthy. Anxiety is a very useful emotion. Fear for the future is why I exercise every day, eat healthily, and do my best to save for the future. When channeled in the right direction, anxiety can get you off your ass so that you turn in your homework on time.
But too much anxiety is no good. When you spend too much time thinking negatively, there is a danger in shaping your reality in order to confirm those negative thoughts. Confirmation bias. A huge part of our lives is shaped by our attitudes. If you have a bad attitude about your job, you will eventually be fired. If you only recognize the worst in your partner, they will eventually dump you. If all you ever focus on is lack, then you will always feel hunted and frightened no matter how much money you have in the bank. Having a bad attitude can sour any blessing.
What’s the opposite of horror?
For me, it’s romance.
Romance is an absolutely mind-blowing genre to me because the golden rule in that genre is that you have to have a happy-ever-after ending. As a reader, I know it’s coming, but it still surprises me every time.
You mean sometimes things can actually work out?! No way!
When I started reading romances on a regular basis, I felt as if it were re-wiring my brain for joy. For love. For hope.
I’ll be honest: this is not my brain’s natural tendency. But I want it to be.
I’d rather be an optimist than a pessimist.
Writing love stories is a lot harder for me than writing horror stories, but they also feel a lot more healing. I cry easily. I feel my chest get warm and melty. And it feels like something I need to be reminded of over and over again—that it’s okay to be loved, to be loving, and to let people care for me.
I’ve heard people say that writers tend to write in the genre that concerns them most.
What genre comes naturally to me? Horror.
What genre would benefit me by causing me to grow the most? Love stories.
To me, writing at the intersection of those two genres is also a powerful combo because Love and Fear have a lot in common.
(Yes, the heroes in romances are sometimes afraid of silly things, like whether their love interest will still find them lovable and attractive when they put on their glasses, but I digress.)
But on another level, falling in love can sometimes involve overcoming actual terror.
For example, in my short story, “Angel Man,” I write about a woman who is the survivor of domestic violence learning how to fall in love again when she meets a man who is literally her rebound-angel. He is caring. He is patient. He goes at her pace. He is consistent. And because he is so safe, she is able to heal and slowly overcome her body’s traumata-reflex so that she feels safe being alone with a man again.
“Angel Man” illustrated by E. S. O. Martin
That story was harder for me to write than some of my other scary stories. But it was also more satisfying.
My hope in writing “Angel Man” was that maybe I could rewire the brain of someone who needed this story, so that they could have a metaphor with which to approach healing. Perhaps by getting introduced to “Angel Man” on the page, they could have an easier time finding their own real-life angel man. And perhaps this story could teach a man how to be an angel for someone who needs to take things slow.
And readers unanimously loved this story. It was interesting that out of all the many people who read early drafts of What We Talk About When We Talk About the Apocalypse, “Angel Man” made it into everybody’s top-three favorite stories.
I suppose it’s kind of like that Netflix horror show, Black Mirror. People have strong feelings about that show—but “San Junipero” is everybody’s favorite episode.
So…that was interesting data when it comes to thinking about what types of stories I want to bring to the world. What do I need? What does the world need? It seems like the answer is more stories about love. (And maybe about overcoming fear in pursuit of love.)
In finalizing my collection of stories for What We Talk About, I made the conscious decision to include only the best of what I’ve written during the last seventeen years.
There were half a dozen stories I chose not to include because they were too dark, too pessimistic. The stories worked. They were well-written, if I do say so myself. They absolutely fulfilled genre-expectations for the horror genre… but in reading them, I couldn’t help but think that maybe the world didn’t need more of this?
Or maybe this wasn’t how I wanted my mind to exist anymore.
I honored that realization in the other stories included in What We Talk About by portraying established couples in “Inheritance” and “Forever House” in using the power of love to overcome horror. In “Library of Unfinished Projects,” I wrote about the love of a family overcoming the horror of aging. In “Prince of Birds,” I wrote about the love a father feels for his son in surviving a harsh and dangerous world. The stories may have scary parts, but there are also loving parts.
My aim was to be more balanced: scary things happen in this world, but with love and compassion we will triumph. Love can help you transcend your starting circumstances.
Bonus Lesson: Change Your Language, Change Your Brain
In a strange way, learning a new language—Polish—has also helped me become more conscious about my mental chatter and whether my thoughts aid me.
Last year, I started journaling in Polish—with the help of Google Translate app on my phone. It was interesting to notice that learning a new language actually turned my mind into a blank canvas with which to re-evaluate my own vocabulary. As I sat with my open journal, about to engage in a petty compain-a-thon, I thought to myself, “Is this negative vocabulary really what I want to learn and practice in my new language? Hell, no!”
If I’m going to go through all the effort to learn a new language, why not take the opportunity to gift myself a new personality as well?
If it’s true that when neurons fire together, they wire together, then couldn’t I consciously create a Polish-speaking version of myself that was happier and more optimistic than the English-speaking version?
This had the positive effect of allowing me to learn all sorts of awesome vocabulary for what I love about my life in this new language—which I also love. But it also gave the English-speaking side of me a break.
And, presto-change-o, the English side of me started to change as well. I was focusing so hard on noticing positive things with which to write about in Polish, that it felt like the negative-tracks in my English brain were starting to get weaker from lack of use. It’s now easier for me to have positive thoughts in both languages.
Learning a new language is truly a gift that keeps on giving.
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