A Christmas Huzzah

Let me explain.

The Christmas season starts (for the Asay household) on the first Wednesday of December every year without fail. Why? Because that's when the Live Nativity is. "What?" Yes, a LIVE nativity: there is a Bethlehem, a stable, lots of adorable animals, three wisemen, many shepherds, a star, and, most importantly, a holy family. The event is put on jointly by multiple Christian churches and is always a big hit: the last few years (this year was the 9th year) we've received over 5,000 visitors in the space of three hours. I myself have participated in the nativity for several years and I love it - it's a time and place  for me to serve others and reflect in peace. The Live Nativity is a fabulous way to begin the holiday festivities, especially because it starts the season by allowing one to remember why we really celebrate Christmas. When you see that sweet, tiny baby lying in the manger or being held by one of its gentle parents, your heart melts no matter your religious affiliations or beliefs. The humanity of the scene appeals universally. 

After that big gateway night, the order of events depends, but this year it has been: A Christmas Carol (to see Jayne and Abbie), brunch at Sundance (with the Srivastavas, as always - same family, different last name), dinner downtown (with three younger sisters?), and the Nutcracker (to see a darling buffoon who triples as a "baby mouse" and my sister). 

With Abbie after her wonderful performance at the Hale in Orem.

Me with two of my sisters at Sundance brunch, Izzy and Gret.

Ikey and me at dinner - the three little sisters were too busy coloring fish.

Mazza and me (and the rest of the fam damily) visited Temple Square after dinner. 

There's still so much more to do! I need to finish making my advent calendar, bake Christmas cookies to deliver, watch all the traditional Christmas films, build my gingerbread house, attend all the Christmas parties, listen to a choir, go to Midnight Mass, etc. 

I must say, I do love December. I don't enjoy most holidays, but Christmas is different - it's magic. Even school is different; it's all exams or parties... 

We made snowflakes in two of my classes today. Some were more successful than others... 

I'll have to give you another Christmas update, but for now, adieu! I'm exhausted... Though not for long, as that's simply not allowed. Try to enjoy the cheer and cold as much as I do!

Many warm wishes,

Scout 

L'incorrect Romantique Langue

First off, for all you French-speakers, I hope I translated the title right. It was supposed to read, The Wrong Romance Language. But I take Spanish, so it's more likely than not that I botched the title's translation. I apologize... Bear with me.


Among my list of regrets, I sometimes wish I had opted for French rather than Spanish back in seventh grade when, for the first time, I was given the chance to take a language in school. It is common for people to have regrets, but not quite as common to regret which language you took in those youthful school days... Right? And yet, I find myself from time to time speculating on how life would be different if I had taken French instead of Spanish. 

For example, if I had taken French, I could speak to all those cool French-speaking people I know. In French. A lot of these "cool people" happen to be teachers. THAT says a lot about me... How nauseating. But still, I stand by my statement. As a follow-up, here's an illustrative scenario: my dad, being the lovely man he is, went to parent-teacher conferences, and one of the teachers he met with was my language arts teacher, Dr. Schroeter, a fluctuating and ebullient French woman. There was no fluctuation once she discovered that my dad speaks French. In fact, my dad sent me the following texts:

"Spoke in French the whole meeting with Schroeter. I love her."

"She was telling me how much she'd prefer to tango in Argentina than to live among cold Anglos."

Well, isn't that just dandy. Maybe I would've known all these interesting things about Schroeter if I could speak French. But no, I had to learn it secondhand! (I should add that I appreciated learning that piece about her regardless, and it did not actually make me that upset, rather, I am simply trying to make a point here.) I feel left out when people mumble things in French because I can't decipher a thing from their discourse. Strangely, I usually only feel isolated when it's French, not German, Arabic, Chinese, etc. I think I just have problems with French. (And Spanish, but that's a different story.)

And then there's the fact that if I had taken French, I could practice with the people with whom I live: my parents. How much simpler it would have been than calling a relative on the telephone every week for a little practice! I could quickly and easily get help on assignments and with practice. I could also speak French to my parents when I didn't want my siblings to understand what was going on: 

"Ce soir après que les filles vont au lit, nous devrions recevoir la montre un film." "Cela semble bon."

And there you have it! (Or something like that... Because I don't speak French, I just translated phrases on the Internet; if the translation is wrong, I cannot and will not take any blame. Muhaha.) French would have been a good addition to my life, and no one can deny that it is an engaging language, too. But then, the reason I chose Spanish in the first place was because of its appealing pertinence...and I have liked Spanish...as a whole. I could always start French in addition to my Spanish; it's not a lost opportunity, it's a waiting one. And... I guess, that in the end if I had taken French, it could have quite easily ended up like this:

“In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language.” -Mark Twain

And, well, that would be an uncomfortable situation no matter what language you spoke. Goodbye for now - or, as my mother would say, "bah-bye". 

Have a nice day,
Scout

I Have A Stick Up My Nose: A Post-Thanksgiving Rant About The Surgery

The joys of nasal surgery are endless. Obviously. Why else would I write about it while still hyped up on whatever they call these painkillers and with splints in my nose? LOLZ. 

Ok, so maybe nasal surgery is horrid. Or, at least, maybe the little arrow on the little meter is closer to un-enjoyable than it is to enjoyable. Maybe it's dismal sitting here officially missing at least two of my nine senses - taste and smell - and missing all mental acuteness. Maybe I’m tired of swabbing the inside of my nose with Neosporin every two hours. Maybe I drank more water in the last 72 hours than I usually do in a year. Maybe I didn’t appreciate waking up because of the pain at 3am the night before last, looking at the clock and thinking, “oh boy, in an hour I can take another painkiller!” Maybe I just don’t like the “foggy” feeling I’ve had, and maybe I’m tired of being so congested.

Ok, fine! I admit it! It is depressing being surrounded by holiday scents that I can't catch a whiff of; yes, it is depressing that every time I eat a bite of something I know is delicious, like homemade bread with my favorite jam or one of Dadi's dishes, I can't taste it. At all. WHAT IS THE POINT OF EATING IF YOU CAN'T TASTE WHAT YOU ARE PUTTING IN YOUR MOUTH?! Now, I understand that there are redemptive qualities to eating, like, oh, being healthy, staying alive, yaddah yaddah. But can you honestly tell me that you like eating squash and liver more than Café Rio and chocolate? No! If you do, you are lying... You liar. 

I guess I had forgotten what surgery was like; the last time I had surgery, I was in kindergarten, and I don't have the best memory. But had I remembered, I don't think I would have been any more prepared for the last few days.

It was a strange Thanksgiving, to say the least. I’ll spare you the time by continuing for as short a time as possible. If you really want to know, we can have a heart-to-heart discussion later, when there are no lingering delusions and I’m not feeling quite so impatient. There’s a lot of material for me to work with… Shall we begin somewhere near the start, with Sleepless In Seattle? Or perchance you would like to hear about my awakening from general anesthesia…complete with political ice cream and a 5 o'clock shadow. Or would you prefer I start at the very beginning, with Monday, and steam all the way through the week? One way or another, it’s hours of story telling, and I simply don’t have the patience to type it out here and let it explain itself.

I know that by the end of next week I’ll be able to smell freely for the first time in my life and I will have regained my sense of smell, and I’m sure I’ll feel much less congested than ever before, but until then, feel my wrath! In truth, the pain hasn’t been great and the week went by remarkably fast, so I can’t complain, but still… This week! On Monday I’ll get the splints taken out of my nose and I’ll be free! Free to smell and breath and move as I please! Until then… I’ll sleep. 

Do not wake me,
Scout

Finite Disappointment vs Infinite Hope

"We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope." -Martin Luther King, Jr.

I find this quote to be applicable to my current situation in life, with so many dear friends having moved away, the third (but basically the first) surgery of my life at my door, tedious schoolwork, extra curricular drama, braces (that appear to be in my mouth to stay), shots every week, and my adoptive family moving to Australia contributing to my discomfort and loneliness. The last two months have been a rude awakening for me that have really challenged me in a variety of ways, but the miraculous thing is that I am still, overall, happy. I'm HAPPY. Good things, if little, keep happening. For example, I was at church today and lo and behold, my old home teacher walked in (he lives in Missouri now). It was such an unexpected blessing to see him there, and one of many.

Another unexpected blessing was my friend, John Little (aka Johnny Boy), who lives in Andover, Massachusetts, reminded me that he was coming back to Utah for Thanksgiving Break. Of course, he had told me previously that he was, but sometimes I have the memory of a traumatized 90-year-old woman, so I had blanked. Thank goodness for his reminder:

I'm baaaack! Let's hang out!

I read that text and felt such overwhelming gratitude - and utter excitement - that my friend was in Utah and wanted to get together. Friendship is such a marvelous thing, really; it's a wonder that some people don't embrace it!

Yet another example was just this evening when we had some family friends over for dinner: the children went down into our basement to play after dinner, and some time later, their seven-and-a-half-year-old daughter Presley came upstairs whimpering and clutching at her head with her hand, which was covered in blood. (A brief side note: realize that none of the kids in our family have ever broken a bone, had stitches, or had any surgeries, either... This whole "people can get seriously injured while playing" never really resonated with us.) No one panicked, but we acted fast because we did what we've done for years: we ran to fetch "the Doctor". Now you might be thinking, "what, Doctor Who?", but no, not that doctor (who is awesome and has a great television show, but alas, no); Doctor Raj, our long-time neighbor, best friend, most trusted emergency doctor, and the patriarch of my adoptive family. THAT doctor. Sure enough, he came right over and took care of the whole thing just like he's done for years, and in that moment I was reminded just what wonderful friends the Srivastavas are...not that it's easy to forget.

Rewind to yesterday when my mom told me that the Srivastavas were moving away for six months come July to Australia. SIX MONTHS! The very tyranny of existence just seemed to be too much. It knocked me senseless... Australia... Six months... Tyranny... It was all a horrid blur. I mean, bleeping Australia; no one REALLY likes them, they just PRETEND to. I overreacted a bit; I considered going to the mountains of east-central Asia to live for six months in simplicity, then Punjab, then the Lake District, then Maine. How going anywhere other than Australia would solve my problem, I'm not sure, but the imagination is rapid and mysterious, and sometimes illogical. I spent the rest of yesterday and this morning and afternoon brooding my losses, sulking away as the hours ticked by. It all changed when one of the people I was to lose for six months came over and just did his thing. I realized that I was 1) overreacting, 2) being selfish and pitying myself waaaaaay too much, 3) missing the point, and 4) grateful for the people I had come to love so fiercely. I also remembered that they were going to be gone for less than a year and that they weren't even leaving for more than seven months, and all this made me feel much, much better.

Beyond these specific examples, there have been so many more little things recently that have given me a strong testimony of the strength of hope, whether it was seeing the Roberts at Bonneville's Shakespeare play, the heavy primary snows, or Jane Austen. Hope, as I have realized recently, is more than "cherishing a desire with anticipation" (thank you Merriam-Webster); it's knowing that everything can and will be alright in the end because if it's not alright, it's simply not the end. You just have to wait and see how you'll end up getting from point A to point B, and sometimes it will surprise you.

The scriptures give a perfect message pertaining to my thoughts in 2nd Nephi chapter 31 verse 20: "Wherefore ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life." While eternal life might sound a little, well, tedious right now, the principle that it's all ok in the end is extremely comforting to me and a lot of other people. It inspires me to be grateful for every good and bad thing along the journey of life, which sounds cheesy, but it's TRUE! Life is all about progress and what you become, and so what's more important: your momentary sacrifice or your glorious, lasting hope? Just a thought, I guess, but I know that when I remind myself of where my priorities lie, it gets me through the day, with a smile on my face!

I suppose this is my ante-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving huzzah, so let me implore you to really enjoy this Thanksgiving and to give heartfelt thanks for all the little things (and the big things) that touch your life everyday, because I'm sure there are as many in your life as there are in mine. I'm sure. :)

Light, Scattered Thoughts With A Chance Of... Morrissey? / A Rough Start

So, maybe it's just me, but I find that a decent dose of Morrissey/The Smiths does a whole lot of good for my sometimes weary and frustrated soul. Seeing as Morrissey's fans are known as some the most fiercely loyal fans on the planet, I know I can't be alone in my complete faith in lyric prescriptions. I've been thinking about Morrissey recently as I just went through a frightening three weeks consisting basically of two parts: end-of-quarter and the beginning of a brand new one. You see, Morrissey (please don't attack me for tossing them into one, I know they're not, it's just much simpler this way) is my rainy day music. And my quiet hope-filled music. And my I-could-care-less-at-this-point music. And my happy day music.

Today was a good day, as was last week. Most days are good if you have the right attitude - hate to use that word, but that's the most commonly understandable way to say it - and I really don't want people to get the idea that I'm a negative person with an oh-so-hard life, because I'm not. Life is good! I have wonderful friends, challenging classes with some brilliant teachers, people to admire, snow (as of Saturday!), and a loving family. Even if I don't deserve all these things all the time, I always have them, which is unimaginably comforting. And yet, sometimes I worry about these little things in life, such as... Well, you'll find out soon enough. As in, "it's in the next paragraph" soon.

This month's recurring worry has been centered around the fact that some of my close friends are a year older than me, which means that they will be graduating a year before me. ...I'll state the issue directly: I will be alone my senior year. At least, in my mind I will. It's not that I don't have friends, I have a large social circle. It's this issue of 'close friends' that really gets to me. There are two friends in particular that, when they graduate and go off to university, I'm afraid I won't know how to get on without them and that they'll forget about me. Although this is all a relatively long way off and I'm a very independent individual, I'm still concerned. Why? Why must I worry myself over what is essentially nothing? Why must I do that? Why do we do it every day? I don't know, and I'm not actually looking for the answer, but what I do know is that before they graduate I am going to dedicate Morrissey's lovely song "Lucky Lisp" to them. Why?

1) ) It's a great song.
2) We each have a 'lucky lisp', sometimes we just need to be reminded.
3) It will be a show of my adoration for them before they take off into the unknown.

I would imagine that some might turn up their noses at so honest a declaration, but they both know me well enough to make educated decisions surrounding me; if they've gotten this close and stuck around, they aren't leaving anytime soon! 

But I digress. 

I hope you, dear reader, have comprehended something of my scattered thoughts which have been immortalized through the Internet this evening. I never guaranteed your understanding, so please don't point your finger and cry, as it would make me feel quite dismal to have caused you dismay. 

Thanks and love,
Scout


And, for your enjoyment, the lyrics of "Lucky Lisp":

When your gift unfurls,
When your talent becomes apparent,
I will roar from the stalls,
I will gurgle from the circle.
The saints smile shyly 
Down on you;
They couldn't get over 
Your nine-leaf clover.
Lucky lisp was not wasted on you, 
Lucky lisp was not wasted on you. 

When your name's with the best 
Will my name be on your guest list? 
I will roar from the stalls,
Oh, the balcony fool was me, you fool!
Jesus made this all for you, love.
He couldn't get over
Your grandma's omen.
Lucky lisp was not wasted on you, 
Lucky lisp was not wasted on you.