The Gift of Sight … & Other Mindless Ramblings

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The Gift of Sight … & Other Mindless Ramblings

Today I read a story …

I just read a blog post about a man who needs to get glasses for the first time in his life. I read it, it was a cute, little life story. Not HUGE, or pivotal in any way. Nor was it too sad or incredibly tragic. It was just, a simple event that has taken place in a mans life that is new and he will need to adjust to somewhat.

I posted in the comments about how it made me feel reading this. The writer probably could care less, but that’s ok. It’s interesting how writing a little piece about having to get glasses for the first time in life, when read by the many different souls & lives of others, and takes us all to such different places.

First it made me think how nice it would be to have ‘that’ to adjust to right now in life. I relate to this because I too have to go through this life adjustment, which is not a choice mf mine, it is a forced change. Some change is fun because we may choose the new thing in life. But then there are the other changes, the adjustments that we get, from life, in life and by life, that we have not chosen at all.

Mine is having to adjust to my brother being gone. See, my best friend, forever life companion since age 3 when he was born, my brother, my family, my only sibling, my blood, the ‘guy’ version of me was killed a year and a half ago. I am not adjusted … yet … don’t know if I ever will be. It’s the most confusing pain I have ever felt. And the life adjustment to not having a brother after having one my whole life, it is all I know, sucks. It’s so painful there are no words to describe.

I commented how nice it would be if I could ‘trade life lists’ with someone. I can’t say who cause I would NOT wish what I am feeling on anyone in the world … So really, I wouldn’t want to trade, but toss nice out and get someone elses, list, of things I have to adjust to cause life says so and I have no choice otherwise. Ah …

The other thing that this makes me think of is … because of my brother, who donated his ‘gifts’ when he was taken from us, someone who was blind can now see because he was given my brothers eyes.

I cried when I got the letter.

Somewhere in this world, someone is seeing through my little brothers eyes. It is a beautiful thing, a rare and precious gift to give and to be given, and It is also very sad and weird.

People get lost in their own lives so much that they are blind and ignorant to some of the people who may be ‘surviving’ right along with them.  I walk this world and I bump into people I know, and people forget that I have a hole in my heart, daily, that suffocates me. And people wonder what is wrong … Someone has my brothers eyes and someone else on this earth killed my brother and took him from me forever. My loss was someone else’s gain. For that I am grateful … but also sad for my loss … sad is an understatement … and I don’t care what people ‘think’ anymore.

I do hope that people appreciate their lives in simplicity.

Be grateful for having to adjust to wearing glasses.

Somewhere, someone just lost their eyes forever.

Somewhere, someone has to adjust to being blind, or cripple, or adjust to living their life suddenly without their dearly loved one.

This is NOT a message to anyone in particular either. I am only using the story I read, of the man who told about his life event of getting glasses, as the catalyst to what got me thinking of these other things. And how words are full of meaning … and so completely different depending on the person.

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January 2014

*Feeling very aware this evening.*

I have been so busy with work and life’s other things lately, that I have not written much on Tryst at all. I have not wanted to share too much these past 8 months. (Wow, that long) I am a free, light and loving soul who can’t just write and write about the one sadness that is plaguing me so terribly. Who cares about what I’m going through and I would not want to go back and read it again, so, yes … in my Tryst absence, I truly miss my care-free life I had when I still had my brother, but everything has changed. Everything has changed. I have changed. I am trying to get back to me … and people just do not understand … how hard it is … to wake up every day with this reality slapping you in the face and stabbing you in the heart.

Truth … it does feel good to write right now … regardless of how ridiculous or pointless or repetitive or redundant my words are … they are still mine and this is what I feel like saying right now.

***

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©Think. Speak. Tryst. Publication

At The Barre ~ Tryst Story

My Years at the Barre ~ True Tryst Story

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My life as a dancer. (At the ballet barre)

When I was three, I put on my very first pair of ballet shoes. Yes, I had the cute tutu and tights and joined a class of about 20, tiny little girls, learning to point our toes and mostly stand in a straight line and look cute at the end of the season recital. At such a young age, my little heart began its true passion for dancing, and sparkly costumes, that continued for the next 15 years.

Through out my dancing career, I studied mostly tap & ballet, but went into other genres like lyrical, jazz & hip hop, during the later years. I travelled all over the country, competing and performing. I taught, student taught, for a couple of years when I was at the end of my years as a dancer, teaching those tiny little ballerinas that, many years ago, I once was.

I loved to dance. For so long, it was my whole life. I spent as much time dancing, rehearsing, performing & competing, if not more, than I did in school. I would watch my poise and posture, finger and arm placement as I practiced my foot work at the barre, ballet barre. I had big dreams. Plans to go to college and obtain a degree in the arts and possibly open a dance studio of my own. I did dream of dancing professionally, but I am very tall. At 6′, yes, I’m 6′ tall, my long legs looked lovely on stage, but I was as tall as most of the male dancers, sometimes taller. So, my dreams of being gracefully thrown into the air, were, to say the least, not likely to happen. I was just too tall.

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I didn’t let this get me down, though. I kept dancing through my first two years of highschool. Until the day came when I got my drivers licence and I was suddenly thrown into a world of social events with the upper classmen that included keg parties, smoking weed and undeniably breaking my curfew and pissing my parents off. (I regret pissing my parents off still to this day. Oh, the things I would change if I could go back…)

I was 18 years old the last time I performed on stage. I was choreographing my own pieces by that time, and really loving being able to write the steps to my own numbers, practice them, pick music, and take to a competition with the hopes of winning trophies, metals and ribbons. My extracurricular activities of hanging out at all the dopest parties were starting to take a toll on my training as a dancer, and my last performance was not my best. I did not go out with a bang. My dancing had become a drag, not something I loved and looked forward to anymore. I didn’t have strong movements in that performance. I was sloppy. I had been doing it for 16 years, and I think I felt like it just wasn’t for me anymore. As my music ended, I took a bow and exited the stage. I took a silver metal in my category in that competition and havent danced since then.

That was 13 years ago. I haven’t danced in 13 years.

I still have all my costumes and shoes. My black & white wing tip tap shoes that were stellar in my Vegas shows still fit, as well as my soft pink satin toe shoes, with the ripped, worn satin, gently falling off the pointe and my worn ribbon laces that went up my ankles, shredded at the edges, they still fit too.

I put my toe shoes on the other day. I laced them up my legs and made the bold attempt to stand up on them, on pointe. To my surprise, it was like I never took them off. Granted, I’m sure my triple pirouette is a bit rusty… I dared not to even try. I did a single one instead and landed nicely, with good arm placement. I stood there for a minute, in my shoes and thought of my years as a dancer. Seemed like another life entirely. Was giving this up for keg stands and years of hangovers and bad habits worth it? Would I be the person I am today, if I had kept my toe shoes on and told the party invites to kiss my ass, I have better things to do with my time than get messed up at parties and make an idiot of myself. (Note: I could always handle the sauce pretty well, so I’m sure I didn’t make a compete idiot of myself… but I’m sure there were times that I did… happens to everyone, right?)

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I think I’ll save the tap shoes for another day. Another day when I’m reminiscing of my past, and curious to see if I can still tap my ass of, like I once could. (I was like Ginger Rogers in my youth… looking for my Fred Astaire)

J. Lefever

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©Think. Speak. Tryst. Publication

First Drops of Salt Lake Rain ~ Tryst Story

First Drops of Salt Lake Rain

A Tryst Story

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The clouds finally break and I can see parts of blue peaking through. I love the sky when it is clear and blue, but I also love the rain, and you can’t have real thunder storms without clouds. This was the first time it has rained really hard since I re-located my life here, in this new city, twelve hundred miles from where I grew up in the midwest. Here, the mountain air is so clean, and crisp. The smells are completely different. I think I am in love…

They say that it never thunders here, something about the mountains. When you are in the valley, where most of the city is planted and most of society lives and exists, there is hardly any rain and thunder. You’re best chance at hearing thunder is up higher in elevation, up the in canyons. My condo is nestled in a great place, about a ten minute drive to the foothill of the mountains, if that.

I sit here, at my window, looking out to the sky. I think of the thunderstorms, the massive, thick down pour of rain storms that I have left back in the midwest, when I packed up the truck with my whole life in it, and drove away from all I knew, hopping on I70 west bound for Utah. I left a lot back there. Twenty-two years of everything I knew. I said ‘See you later’, and started off on a new path, the next phase of my life. I say, ‘See you later’ instead of ‘Goodbye’ because ‘Goodbye’ means ‘forever’ and I wasn’t leaving ‘forever’. No, I would be back. At this time, I couldn’t tell you if I’d ever go back permanently, or just for a visit, but I knew it wasn’t ‘Goodbye’.

I had hit a few road blocks in my life back home. I had fallen down a few times too. Few, to say the least.  I didn’t ‘run’ here to run away from anything, it was more like I came here to find myself. I came here to grow and discover who ‘Jen’ really is. I can say that the answer to this question is easy. I could probably answer a few different ways, but what do I know really? I feel like I know a lot, but I also don’t know shit. Life, my life, had thrown me a dozen hits that threw me completely off track and left me dazed and quite confused. So to say I know anything, I think at this point, is an overly confident thing to say. To be safe, and slightly humbled, I understand that I know very little and I’m ready to have my eyes opened and for some wisdom’s to come my way. Yes, I am very ready for this. My lack of knowledge has me kicking myself pretty hard sometimes. I am craving something more…

The rain always makes me feel connected spiritually and more creative to express myself verbally, so I grab for my journal to do some writing. I stare down at the blank page and scribble the date in the top, right corner. Poetry has always been a soothing outlet for me. I can’t remember when I started writing poems. I remember the first poem that I had to memorize and recite standing solo in front of a classroom full of my peers, was in the fifth grade. It was my first year in public school and everything was so different. I had gone to a private school, ever since I was the age to start school, before that and it was structured very different from the public school style. I always had it easy in English class studies, the ways of the language came really easy to me. I can’t even remember the name of that poem that we all had to learn, but I remember that it was easy and I liked how it told a story with words that rhymed. That was when I knew that I could tell my stories with rhyming words, and thus began my young passion for the English language and all things with writing.

Rain hits the window sill

And I sit here alone

Far away from all I know

This is my new home

As I, sitting there in the quiet of my own place, think of the events of the last few months, a tear runs down my cheek. I have some regret left clear in my mind for some choices I made. I have some anger towards myself, and some sadness and betrayal towards a few people who I thought I knew, but didn’t. It’s heartbreaking when you learn that someone who you thought was a friend, actually wasn’t. And when you thought you knew someone, and you find out that you were quite mistaken. Or even when you thought you knew yourself, and find out that you are quite clueless. No, I’m not home sick. I’m sick for any place that feels like home. I have sadly realized that a lot of things in my life so far were wrong. I have not had the easiest last few years. I only have myself to blame for them, although this is not a truth that I like to admit, and rarely do out loud, but internally I know this to be true. I wasn’t in the mood to write a sad piece about my young trials and failures thus far. I’ve written a few books on those already. I was hoping for more of an uplifting, up-beat, good energy, and inspiring piece that I could mark as a new beginning for me. This was a new chapter in my life anyway, and so I continue…

Hopes and dreams

I came to find

A place in the world

That is wonderfully mine

So, yeah, I will miss the thunder and the pouring rain in the mid-west. But here I am, with nothing but tomorrow to make and create the most wonderful of times for myself. My puppy is here with me, along for our journey ahead. I have all I need under this roof, and so much more than that to be grateful for. It will take some healing, this I know for sure, to move past the life threatening ride I was on before I left my old stomping ground. But I have my loyal pen and paper to tell the story along the way…

J. Lefever

And that is exactly how I have continued to tell the story of my life. I have written almost everyday. Up to this very moment, where I find myself, sitting here, writing, well typing, the very words that make up the story of my life. This is just a little piece of my life I remember, when I moved away from my home town for the very first time.

This is a true story

©Think. Speak. Tryst. Publication