I Have Thought…

“I cannot explain it”, she said…

“Well, not everyone can do it… Not nearly everyone…” He continued, “I mean, its been over four years, since you’ve done it, and you just pick up your pen, and it spills out… All falling into place, as if you never, ever, stopped.”

He pauses for a moment to attempt to better understand, what it is exactly, that even he, himself, is defining for her at this very moment…

He continues…

“It has rhythm. It makes sense. Its pretty… Mostly… And sad too… But that’s how anyone who takes the time to absorb it, each word you seem to carelessly select, yet each word seems to fit, so perfectly, it often leaves your readers speechless… Intimidated to even try to speak upon what you’ve written… Because… Its good… Its real… I can feel it.”

He finishes his thought as he shyly looks over towards her…

She is sitting cross-legged by the window, tying a few strands of her hair into knots… Over and over again…

He cant help but to notice, as he can feel her present emotion so thick… Almost suffocating him as he shifts, sitting with the discomfort of her very real and undeniably raw sense of feeling, hanging in the room, like heavy drapes on big glass windows built on the front side of an enormous estate… The kind you drive by as a child, riding in the back seat of your parents car as a child… Thinking it must be like a museum inside… Intimidating in thoughts of being homelike… And not too comfortable either… But you still have wild, childlike fantasies of what it must be like… To be a part of a family that lives in one of those enormous, fancy and unrealistic estates that are actually considered a real ‘home’ to some people…

She was real…

And she was raw…

Always so open, like a book or a magazine…

He often wished he could communicate his life like she could… So open… So real… Captivating others like he has seen her do… More than a time or two…

“I cant explain it… I just pick up my pen and I let everything else go… I brush all the dirt from my mind… The tragic loss and deep pain too… I let go… And I just write… Its as if my soul is speaking… Yes, my soul, it is as if it’s dancing across the paper with words as its partner… Except its my prose that renders itself across the paper… And I don’t even know what I’m writing at the moment of first transcription… I truly don’t” she trails off, rather shyly…

He enjoys her shy smile as usual… Chosing not to interrupt her, as he most often does… hoping for a glance of her when shes feeling overly open and exposed… vulnerability is sweet on her and he likes it… more every time he witnesses it…

“Why now?” He asks, anticipating her response… Not having a clue what her answer could be… She is spectacular at presenting that moment revealing her element of surprise…

“Why now, after four, long, and may I say, four unbelievable years it has been for you… Since you wrote last… So, why, now… What is the significance of this time, right here, right now”, he asks her…

She is deep within her thought process… Deep in her deep mind… He can visibly see her soul at work… Pulling the perfect verbal response…

And after a few moments, she looks up to him and says, “Four years?”

“What is this ‘four years’ you keep pressing me about!?” She continues…

“Yes, I do believe, that I am ready, to speak on some things that my soul has been pushing for quite some time now…”

She pauses…

And she breathes deep…

Then with curious and lost eyes, she looks at him and says;

“But who are you? How do you speak to know so much on me! We’ve only just met!……”


I have some things to write about. And after all this, in due time, it is now… That I, finally come back up for air… To write about these things that I, have seen with my own eyes… Felt with my own hands… Heard with my own ears and tasted in everything that followed them…

I have thought.

It is time to speak.

…to be continued…



Tryst Publication


At The Barre ~ Tryst Story

My Years at the Barre ~ True Tryst Story


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.


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?)


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



©Think. Speak. Tryst. Publication

Ordinary World *˚♥ .ღ˛° ♥* °♥ ˚ • *

Ordinary World *˚♥ .ღ˛° ♥* °♥ ˚ •  *
     ~ A Tryst Mish Mash Piece   
It was a time when people had manners
And displayed them as though they were the
Height of sophistication, with all details remembered
We were exquisite when we walked through the streets
My chin up, posed with pride and beauty
My delicate facial features, soft, creamy in the sun
As the sunset falls to the horizon
Much like we were soon to fall, only us oblivious
To this intimate fact, which was, none-the-less
A hope of no one but our own
We were all we could see
Time passed
As elegant as we continued to be
At every social event, included in all the latest words
Which also floated around
As quick & as temporary as the man who chooses
His company for the evening
Depending on his level of excitement, and
Lack of commitment
Yet, those women to make a quick choice upon
Were not ever thought of
For a term of longevity
Or for any of the reasons & responsibilities
Of which a woman like me waited so long
To kiss young women-hood good-bye and
Wake to the sunlight by opening the curtains
In the master bed room
To see white linen, everywhere, a mess
But this was allowed for a Tryst of this kind
Finally we became one
Looking over her bare-naked shoulder
While the pink & orange lights of early morning
Peaked through the wild curls of her messy hair
Through the window pane, but no pain of the heart
And She smiles at him
Thinking of the night before
Hand in hand, walking the boardwalk
The rose in his lapel had been used in warm
Foreplay, which was only post behavior
To the display of romantic affections they had left
In pieces, everywhere they went that night
The night before, this very moment
As this woman finds such comfort
In the bold masculinity her eyes fall upon
Painting her mind with a future full of gold
And gold, as in internal richness
Love of the right and ultimate kind
The kind that artists display on tapestries
Framed in thick elegance that hang upon
The walls of homes, harboring the desire
Of love of the perfect kind
Giving reason to all the things we are told
Growing up, coming to this time
When we get to look at our future
Vulnerable, naked and wrapped up in
Our white linen fairytale
Which then became a reality
Following the expectations of society
Conforming to the molds
That everyone thinks they should be
And this is why, today
As I stand here, naked & vulnerable myself
Vision staring deep into
What is to become of me, my soul
I decide to jump
Outside of the box
Hand in hand with my love
Into the unknown
Unpredictable, because I
Am anything but normal
I, just like my love
Is not in a box, just like my soul, I
Live a strange & wonderfully different
Life that is mine, is ours, we became
In that moment, defining my soul, and I
Am anything but ordinary
~ J. Lefever ~
I really have no clue why this came out of me… These words… I came to write something and I got something completely different from what I had expected. That’s one of the great things about the ‘Art of Writing’ … it is art of the soul. There are no rules when it comes to self-expression. You can be free to write anything your soul desires. Your words become something, that turns around and tells us something, representing you.
What is more beautiful than that? 
((For the curious mind, Mish Mash is my way of saying miscellaneous))
©Think. Speak. Tryst. Publication

First Drops of Salt Lake Rain ~ Tryst Story

First Drops of Salt Lake Rain

A Tryst Story


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