real life
Blogging is a funny thing and it’s most definitely a personal thing. It’s not uncommon to find a blog, a voice that resonates and you follow them, reach out and connect. Some bloggers are prolific, committed, dedicated. Posting at least once a day. Others are consistent in some manner and then there are others that are consistently inconsistent. Unless blogging is the source of someone’s income, some bloggers take a break or go on hiatus and some decide that it’s time to move onward from whatever it was that motivated them to begin blogging in the first place. Sometimes we get a heads up or a farewell post, but more often than not, folks have to go, for whatever reason.
Such is the case with Complicit Grace. A blogger I started to follow before I started this blog. A fellow former HR executive on a journey with many side trips. A woman finding her voice and what a powerful voice it is. Honest, genuine, vulnerable and strong. I don’t know if she’s still lurking and reading through everyone’s blogs or if she is completely detaching from the inter-webs for a while. I can only say that I hope she has found the strength required to move forward, that she’s been able to run like the wind in throughout the Portland area, that she’s found peace but more importantly that she is okay. I am going to miss her. Truly.
bruised, broken, repaired and beating as it is. grateful. thankful. blessed.
This article has been making the rounds of the various parent’s groups, support groups and other social media outlets. It resonates. Literally.
photo credit: Liora K photography
my son is now 12-years old. he is high functioning and at the same time a pre-teen with the social challenges of every day kids with the additional complexity of the inability to cope or respond in a neurotypical way. Reading this post and the subsequent articles makes my heart hurt and squeeze in fear.
I haven’t been posting much as of late; a combination of many things including but not limited to;
- new career is kicking my ass (and it’s a fat ass at that) and I don’t have the same free time or mental wherewithal to write as I wish to
- it’s the homestretch for kidlet #1 and guiding her through the college application process, the last of the standardized tests and senior requirements feels like a full-time job in of it self
- there are so many more talented writers out there so I’ve been reading, lurking and commenting here and there
However, one of my favorite bloggers, Ann St. Vincent, recently posted a clarification post after a particularly difficult day in which she felt she needed to apologize for her thoughts and feelings and posting honestly, as honest as one chooses to be, on her own blog. She also went on to state that she isn’t infallible. Well duh, that’s just one of the reason’s I really enjoy her writing. She is who she is, I have never felt judged by her, even when we have disagreed or have a difference of opinion.
I find her unabashed intelligence and keen sense of humor compelling but it’s her human frailty and her willingness to post real and raw moments and feelings that draws me back. In one moment, she is very clear that she wants to continue on her path of sexual discovery and freedom whilst not being willing to share her lover. That is real people. She doesn’t apologize for wanting it all as much as she questions herself on her own motivations and desires.
She expressed sadness that she may have lost some followers due to her words not ringing true or perhaps because she offended them. Unintentionally. I admire her for caring, for wanting to provide clarity even if she doesn’t need to. So when I ran across this lost word, latibule, earlier this evening. I thought of her and her safe place. Her writings, her online journal, which she has chosen to share with us.
Thank you Ann, your latibule is just that. Yours.
she turned to walk away. again. when he reached out and pulled her to him. tilting her head up questioningly he silenced the question with his lips crushing hers and his tongue finding his way into her mouth. rendering her speechless, literally and figuratively.
the moisture on their faces only distinguishable if one were to taste the saltiness indicative of tears. hers. his. theirs. as they say goodbye. in their city. under the beautiful rainfall they’ve come to love. goodbye.
The girl was feeling exhausted but happy when she pulled her car into her driveway. She’d run one of the last high school cross-country meets of the season, and she’d placed well. Her mother had gone to watch her and told her daughter to meet her back at home to celebrate the victory.
Their house was lit up as the girl got out and walked down the drive, but it was pitch black outside. It was late autumn, and the sun had set hours earlier.
As she approached her back door, she spotted pieces of fried chicken strewn in front of her, as if someone had gleefully thrown a bucket of it into the air. A leg, then a breast, then another leg were spread out before her. She felt unnerved by the mysterious, deep-fried scene.
She went inside to meet her brother and sister dividing Halloween candy on the…
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is me is really me 