A Year Later

It's been a year since I walked across that stage.

A year since I decided to go back to Lexington.

A whole year has passed and I'm not really sure how to measure it.

There were no semesters. No classes. 

Yet, still so many tests, failures... and what I call small victories.

If there were an award for isolating yourself... for padding yourself in such a way... in order for nothing, no one, to enter beyond a certain point... I fear I would be the recipient.

I haven't truly allowed myself to sift through all the brokenness. To acknowledge that I am broken.  

A year ago I was discharged by my therapist and despite the fact another friend had to practically drag me there months before... I was confused. I felt like I was losing the only space I had allowed myself to be fully broken, vulnerable. I didn't see the growth she had seen in me. 
I had to be honest with myself. Everyone else, well they can see right through me, or claim me as a mystery they want to solve...

A year later and I don't regret that space... I also don't want to go back to it. I am not ignorant though.
I know what it feels like to be under the water too long. I know the feeling of telling yourself you can do it, when truly, you cannot. 
With an Indie-Folk Ballad playing in the background, I have looked myself up and down in the mirror, receiving what my body tells me. Accepting the truths no workout or self help book or meditation could have aided in.
Just me and my body. 
Knowing that all bright suns have to set at some point. 

I am okay.


A year later I am still in my parents house.
A year later I am still waiting for the community center to be opened in Woodhill... just days away.
A year later I have seen my team come together in strong numbers, passion, experience... to falling in a dark spiral, to leveling out... to just showing up each day, giving it all we have, and wondering what our future could be.
A year later and I have decided situational friendship is true. I don't feel sad about it either way. I've just become more cautious. I don't enter spaces I doubt will be genuine beyond a certain occasion unless forced.
A year later and I have humbly learned it takes a lot more than a big heart to make anything in ministry happen, and happen well.
A year later and I have met some amazing young people that blow me away every single day. Young people that are facing things that would keep you up at night. Young people I would sacrifice everything for.
A year later and I wonder if I set people up for failure once I left.
A year later and I have no regrets.
A year later and I am looking forward, always... really I have a hard time looking back most days. I don't know how people do it. I am better off just looking forward, gracious for the time I had behind me, of course.


I think the reason there is no true way to measure this past year... or many years after this one, is because everyone is having the year they have. We aren't running the same course, at the same pace anymore. Maybe I never was. But I know now, for sure, that your land marks are not mine. And I am still fighting for what mine look like. I think I learn something knew at every sun set. And tomorrow, a bright sun within me will rise again, allowing me to mark a new journey.

The Caged Bird & I

I once read a poem about a caged bird and I sobbed. 

The thought of it being created as a free thing, and getting trapped into confinement broke my heart at an early age. 

My mom told me one spring if I played in the rain barefoot I'd get sick... but I was created to be free like the bird, so I dared the previous warnings and didn't regret it once a cough settled into my chest.

I have ignored almost every word of caution since...

From bed to bed, couch to couch, house to house, city to city, I go.

If not for adventure, what?  My soul asked confused.

Chaotic routine hit me like a baseball bat cracking as it hits the season opener.

This free bird saw a cage like shadow and swore she could manage... but it loomed.

Needing rest. Forgetting to exhale. My eyes remain in a flash flood zone.

No identifiable timeline, no recognizable season. I feel the need to move sluggishly and quick, all at the same time. No way of telling right from left.

The bird sought out a landing spot... just for a minute... just so she can gather her thoughts.

That's when he saw her... and put her in the cage. 

I wonder now, how long that little bird survived after entering the cage.

It's awfully dark in here.

See You Soon

I can't make any promises that when you read this or look at the pictures... you won't tear up a little. 

I know I did.

This is a picture of JoQuan and I at his 5th grade graduation. That was a huge day for him because he got the award for reading... two years before that, reading was the worst thing you could have asked him to do.

Tomorrow JoQuan will get on a greyhound bus and start a new chapter in his life. 

A sophomore in high school... I can feel years passed inside my soul. The good, the bad, the ugly. That is what we all signed up for. I wouldn't trade it for anything. 

Even when the ugly means you gotta chase a kid down the street, loosing earrings along the way. 

Or tough phone calls. Or school meetings. Or nightmares... 

I want to believe this is the end of an ugly chapter, and the start of a really beautiful one.

 But only time will tell.

And that time apart, selfishly, feels like too much.

He is joy.

He is laughter.

He is the best friend you could ask for.

And even though he asked to be my boyfriend in the 3rd grade... he settled for little brother.

And we never looked back.

"If I wear this hoodie... it means you can't leave."

This was one of the last Urban Impact camps before I went to college.

Despite how hard those days preparing to leave were... 

I knew it was the right decsion, for myself, and for them.

JoQuan has told me he is prepared and ready for this next step. 

He knows what needs to happen in order to succeed and come back.

I don't know where the time went...

I tell stories about how your anger took over sometimes.

How your fists would ball up and you would roll your eyes and do everything in your power to not cry over little things... but big things had piled up... so you let them fall anyway.

I tell those stories because of how wild they seem now.

How light and life enter the room when you are there.

How you instigate and keep the peace all at the same time!

 If someone would have told me that the 3rd grader with a huge mouth, silly jokes, and skater boy style, would have turned out to be this young man below... I'm not sure I would be shocked... 

I think I would understand. I think part of me would be really proud, and part would be really sad. 

I probably would've said something like, 

"He's gonna go places... if he would get out of his own way." 

And he is doing just that.

Forever the Loves of my life.

Forever the reason I age 10 years every week.

Love you, J.

We'll see you soon.

And We Will Live

Your favorite fairy tale growing up probably involved a prince saving the princess.

Maybe it ended saying, "Happily Ever After." 

Or maybe you are the young feminist that liked more of a heroin that held her own... 

saving the people she loved most. 

And the music was triumphant in the background. 

Bump that.

I knew early on, no one was coming to save me. 

I also knew that "saving the people I love" would end up killing me before I did any real good.

And that music in the background? 

Yeah... it's trap beats. 

Making references to the very things causing harm to the people I love. 

But here we are.

Here I am.

Always coming to this white screen after a long stint of time spent in the world. 

I come here when I no longer feel. 

I come here when I fear that my words are being swallowed up by darkness... 

the opposite of a happily ever after.

I know death.

I know threats.

I know crying voices on the phone.

And I am tired. 

Tired of coming home to explain myself. 

Tired of explaining everyone's actions. 

Black. White. Brown. Blue. 

Perhaps if we had a panel...

Maybe we should strip away more rights...

Include those that have prior experience in life or death situations... 

Bump that.

I intimidate people.

At least that's what the people tell me whose friends won't approach me first.

"Good." I laugh it off...

I didn't know I was supposed to be Miss America in the grocery store. 

I've separated myself from a lot of people recently...

Maybe we drifted apart.

Maybe I wanted it this way. 

"Chlo... you know those dudes are a distraction anyway." 

My high schoolers are smarter than y'alls relationship counselors. 

I tell them, "You right... it's just me and y'all." 

But when you see me, doing my thing, unapologetic... and you feel threatened... don't be, 

Use that as motivation to do exactly what you want to do, no apologies. 

Then you will understand why I will never have that taken from me. 

-

I've had a hard time falling asleep this past month. A hard time getting out of bed. 

Things that have been long awaited, are just out of reach.

It has taken every ounce of my being not to yell, kick, scream, cry, and curse everyone out.

Forgive me... I probably just need sleep, or a cookie. 

There are just some thing that I cannot seem to find patience or grace for anywhere. 

I don't want to be like that anymore.

But there is no hero to this story. 

No white horse. 

No triumphant music.

It's my tribe, me... and a lot of trap beats. 

We will live in a story full of happiness, and unfortunately, a lot of darkness too. 

We will fight everyday to thrive in a place that doesn't believe we can.

But it is our story to tell.

And we will live. 

IV XXII

Currently wishing I had something profound to say.

Wondering if the last two days will be engraved on my heart anymore than the last 8 plus years.

I've been told not to take it for granted.

There haven't been any tears this week.    Just a lot of sweat and maybe even a little blood.


There is still much to do.    Always.

You would think, after all this time.


But of course, I am built to finish a job that is set out before me.    Help those in need.

Do first.   Feel second.    Even when the second comes in heavy, and lingers.

                                                                              -

Then I was the last one.

And the silence gave me such peace.     I moved about the building one last time for the day, turn out the lights, throw away the trash.

I let out a sigh of relief.     Because for the first time, in what seems like forever, I was home.

And the significance of locking the door behind me... hit me like a ton of bricks.

Write It Down in 20 Minutes

Write your thoughts for 20 minutes... go

I've been nervously picking at the clear coat on my nails for over a week now. 

I turn right on Mulberry now, instead of Codell, just to make sure the sign is still in the yard.

I wake up 30 minutes earlier some days to make it through a circuit or two.  

Other days I swallow hard and peel myself out of bed - even though my body feels too heavy.

The days on the calendar keep passing me by in slow motion, until I open my eyes a little wider, and realize I've been going through landmark type events and all the emotions come at the same time.

I've done a lot more listening and reading to other peoples thoughts and experiences recently.

Not as if I didn't do that before... I've just made more room in the margins for it altogether. 

The rain finally stopped today.

For how long... I'm not sure. 

I saw the sun today, and my skin started to dance.

This feels real.

I have to woo important people sometimes... in order to remain relevant, and on the front lines. 

It doesn't exhaust me like it does some people. 

That doesn't negate the fact it truly is exhausting. 

The kids spent a good amount of time in my parents house the last two weeks.

The silence doesn't hurt them like it has me... and that moved me.

People have their favorites... that's cool.

I'm usually still immature enough to wish I was their favorite.

At least that is what my friends tell me. 

I don't disagree though.

I found a place that sells coffee and books and refuses to be gentrified by those around it.

A place that doesn't deny its culture, or have really loud pop music playing or baristas that should just stop talking.

A place that cares about its neighbors, not the status quo or who is driving in for a latte only to comment on

the "crime in the area." 

Then I over heard they are having a hard time staying open and have until March to figure things out.

Isn't that how life goes?

January + 2

It was before today when I thought there is no escaping it. 

News Channels.

Social Media.

Coffee Table Conversations.

Then it becomes your reality.

And you wonder how you got so lucky to see another day.

I remember walking down the path he led us on, for what seemed like an awful long time, because the bus couldn't get through such a narrow and muddy foot path. This isn't where she and her brother lived the last visit made to Bolivia. When I saw the structure she and her family lived in...
Her brother was quite the show boat and eased the hurt I had within, almost like a nauseating feeling slowly subsiding through distraction. "I am blessed." I heard it being translated behind me. And that is when I wish I knew God like she did.

I've known tear drop tatted, gang and brotherhood branded, men who would drop dead if they didn't hold the door open for a lady, or push her chair in at the table. Never speaking to me as if I was less than them, never leading me to believe their past was as dark as it truly was. "You don't know my moms." They would say. They, the ones with blood on their hands, and regret in their eyes, knew better than to disrespect their mothers and not be gentlemen. Back then I am sure I assumed how they must feel lucky to be alive.

It was June. And anyone over a certain age had sat around a patio table in the backyard. Old friends catching up. Once neighbors, now just kids swimming in a pool while their parents talked war. I can't help but think this was our own little version of Gone With the Wind in modern times... imagine with me. All us kids had ever known of our fathers pasts were military related stories and "we never had that!" remarks. That was their "cul-de-sac" bond before we ever made it to the suburbs. I remember their dad pulling out a camera and playing back a scene caught from a firefight that made the wives jump and cover our eyes. "Yep. Sure saved a lot of asses that day." Everyone cheered. I guess I was thankful too...


I'd like to be honest here and say, a lot of people blog to share their lives with other people. Which I believe is great. But I also think they are hoping for a guttural, emotional, active response to those shared pieces of their lives. The edited versions. The ugly parts they are willing to share. And the wins they can't let you miss. I get it. But I can't help but tell you I don't give a damn about who reads this, who doesn't, if it's shared, or if it collects dust till the internet archives shut down. I live my everyday life in story book form. Partially because I truly believe I am Peter Pan incarnate. But mostly because I live a life worth reading about one day. Not a Biography about me... hell no. An indie film / gopro style / collection of moments. Where Humans of New York meets Humans of Woodhill. You feel me? Doesn't matter.

I wrote for myself in January. 

I wrote about the hardest things I have ever written about. 

Chicken scratch.

3am.

Run-on sentences.

Story form.

Poems. 

I read prompts to guide me.

Some days I just wrote about how every day in January felt like 10.

I didn't want to share it. 

I still don't.

But what I feel like needs to be said is... in the midst of my heart breaking, constant set backs, horrible communication, misjudgment, exhaustion, no direction, and an overwhelming feeling like a fog inside me would never be lifted... in the midst of that, I still celebrated the lives of the ones I have here with me. I cheered on at ball games, choirs, spelling bees, in the classroom. I included my own blood more. I took my own health serious. I hugged friends. I read some good books. And I never stopped telling our story. Our story of resilience. Of perseverance. Of patience. Of how it isn't luck we are alive - but a beautiful challenge. Because too often we look at a casket and think of what they could have accomplished, or what they achieved, and mark the whole life as just that. How dare we. It wasn't until several close to home school shootings, bomb threats made to a school while we were in it, and an accidental school lock down, that I realized those people didn't think they were lucky to be alive either. They were in question of their lives each and every day because of what they had been through in poverty, prisons, gangs, black or brown skin, war, constant threats being made to their lives and surviving wasn't luck, it was God. And they were going to honor every breath he allotted them. Until it was taken by whatever force that should come.

January felt like a constant threat on my life. Not in the same way I felt laying on the ground under a table praying my babies in the auditorium were okay. More like when a bandage has absorbed so much blood it no longer has the same effect to the wound than a freshly tied bandage would. The very things I thought would last, sustain life, and push us into a new season, were some of the very things that stunted healing, caused pain, and inflicted more grief. There wasn't any point in sharing details of the wins or losses because nothing flowed. Words felt boxy when this season just needed to settle somewhere. People who know families like the ones I do life with know what this January felt like. Just 31 more days tacked on to 2017. And no one needs to dwell on things like that. But if we didn't grow from a season like this one! Where the vines that choke out any fruit are finally cut away, and life can continue again in that tree. That is what I feel we will eventually move toward. Where the vines will be cut away, water and sunlight will pour into our roots, and fruit will be the focus again.