Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…


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Launched.

People from miles around envied the swings on our playground at Washington Elementary. And by people, I mostly mean the other grade-schoolers up the street at St. Mary’s. Those at LIncoln School had their own, but I imagine they were still impressed. The chains were so long. And the straps of the seats didn’t cut into your thighs. They were perfection. And placed as they were, after pumping for several minutes, and perhaps aided with a slight push from behind from your best friend who dared the thrust of your return, if you stretched your legs at the height of your swing, it appeared as if you were climbing atop the roof of the school. What a thrill to reach that height. And it was that thrill of being lifted that made my stomach jump to my throat, and gave me the courage to face anything the school would offer after the ringing of the recess bell.

Imagine my delight, the first time it happened without the aid of chain links and gravity. I had just cut my finger on the very razor blade in the kitchen bureau that my grandma told me not to touch. It was my heart that sank first. Not because it hurt that badly, but because I was sure she would no longer love me. Still operating under the rudimentary conditions of the playground, where friends were lost and gained in one recess, I started to cry. She wiped her ever dish soaped hands on her apron and knelt before me. Walked me to the bathroom sink and cleaned my minor wound on my finger, but the one on my heart remained. I was still small enough to be shattered, but too big to be carried, so she walked me to grandpa’s recliner. She sat down first, making that happy sound of a cushion expanding. She told me to stand in front. She grabbed the wooden lever on the side, and with that one swoop, she launched the recliner’s leg, and lifted me off of mine into her lap. My belly jumped, along with my heart, and I could only laugh. I knew I could face anything, as long as she loved me.

Even typing this, my belly races to my heart, and I am saved.

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The blush of hope.

It’s easy to misread anyone I suppose. Up until the fifth grade, I was extraordinarily quiet. I wouldn’t have put it that way, but that’s what they wrote on my report cards. My mother, not seeing anything to defend, replied, “When she has something to say, she’ll say it.” I sat beside her, cheeks flushed and smiling, I nodded. The teacher, once again misreading the room, looked at my face and said, “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”  My mother knew what the pink in my cheeks meant. “She’s not embarrassed, she’s hopeful.” 

We ripen at different stages. I found my voice. I still get nervous. I get angry. I get tired. Sometimes sad. Sometimes so much joy that it’s overwhelming. And it all blushes out my heart and through my face, because through it all I am hopeful. I am hopeful that I will understand. That I will be happy. That I will pass on all that joy for others to carry. 

Sometimes he looks at me and says, “Nice colors.” And I know he sees me. Just as she did. 

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Chance of rain.

Growing up in Minnesota, there was a certainty to change. The weather varied, of course, from season to season, but also from within. Winter could make a humbling final blast in the middle of spring. Summer could hang on for one last hug, even after school began in the fall. 

Through them all, there was always a chance of rain. 

It was on the ball field, behind the Dairy Queen, beneath the threatening gray skies that I heard it first. Our bikes rested in the dirt next to the dugouts. We nervously checked the skies, holding our metal bats. We were maybe only 10 or 11, but we knew what was important — teams without uniforms, friendship without conditions. The new girl summering in our town said it out loud, nervously, “It could rain…”  But it was Brenda, who had been through it all before, who had played every summer, rain or shine, who had huddled within the circle of the Dairy Queen lobby as lightening danced above us — smiling with all teeth and heart exposed, she said, “I’m so happy we’re together.”

And isn’t it still true? Everything, anything, can change from day to day. There’s always a “chance of rain.” But it’s our relationships that hold us. Our friends. Our loves. They huddle us through. 

I’m so happy we’re together.  

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Being unfinished.

The three of us were best of friends in first second and third grade. Maybe it started with something as simple as the jump rope. Jan and I needed a third, otherwise we were just spinning. Shari jumped in from off the monkey bars, and that was all it took. We were friends. Every recess we took turns. We sang the rhymes to each swing of the rope. We laughed off the trips and twirled again. Something was said in the summer of our third year. Standing in Shari’s driveway, I could hear them arguing. Half the rope raised in my hand, I somehow knew. I looked at the opposite handle lying in the dirt and thought, “but we weren’t finished.”

We didn’t gather again until we all began playing the clarinet. It was only in band, but we still spoke. After graduation, we all went our separate ways. I read on Facebook that Jan died. I saw a picture of Shari for the first time just the other day. Typing today, I can still feel my hand on the jump rope.

I don’t know why people worry about being forgotten. The first image I see when I wake up is the portrait of my grandfather. Not only has my love for him not diminished, it’s quite possible it grows stronger each day. I suppose that’s the way with love. 

Half way through, I stopped to take a picture of her. I think she’s beautiful — being unfinished. Would that we could allow that for each other, for ourselves. Because it is beautiful, isn’t it! These lives and loves we’re giving, they never really end. 

I have things to do today. We all do. What a pleasure it is to be unfinished. Beautiful!

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The lift of linoleum.

You can’t tell me that they’re always trying to get somewhere. Most of the time, it looks like they’re playing in the wind. Dancing even. These birds so elegantly bouncing and bounding above. And why wouldn’t they dance, they already have the song. 

She never wore a tutu, nor spandex dresses, but oh how my mother could dance. She would teach me on the carpet of the living room floor. It was slower. But when I had mastered the steps, she’d lead me to the kitchen floor, and I barely felt my stockinged feet touch the linoleum. She’d sing along to the boombox, pull me in and spin me out and I knew I was flying. I asked her if she had dance instructors? No, she said. In school? I asked. No. Did grandma teach you. She laughed (sure it was a bit of a dance maneuvering through all those people in the farm kitchen), but no. Then how did you know you could dance? I asked. I could always hear the song, she said, and pulled me in once again. 

And wasn’t that belief? Wasn’t that the true art of living? Just listening for the music. Trusting your feet would follow. Believing, one way or another, you were going to fly!  

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I’m reminded daily that every portrait in my sketchbook came from the same palette. 

It took a long time for me to grow into my mother’s face. The first time someone said it, you look just like your mother, it was as if I found my way home. Amid all the impermanence of driveways and houses. Of streets and cities and doors opening and closing, I had the permanence of knowing where I came from. And with that, the knowledge that I could go anywhere, be anyone. 

And if my mother looked like her father, then how could I not find comfort in my grandfather’s portrait? 

Yesterday, I was showing new friends of the family some of my paintings. This is my grandfather, I said in a new language. In a different country. And still, when they saw him, this man who looked like my mother, who looked like me, I felt they saw a little bit more of my heart. And I was a part of the palette. I was home. 

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Thoughts nesting.

In a large gathering, I couldn’t really tell the difference between a Hvezda and a farming neighbor. Looking up from the height of their waist, I could see that we were all pretty much the same as I weaved through pant-legs and nylon stockings.

I can’t tell you the moment it changed. Maybe it was in small spurts, like my growth. One day though, I remember thinking nobody could possibly understand. Because surely I was the only one to feel this way. And the irony, I suppose, was that in all those differences, everyone else seemed to be having that very same thought. 

It’s funny that it takes so long to see them, the thoughts nesting atop our heads, but once we start talking, sharing our experiences, we find that we’re really not that different after all. “Family” or not, we are all related. 

On runways and red carpets, they like to play, “Who wore it best?” — pointing out how the same dress curves around the different women. And unfortunately, we seem to do the same with feelings. Judging who grieves better. Who recovers more quickly. Who wins (or loses) with the most grace. And I’m guilty of it too, and then I feel it, the flutter of those nesting thoughts…and I think maybe, just maybe, we’re not that different after all. 

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Let it be a hat.

I didn’t correct her when she thought it was a hat — the bird atop the woman’s head. While it wasn’t a fascinator, it was fascinating, so when she said she would wear it too, I smiled and agreed. 

For what was to be gained if I said, “But it’s a real bird…” While in my imagination it was, it was still just a painting. There for all to imagine. And in her mind, it was a hat. So I let it be a hat. 

My cousin Dawn used to make up songs in the bathroom when she was a little girl. Neither self conscious of her singing, nor… well, her bathroom routine. One went, “And pony, and pony…” Only those two words, but over and over. It’s surprising how easily they stuck in my head. Annoyed, I told her to stop. Again and Again. It was my grandfather who told me, not her, to stop. “But it’s not even a real song,” I pleaded. “It is to her,” he said. And the argument was finished, but not the song. I suppose that’s why I still sing it today.

We have a real need to be right all the time. I’m just as guilty as the next person. I’m trying to get better. We can all enjoy things in our own way. Sometimes, you just have to let it be a hat. 

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A soft place to land.

There is a myth that claims upon returning to their usual spot, (not knowing that the lake had been paved over) a flock of geese, thinking it was water, came crashing into the pavement and died. 

How do we know if nobody tells us? 

I think we have a tendency to do this with a lot of things. We smooth things over. Sugar coat them. Sweep them under rugs. Hide them under bushels. And I’m not certain why. I think, if we go through something, we have a responsibility to help others do the same. And this can only be done with the truth. And while you might think the truth is harsh, it’s actually an offering of a safe place to land.

Isn’t it their own fault? Didn’t they “V” their way right into their own demise. Yes. But haven’t we all been led astray from time to time? I know I have. And I have been greeted by the pavement of “I told you so,” and I have been welcomed by the forgiveness of “come in, you and your heart sit down.” 

Maybe it’s silly, (I guess I am that silly goose). But what if we did that for each other, simply offered a soft place to land? 

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Patterned.

I used to think they were so glamorous, the women on the front of the Butterick sewing patterns. My mother’s love for the designs was enough to lure me away from the toy aisle at Woolworth’s and join her in search of the fashion dream. For as much as I enjoyed the newest doll encased in plastic with her pink outfit, it was nothing compared to the palpable life that flowed from the dress patterns into my mother’s hands at the back of the store. 

I didn’t have the words for it then, but I somehow knew it was more than glamour, and closer to worth. Not in search of proof that she could be, worthy, but knowing somewhere deep in her heart, that she already was. And so I left the ease and certainty of the lined toys and joined her in the dream.

And didn’t we become. And become again. Without money, or even a well lit path, we started our journey. Our joyful journey. And she sewed and believed. And shopped. Holding clothes under neck in front of the three-way yes (four, including mine!)

The woman arriving in my sketchbook reminded me of how far we have come. A simple nod from the back of Woolworth’s. And I know the magic moved from her hands into mine. So I pass it along to you, hoping, knowing, there is no end. The patterned dream lives on. 

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