Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: April 2021


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Yes, and …


In the world of improvisation, (which is really just living), the main rule is that when offered a line, an opportunity, you must reply with “yes, and…”  Without this, the conversation, stops, and once it stops, then it’s over – there is no show, no living.  I guess this is more than true for life itself.


In high school, I think we think, well, if we can just graduate, then that will be it – we will know who we are.  I played on the volleyball team. Linda “Toes” Johnson was the best jumper on the team. It was like she had springs. We decided it was all in her toes, hence the nickname. She had the longest toes we had ever seen. She was Toes!  We called out her name during practice, during games. I would find it hard to believe that Linda, today, still defines herself as Toes.  


If we are truly living, we invent ourselves every day. We practice. We become. So if you ask me, are you from Alexandria, I reply, “Yes, and, Minneapolis, and Chicago, and New York, and France…”  Are you the writer? “Yes, and the painter, and blogger, and friend, and daughter, and wife, and..


There is so much to learn. To discover. To be. Thank God!  So today, I write something here, throw a little paint on a canvas, and I build. I listen to your replies and I say, yes, and I build. I listen to my heart’s whisper, and I say, yes, and… and I keep building. “What?” you ask. My soul. I’m building my soul. 

In high school, we imagined that Linda could fly – why in the world would we not imagine that for ourselves?  So, I ask you today, are you becoming?  


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Sketchbooks

Sketchbooks

She placed me in the chair that was made out of an old tractor seat. I’m not sure how old I was exactly, but young enough to be placed somewhere, and not move. She pointed to the desk I sat in front of – “Don’t touch anything.” I watched my grandma do the dishes. Her apron waving in the breeze created by the flapping of her upper arms. I began to lose interest in the show and began to look around. So many shiny objects on this desk. I moved my chubby arm just a little and found that I could reach one. I looked at the aproned blur in the kitchen and reached my arm to grab it. The shine of the blade was gone in an instant, replaced by blood red. A razor blade. I squealed and the apron ran towards me. I could barely breathe. “What did you do?” she asked me. I wanted to cry, not because I was in physical pain, but because she was there. She came for me. She held my hand with such tenderness, I believed her when she said, “You can tell me, and I won’t get mad.” What I heard was, ‘You can love me, and it will be ok.”

Seeds were planted, deep inside me, on my grandparents’ farm.

Miles from the fields, others would try to take that trust, that love, away. And for a long time, I believed they could — take it away. For years, it lie dormant. Slowly releasing itself in the freedom of sketchbooks, then canvas, and paper.

When I met him for the first time, we walked from my apartment to the Caribou a block away. We stepped out onto the busy street, no sidewalk. I was nearer the traffic. The first car passed and he took my hand, switching places with me, allowing me the safety of the curb. What I heard was, You can love me, and it will be ok.

I do.

I draw something in my sketchbook almost every day. It is not a place for perfection, but a place to grow. It allows me to make mistakes, take chances, become the artist I want to be. And so it is with love.

He brought me home. We hung the painting of my grandparents’ farm in our salon. Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.


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SU

Robert Caro, one of the best known biographers, is a voracious note-taker. When interviewing people for his books, in his notes, you will often see the letters SU. They stand for shut up. This is a directive from Caro, to Caro. Through years of experience, he learned that some of the best details come in the silence. He trained himself to listen to the silences. The power between the words, around the words.  This is where he gets inside his subjects. This is why his books are so powerful.  

This morning I opened the door to take my daily walk in our garden. In this time, I often find my inspiration for my daily blogs. This morning, hit by the pinks and greens and yellows, I knew in an instant, the words I wanted to write were already hanging in the trees, and lit by the sun.  This was my time to just listen. 


I walked in silence, and was filled with the story around me. All I had to do was pay attention.  What a powerful gift, this colorful silence… whispered directly into my heart.  Breathe, my friends. And listen. 


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Crossing over.

Crossing over.

I write a lot about being brave. Some people might think, wow, she is never afraid. (insert nervous laugh here). That is hardly the case. There is no bravery without being afraid. And that’s what makes being brave even more miraculous!

In anxious times, it can feel like I’m “on the ledge.” And I often heard, even repeated, oh, I have to talk myself off the ledge. But I realize now that I have to forget about the ledge. If you talk yourself down, the ledge is still there, with no real answers. So what is the answer? I started looking at the different situations not as ledges, but as bridges.

A bridge. Still a bit of the unknown, but a choice.

And it’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved…
we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live…and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!

Paul Cezanne wrote to his brother about the Pont des Trois Sautets — “There, there is more freshness…” More than a century later, I crossed this bridge to begin my new life in France, my fresh new life. People often ask me, weren’t you afraid to move there? The decision was not a ledge, I say, it was a bridge.


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Josi and Lola

In tenth grade we started reading Lord of the Flies, and for some reason, re-enacted scenarios from the book in gym classes.

Once a month the tenth grade girls shared the gym with the senior class boys and played matball. Matball was like kickball, except it used the entire gym and the bases were mats. If anyone listened to the rules, it was hard to tell. The concern for each girl was not really winning or losing. If you were able to go to your next hour class without the word Wilson or Voit imprinted on your face, you considered it a victory.

I remember the teacher telling us, if you did, in fact, get hit in the face, you were still “safe” and could keep playing. But were we? The dizzying blow to the face never felt good, least of all safe.

It was hard to settle into the practicality of typing class after ducking and dodging for an hour, but the tap of the keys would eventually lower our heart rates, until the teacher announced a words per minute test, and once again we were off to the races.

During the first timed test I typed my name – Josi Hi. I tried to convince the teacher that this is what I was actually going by these days, but she didn’t buy it. An even harder sell was for my friend Lisa Podolski, who would, for the remainder of the year be known as Lola, which grew naturally into Lola Falana.

Much to our surprise, the real Lola Falana was playing at the Carlton Room in Minneapolis. Josi Hi and Lola Podolski, out of respect for the mere karma of it, went to see her for our sixteenth birthdays.

We took comfort in the randomness of it all. I still do. I don’t know what today’s lesson will be, but dizzying or not, I’m going to keep playing, and make my way to the show!


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Toasted marshmallows

My grandmother walked comfortably in her skin.  Skin that was stretched a little more horizontally than vertically.  Skin she donned in aproned dresses and comfortable shoes. 
She was tall to me when I was a child. Sturdy. Sure. I clung to her side, bashful and uneasy. We walked into Jerry’s Jack and Jill, the small grocery store near the end of Broadway. She picked a cart and began down the first aisle. I gripped the cart beside her hand. She stopped almost immediately.  “Ooooo….” I knew this sound – it meant she liked something she saw. She grabbed the plastic bag filled with toasted marshmallows. One of her favorites. “Grab those,” she said. I put a bag in the bottom of the cart. “No, up here.”  She placed them in the top part of the cart where a child would sit.  She opened the bag.  “Grandma!” I screamed. 
“What?” she asked.
“You can’t do that.” I claimed.
“Oh, it’s fine…”
“But it’s stealing.”
“I’m going to pay for them. It’s fine.”
“But -“
“Oh, they know me.”
We walked around the store. Filled the cart. Past workers and shoppers in aisle. “Oh, hi, Elsie!” I heard again and again, but no one said a word about the marshmallows that were disappearing from the cart.
We got to the check-out and the first thing she placed on the counter was the empty bag. The clerk gave her a wink and rang up the bag.  They did know her. Everything was fine.
It seemed so easy, so normal. And I Ioved the way her chubby frame glided like Ginger Rogers, backwards through this small town.  She made no selfies, no tweets, but she lived out loud. And people knew her.
Yes, this was a small town. But aren’t they all, really. If you back up and look at us, on this planet, as humans, we are specks, delightful specks, but all living in our small communities – be it Minneapolis, or Paris. How do we not know each other? We must know each other. Know ourselves. If we can do this, we can do better. Much better.
I surpassed my grandmother’s height years ago, but she is still so very tall to me.  Take a look around. It’s an amazing world, with amazing people. “OOOOOOOh!”  “Yes!”  If we can see it, see each other, everything’s going to be fine.


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Last chance Texaco.


When my legs were short, and perhaps my faith in them as well, my brother put me on scooter, one he had made in the shed behind our house. A junkyard production, it was thick and heavy, but it ran, ran strong. There was an empty field beside our house on VanDyke road. Full of weeds and a possibility yet unseen.  I don’t know if he had just filled the tank, but the scooter seemed unstoppable, so I circled the field. He left me in that field, and years went by. My legs, too short to touch the ground, I wasn’t sure how I could get off of this ride. I circled. The sun burned my shoulders, and the engine never sputtered. It became clear to me that I was going to have let it fall, let myself fall. Truth be told, I wasn’t going a lot faster than downhill on a bicycle, but there was fear. Fear of the unknown. I would have to let go. I would have to fall. They say follow your heart, like it knows, and I prayed it did. I let go the handles and jumped. The scooter spun for a minute in the grass and dirt, and died. If I had ever recovered faster from a fall, I can’t remember when. I lept to my feet immediately. Grass stained and a little scraped, I began to run. Never had my legs felt so light, so sure. I ran and I ran. Nothing but joy.


Sometimes, when you run, people think you’re running away.  And that may be partially right…but sometimes you’re trying to get to somewhere…get to a place that will fill your soul with a love that has been waiting just for you, and a forgiveness that doesn’t care how you got there.


It’s easy to get stuck in someone else’s life. You can get trapped in a relationship, a job, a town, an assumption. But there’s a way out. It may be messy, even painful, but there’s a way. Your heart knows it. 


My brother built a life for himself in a shed behind our house. It is strong, and for him, it runs well.  I built a life for myself, trusting in the “last chance texaco” of my heart (it has always saved me), and I left.


I am not running away, but joyfully running along. My heart’s tank is full, fueling my legs and my faith. This truly is my somewhere, and man, it is something!!!!


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Alouettes sans tête

Four hours before dinner, I began making Alouettes sans tête. In France, cooking is about good ingredients, but even more so – time. You cook slowly. You allow the ingredients to come to life. They become richer, tastier… simply, better.

We poured a glass of wine. Said, “Bon Appétit.” And took our first bites. Delicious. Rich. So French, and so us. We talked about the joy of a meal. A slow meal. Together. And he asked me, “What’s your blog going to be about tomorrow?” Smiling, already knowing, it would be this. Already knowing – I guess that’s the key. Yes, there is comfort in wine. In good food. But the greatest comfort, I think, is to be seen, to be known, and loved not only in spite of it all, but because of it all.

I shared my stories with Dominique from the very beginning. And he loved me. My story changes and grows every day, and he still listens. Still loves.

One of the hardest things about learning a new language is not what you’d expect, it is not about the speaking, nor the writing, but the listening. And it turns out that’s key for your own language (and every relationship) as well. To know someone, really know them, you have to take the time, and listen. You have to let them simmer, bubble even, but give them time to become their richest selves.

It is a relief to become. To be. To be yourself. Maybe the best gift we can give anyone. The freedom to be. Take the time today to be. To listen. Get out of your head – sans tête – (it can be way too noisy in there, I know) and listen. Allow. Become, simply better. This life is delicious! Bon Appétit!


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Enough

It’s a funny word — enough.  In one sense, it is the racing towards, the trying to get to – will I be enough? will I do enough? love enough? Enough becomes the goal, the pinnacle.  Unless, it’s the other version, when it’s just too much already, and then it becomes way way way too much and we scream from our lungs, “Enough!!!!”
This picture popped into my memories today, of Dominique and I, one year ago today. One year ago. It was already a memory? In a way it seemed like yesterday, and here it was a memory. I guess time is a funny word too. In one sense, this has been a year of waiting, of length, when will this pandemic ever end, but in the same sense, it sped across my life-line and is already a memory. I remember the yellow of this photo. I remember thinking, I want to make use of this year. To not throw it away. To love and create. And not just wait. Because if I did that, then it would be enough, pandemic or no pandemic.
But did I? I hope I did. I tried. I painted more. Wrote more. And I hope everyone could see and feel the love in that. Maybe that’s the only goal.
In 2019, I finished my book Astonish.  Each time I write, I think I reveal just a little bit more. And this one was raw. It takes you on my journey, from being told I was nothing, and turning that into something. Telling myself, “I was going to be bold enough. Brave enough. I was going to be enough, just me, just my tear-stained,

color-filled hands, I was going to be enough to fill that empty frame.

And that had to be something!”

I shared this book first in New York. The teachers of the New York school district raised their hands and cheered. And it was more.

My next trip to present the book would be in Alexandria, my hometown. I was terrified. These people knew me – or thought they did, and that was harder. Would my story, as I told it, be enough for them to actually love me. Would I truly be, in claiming to be enough, actually be enough.

But now, in saying the words outloud, in the letting go, it doesn’t really even matter anymore. In the letting go there is no more chasing after the enough, or the running away from it.

The color of this is peace. Possibly even joy. Maybe yellow. And I can sit in that yellow and just be. Love and create and be.  That’s got to be joyfully enough.  Maybe even astonishing!  


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Bloom

Yesterday I went shopping with my mother.  Yes, she is in America and I am in France, but we both went to one of our favorite stores together — Sundance.  She had a paper catalog, and I, the same catalog, only digital. We connected through the phone lines and began our walk through the store. She led me through each page, stopping at what she liked, what she loved, what she marked with a sticky note. What she saw herself in, me in… We created outfits, ensembles, even created the places we would go in them and it was glorious. 

Through the years we have dressed up to go to the mall – yes, of course, we tried to look our best in the attempt to look better. We South-daled, Ridge-daled, and Galleria-ed with the best of them. Sometimes we bought something, because it was a must-have – but the majority of the time, we just enjoyed the experience. Coffee before, wine after. Some twirling in between. 


Some might say, oh, shopping isn’t for me, and that’s fine, but this is about more than that. This was and continues to be about knowing a person, sharing ideas, and laughter and joy. And this can’t be taken away by a pandemic. Can’t be dismissed by miles. This is love.


Yesterday my friend went to the actual Sundance store in Galleria and bought a dress. A lovely dress. But she made the disclaimer, I don’t really have anywhere to go. And yes, theatres, restaurants, so many things are closed, but the world is still open. For Easter this year, in our own home, I traveled the staircase and changed clothes three times – one to dine, one to dance, and one to search for chocolate outside. 


The world is still open. Trees in our yards (that never go anywhere) are changing into their best greens, and yellows and violets. They are dressing up and saying – it’s spring!  Let’s celebrate! 


If our hearts and minds are open, the world is open, and I’m prepared to put my heart on my sleeve and bloom with the best of them!