Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: June 2021


by 1 Comment

Gratitude is everything

I found an old piece of framed panel deep in storage. Nothing on it. I don’t know if the person who bought it, made it, meant to put something on it, a picture, paint something, write something…and maybe they thought to do it, but time raced away and carried the thought with it and it just got buried. I dug out the panel. Sanded it. And knew I had to write something on it immediately. I couldn’t let the moment just slip away. We’re not given that many. But what did I want to say? I looked around and thought, today, I have everything, and if I write it all down, everything that I have today, then I will always have it. I have a husband who loves me. A mother who loves me. Children I’m not really related to. I have friends, dear friends, even the ones I don’t get to see very often, who still reach out. I have my health, and my curiosity. I have the desire to create, and the hands to do it. I have a house, and food and security and dresses that make me want to do the yoga. I have memories of places that I’ve seen, and maps of places I want to go. I recall, but not very often, the harder times that I made it through, that keep me honest, that teach me empathy. I have the knowledge that, even without money, I have always been rich. Rich! Today, I have everything, and I am so grateful.


by 2 Comments

Collide

In the first email I sent to Dominique, I said I hoped our two worlds would collide. I can’t ever remember using those words before – never the word collide. He said he would come to Minneapolis. I smiled upon reading, hoping, but not really believing anyone makes Minneapolis a destination from France. But he came. Upon leaving the first restaurant where we ate our first meal together, he picked up one of the postcards from the table at the door. On it, the word “collide.” Some things are just meant to be.

Married, traveling together to New Orleans, I took the photo at the Frenchman’s art market. It rests now in our office in France. I think we are meant to connect. Perhaps the world has become too accustomed to notice the differences. Differences are easy, maybe too obvious, so we focus on them. Our color, our voice. But if we take the time, make the effort, we can find the connections. And they can be so beautiful. And the changes don’t have to be huge. I’m not saying you have to go to a different country, or even a different state, (although I’m a firm believer in doing so, if you have the means), but you can get a different perspective just by changing the route you take to work. Trying a new restaurant. Reading a new book. Watching a different news program. Expand your view. You never know what you might run into.


by 4 Comments

All the colorful stories

It makes me laugh, and more than a little pleased, when I see pants splattered in paint selling for hundreds of dollars. Most of my pants (and tops) look like that. I think they’re beautiful, not because they were manufactured, but because they were lived in. They tell a story. I know where each yellow and blue came from. The tales of each red and green and brown and white.

When you create a painting, it doesn’t just appear in a matter of seconds. You have to find it. It takes patience. Stretching the canvas. Squaring it. Gessoing. Then beginning. The image starts to take shape, but it takes a while to see. To believe you’ll get there. There is always that point when I think, oh, I really want to paint over everything and start over (sometimes there is nothing else to do, but that is extremely rare). You have to work through that point. And it takes more than patience, it takes practice, and more practice. All this practice builds a confidence that gets you through that difficult phase before the image comes to life. All that practice is documented on my pants, and that gives me courage, gives me strength. I see the countless times I’ve surpassed that difficult period, be it on the canvas, or in life.

When I first moved to France, I had to take mandatory French language, history and culture classes. I’ve mentioned them before, so I won’t go into great detail, but for me, they were difficult. Not just the learning, but the emotional toll. We were often humiliated and isolated. It wasn’t a good situation. Each class, I wore my painted pants. In between all of the colors and rips, I wrote in permanent marker, “Everything’s going to be OK.” My story would carry me through, again and again.

Whether you document yours or not, is up to you. But try to remember it, your story. When faced with a new situation, remember the last time you didn’t think you’d get through – and you did! Your heart and soul and your hands are joyfully splattered in all the colors of “I can’t believe I made it through!” Wear them proudly. All these colors – all these victories – priceless!

Shop Now!


by 3 Comments

Looking up

The track meet was nearing the end when the coach approached us on the grass. I had one event to complete, and Colleen was finished for the day. The mile race was coming up and we had an extra space to fill. It didn’t have to be filled of course, but if someone competed in this spot, we were sure to get a point just for completing the race. That point could make a difference on whether or not we won the meet. He was looking at Colleen. She seemed confused, because she had never been a miler. I could feel the inner shaking of her head. It would be really difficult. You need to train for something like that. Just jumping in at the last second would surely be almost impossible. Clearly she wouldn’t win, and probably would be embarrassed. There could even be puking. The coach would never force her to do it, he only asked. She got up. I smiled. I was so proud of her! That’s my brave friend, I thought. There were no real surprises. The other contestants raced out in front of her. She kept running. Her heart and lungs fought for her attention. She kept running. Her legs turned to stone. She kept running. The others finished. She kept running. And running. She could have stepped off the track. No one would have blamed her. But she kept running. She finished. I hope she was proud of herself. I hope I told her just how amazing I thought she was! I can’t tell you if we won the meet. If we had a good season. But I do know this – at sixteen – I witnessed strength. Courage. And pure will. When I saw her going around that track, she wasn’t just running, she was flying, and the most beautiful bird in the sky!


My mom ordered a dress from the Sundance catalog. It should be arriving today. Why is this a significant event? She is currently surrounded by friends and family who are giving up. And she could do the same. Who would blame her? But she keeps believing. She keeps dreaming. She orders the dress and believes in a tomorrow where she looks beautiful! And she will. Because she keeps running. I have never been more proud of her. She will put on that dress of blue and teal and white, and she will be the most beautiful bird flying in the sky!
If you want to believe in miracles, sometimes, you just have to look up!


by 1 Comment

Flavor


I began sauteing some chicken cajun style and added some juicy green peas. It was delicious. That evening, I added some more peas into the same pan, and a little more spices. The next day, we still had peas, so I barbecued chicken and herb sausages on the grill and added them to the pan of peas. Delicious. We ate all the peas, so I sauteed some asparagus in the same pan and we ate with the sausages. All the flavor from each day mixed and melded and just got tastier! Last night we only had a little asparagus and a tiny bit of sausage left, so in that same flavor-filled pan, I made an aspargus/sausage and cheese omelette. Everything used. Nothing wasted. I washed the pan. And we begin again.


Every day I use this body to create something. Some days I add a little paint. Some days I add some words. I sprinkle in a few salty tears, and some sweet tears of tenderness. A dollop of laughter. And a huge helping of joy. Along the way, I do fall. Sometimes I get dirty. But everything is valuable. Every experience used. Nothing is wasted. And if you ask me how I am today, I will tell you, “Well, I’m just getting tastier!”

Fill your heart. Feed your soul. Taste this life.

Shop Now!


by 1 Comment

What remains

I remember my first blow dryer. It’s easy to do because I got it when I started grade school and brought it with me to college. I wore the name off, but it still worked. I stopped counting after that. It seems I need a new one every few months. Planned Obsolescence – things are built not to last. And it would be easy to become swept up in this trend – (I wish it were only a trend) – but I want things to have value, to last.


It is in our nature to create things that will continue, that will stay, that will survive the beating of time. That’s why they painted on the cave walls, carved statues, built Coliseums. When I visited Rome for the first time, it didn’t take my breath away, it gave me breath – breathed a life into me that I too wanted to create – a life that continues, that matters, that lives. And so I paint, and I write, not that these canvases or books will live forever, but that you will know my heart, and it will help you see your own, and others see theirs. This can last forever.


A few days ago, I posted the blog about picking rock at my grandpa’s farm. Someone shared that post and someone saw that shared post. This stranger shared his story of picking rock, of how he didn’t cry when he hurt his finger on the rocks, how he felt like a man for the first time. He shared his story, and someone else liked it. My story lived again and again.


I can’t change the passing of time, but I can decide what is disposable, and that will never include my heart. That will never include your heart. Pass it on.

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

A rose by any other name

I showed her a picture of the roses outside our front door. She breathed deeply into the phone and asked if I looked at them every day. “Yes,” I said. I could feel her smiling on the other end of the phone. She had taught me that – to pay attention to the details – be grateful for the little things, the impermanent things.

On Sunday evenings in our small apartment, the apartment where you couldn’t drink the water from the tap, we would lie by the record player (it was that big) and dream out loud of all the things we would do. She said, “If I had a big house, I would go from room to room. Not in a hurry. But slowly. And enjoy each space. I would read a different book in every chair. Sing a different song out each window. It would welcome me and it would feel glorious and I would belong – in every room.” I have that now, what my mother dreamed up (because I believe that’s what we do, for ourselves and each other – create the dreams, manifest them). And I am grateful. And I do belong. In every room. I claim the spaces with books and paintings and flowers and songs and love. And I am home.

I see the roses when I open the shutters each morning. I see them out the kitchen window as I make the coffee. I really see them. I appreciate them. (And yes, I stop to smell them.)

I was watching a YouTube video by Bryce and Hailey (a young couple from Alexandria, MN — my hometown, where my mom still lives). They were visiting all of the thrift shops and I went along with them. Each street. Each store. The last thrift shop they were in was about a block from my mother’s apartment. I watched the video again and again, willing them to go just that one block over and see her. See her waving out the window. Walking down the street. “She’s right there,” I kept telling the screen. Please go see her. I know she’s there.

I fill the coffee pot with water, smile at the roses, and dream up another beautiful day, because that is what I was taught to do.

I watch the video again and know she is there. I move from room to room and know she is here. A rose, by any other name.


by 2 Comments

Don’t dig your toes in.

We have become polarized in so many ways the past few years. “But they didn’t vote right.” “They aren’t wearing a mask.” “They’re protesting the wrong way.” “Who do they think they are?” “They can’t be serious!” “It’s just so obvious!!!” Each side certain of their beliefs. And not just certain, planted, stuck.

I started practicing yoga. There is a pose called tree pose. You have to balance on one foot, bringing your other heel half way up that balanced leg. When you feel steady, you can bring your hands to your heart, and eventually make branches by reaching your hands above your head. Tree Pose improves your sense of balance and coordination. Regular practice will improve your focus and your ability to concentrate in all areas of your life, particularly during those times when you might normally feel “off-balance.” This pose has a positive impact on the grace and ease with which you approach all circumstances, even outside of your yoga class.

The yoga instructor I listen to online tells me something every day (and I need to hear it every day). In the middle of the pose, when you might start to wobble, she says, “Don’t dig your toes in the ground, it won’t make it any easier.”

Don’t dig your toes in. I need to hear that. To live that. People will have different opinions. Different likes. Different tastes. And the human reaction is often to fight back immediately, as if the angered certainty will change someone’s mind. It doesn’t.

Instead, I want to focus on my own quiet certainty – my own balance. From my toes to my hands, my hands that gather first at my heart, as they should, then over my head. That quiet balance that works for me. That gives me strength. That gives me peace.

I wiggle my toes, because even in all the uncertainty, life is still fun, life is still filled with grace. Find your balance. Enjoy your day!

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

Show your work

When I was in tenth grade at Jefferson Senior High School, I was getting A’s in all of my classes, even math. I loved my English classes, composition, literature, all of it. I loved art and history. I didn’t have the same feeling for math. So when the teacher would say, “show your work,” I wanted to draw a picture of me laying on my bedroom floor crying into an open math book — but I guess that’s not what he meant. Apparently he didn’t understand my struggles because he asked if I wanted to join the math club. There was a club for this torture? No, I assured him that I didn’t want to join.


Every kid questions something in school – “I’ll never use this!!” they claim. (And truth be told, they aren’t always wrong.) But I have to admit that I do use something I learned in all of those required math courses — I learned the value of doing the work, even when I didn’t love it, and most importantly the value of showing my work.


I wasn’t sure what I wanted to “become” in college. I knew I loved writing, and I knew I loved art. But what would I do with that? I didn’t really want to become a professor, and I had no examples, in my circle of people, living creative lives. So at first I tried advertising. That seemed to put some of my skills to use, but I didn’t feel the love – I wasn’t crying on the bedroom floor, but sometimes kneeling…


It all made sense when I combined the two. I started telling stories with each painting. Sometimes a phrase, a word, and even full stories. I began “showing the work.” Each painting was not just the colors, but the life lived behind each color. And that’s what people seemed to gravitate to – the story – the work.


I don’t know why we have to go through all of the things we do. It doesn’t always seem fair, and I’m not sure I believe “there is a reason for everything…” – that maybe is too simple. But I do believe this — we will each spend our time on the floor, questioning, crying, but if we get up — show ourselves that we can in fact do it! — show others that we have in fact done it! — then there is more than just the lesson learned, there is the lesson lived! In my humbly educated opinion, I’d have to say, that is art at its most beautiful!

Shop Now!


by 2 Comments

“Quand le vin est tiré il faut le boire!”

Yesterday a friend told me I was like fine wine, only getting better. What a compliment! Isn’t that what we all want? To get better? Every day? I do – want it! And at everything. I feel like I should start a list here, but there’s so much, ok, well, at writing and painting, and cooking and loving, and friending, and wifing, and listening and noticing, and learning, and living! There’s more, (but you have other things to do than just read my list.)

And I want to be careful here – it’s not about more, more, more, it’s about better, better, better. There’s a difference. More is about need, not being satiated, but better is about becoming. Being. Being better.

There is a practice to it – this becoming, this striving to be better. It’s not a singular focus, but, I’ll say it, a vineyard. One good grape on its own can’t make a good bottle of wine. It takes a whole vineyard. And so each day, I work on my vines. My patience. My skills. My gifts. My relationships. And from the work, there is the wine. There is always the wine. “Quand le vin est tiré il faut le boire!” (When the wine is drawn, it must be drunk!) In other words, you don’t waste good wine – you don’t waste this day, this moment in time.

The sky is opening. Today is going to be delicious.

Shop Now!