Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: July 2021


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Klickitat street

It’s no secret that our thoughts control our hands.


My grade school travels were never alone. For a good two years I was accompanied by Beverly Cleary’s kids from Klickitat Street. Cleary was one of my favorite childhood authors. Yesterday, making the blog journey back to my own Klickitat Street (which we named Van Dyke Road), my thoughts were consumed with Beezus and Henry and Ribsy and Ramona.


It wasn’t like I stayed with them all day, but subconsciously, they must have wandered through my head, in their wide-legged, hurried steps of youth, because when I sat down to paint, there she was — slowly emerging with a smile that said, “I knew you’d come back for us.”

Beverly Cleary. Smiling. In the certainty of black and white – the certainty that maybe only lasted those two years I spent with them on Klickitat Street. The certainty I carry with me today when I need sure footing. When I need my thoughts to be pure.


Because our thoughts lead to actions. Have you ever heard yourself say, “I’m just so tired of this… just sick and tired of it all…” What have you claimed? What have you made yourself. You’ve secured that fact that you are sick and you are tired. We become our thoughts. I know only because I do it. We all do it. But when I find myself there, I try to go through my list? My list of haves… my list of blessings… and almost always, those thoughts can magically make the journey from my head to my heart to my hands, and I can walk in a better day. A better day — maybe not perfect — there are so many things out of our control, I know. But I think it’s always a good day if I can take a walk on a path of joy, a path of hope, a path of positive action. Who knows where it may lead? Who will join you?


I give thanks for all the fictional and nonfictional characters — (and yes, please let me be surrounded with the wonderful world of living “characters”!) — they, you, bring me so much joy — a joy that only makes me want to do more – be more — and be better! Today I call you Beverly. Tomorrow, by your name. I will come back for you. Again and again.

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The day.

On the north end of Van Dyke Road, there was an untouched, magical place, we appropriately called “The North End.” It was just past Norton’s house, down the hill. If I were to see the distance now, it would make me laugh. If I were to see what was built there now, it might make me cry. I guess in my 6 year old brain, the magic lived there because it was raw. Anything was possible. Dirt and trees and water and whatever my imagination could bring to life. Each journey down Van Dyke Road on my banana seat bike brought me to someplace new. I lived out the adventures of Nancy Drew, and Ramona “the pest” and Cowboy Sam. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder in search of her Pa. I was Jody Foster in every Disney special. I was and could be anything.


I guess that’s why we called it “The” North End. It was special. It was our only and every. It wasn’t “a” north end – “a” would have meant ordinary – “the” made it something, something special!


We did that a lot, named things for what they were. My grandparents lived not on a farm, but it was “The Farm.” That’s what we called it — “The Farm.” Because it was special, our only and every.


And I needed both, the possibility of The North End, and the assuredness of The Farm.


Today I picked the greenery in the yard for the front entry of the house. It is all special. Because this is The Day we are given. Our only and every, and it is magical. It is raw and open. It is filled with the comfort, and the possibility. It, we, can be anything! Today – The Day!

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Joyfully unprepared.

Yesterday we went to a bookstore for the first time in over a year. How delicious! I had thought all morning, “Today, I want to buy myself a treat.” Now you might think a treat would involve sugar, or chocolate, and it sometimes does, but this time, I wanted a treat to fill my soul.

We only had a few minutes before our meeting, so I circled the wooden table holding the books in English. Each title smiled and reached out its hand. I wanted to bring them all home. I let my fingertips graze the covers. And they stopped. On a sky blue. The color, arresting. The title contained the word Chicago. I was already in flight. Saul Bellow wrote words of praise regarding this author. Saul Bellow – I was back in college, studying literature. The author – a single mother, and I was in Minnesota, with mine.

We had to leave. I purchased the book. Is it risky to buy a book within two minutes? Never hearing of the author? Never hearing of the book? But we had already been on a trip, you see… no longer strangers. In those two minutes, I had been taken on a journey, without even opening a page. The only risk would be to stop now. The book is sitting on my nightstand.

If you’re looking for certainty, living is probably the wrong business to be in. Life is chance. Risk. Stumbles. Unlit paths. But, oh, what a journey! If you take it. If you wait until you’re certain, until you’re prepared (whatever that means)… you won’t do anything.

Nothing prepares you for this day.
Your heart is cracked open.
So you cry.
The world keeps turning.
So you live.
No one tells your heart to stop beating.
So you love!
Nothing prepares you for this beautiful day.

Pull the book of today off the shelf. Open it wide. Dare to fill your soul. Dare to enjoy the ride!

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Yellow

For a brief moment when I was a young girl, I had a yellow bedroom. It was all mine. I got to pick out the carpeting and the bedspread. All yellow! It was the most cheerful place in the world. It was my world. Until one day, not long after, I could probably count the sleeps, I came home on my bicycle and there was not just a “for sale” sign next to the driveway, but it was flagged with “sold.” I didn’t know we were moving. I didn’t know the “we” only included my mother and I. The house, my father, the yellow, the cheer — all gone. For a long time I was sad about this. I didn’t want to love things. Afraid to love people, because they, like my father, could leave. They, like my house, my yellow, could be taken away.


But could they, really?


It took a while, as most good things do, but I came to realise, I still have the color yellow. I still love it! I love the cheerfulness. And so I paint it. I paint the lemons and the pears. The suns. They can never be taken away. The yellow on my pants, my canvas, my fingertips, my soul – all mine! Forever. My choice.


I didn’t know that yellow would not only give me joy, but freedom. The song is playing in my head now, “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose…” And I don’t – have anything to lose. I am free. Free to love. Free to live. Oh, the yellowness of it all! I grab my brush and smile. I give my heart and beam.


I had a yellow bedroom. That will never again make me sad.

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Never flat.

“She was strong, and oh, so beautiful. And every once in a while, she would relax into the leaves that held her, trust in them, and then, well, then, she’d take your breath away.” Jodi Hills

When you paint, you start seeing more colors, everywhere. Nothing is flat. You see the layers in the mountains, the trees, the faces. The leaves on the tree aren’t green. They are green, and blue, and gray, and yellow, and white, and brown. The Sainte Victoire mountain switches from lavender to gray, white, purple and black, depending on the sun, the clouds. So it is with skin, of any color, there is really every color, in every face. And it changes, depending on the sun for sure, but also the light from within.

Since I started writing the daily blog, everything I see becomes a sentence. And that sentence becomes a paragraph, that leads to a memory, a feeling, an emotion, a story. Nothing is flat.

When I first met her, she was so strong. Intimidating really. But beautiful. She told me this was her favorite flower. It struck me as strange at first…I couldn’t imagine her softening, letting her guard down long enough to breathe it in… but she said it, in a sentence so sure, I believed her, and what a relief, to see her in this light, to see her in the soft white of the flower. She’s got a new mountain to climb. And she’s struggling. She may think that’s a weakness. I hope not. I think it may be the strongest thing I’ve ever seen her do. And she’s never been more beautiful.

Our colors, our stories, are never flat. But these daily mountains we are asked to climb, these colorful, ever-changing, steep, heart-racing, cheek flushing, knee buckling mountains, in every color, with any luck, well, they’ll just take our breath away.

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A place to land.

We never used the front door of my grandparents’ house. Well, not the door, but the small cement staircase in front of it, yes, always. It was a place to rest. We chased round and round the house in our summer worn tennis shoes. (We never played tennis in them.) Not Nikes, or Adidas, but colors. I liked blue. Some of my cousins had white, or black. I didn’t care about the brand, the mark, I only remember asking when trying them on at Iverson’s shoes, “Are they fast?” The answer was always yes, with a smile. And so we raced in white and black and blue streaks around the apple trees. Grass stained and out of breath, we’d flop onto the front stairs, chests heaving with the satisfaction of youth. These stairs contained breath, and lemonade, and watermelon slices, (and black seeds), and the welcome of home.

Yesterday, I framed this painting. Painted on panel, the edges seemed so incomplete. Nowhere for your eye to land. And this painting needed it, a place to land, I suppose just as much as we do. The frame, simple, vintage, does just that. Gives the eye, the brain, the heart, a place to rest. Without it, all the feelings just wander off and get lost. You might not even know that’s what’s happening, but you can feel it.

On my grandparents’ front steps, I don’t suppose I knew exactly what was happening, but I felt it. I felt it as sure as the heat of the summer air. A warmth that would take us through every cold winter that followed. A strength, a solid, that would ground us in every storm. Even just in memory, hold us in the comfort of home.

I smile now, knowing the salesperson at Iverson’s shoes was completely right, those shoes, those summers, were certainly fast!

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Courage


All I wanted to do today was quit. I couldn’t get my french lesson. I typed and spoke and hit those buttons over and over again. Wrong. “Common mistake,” it replied. I could feel that hole in my stomach getting bigger and bigger. But I kept going. Foot in each furrow. Slugging along. The calories from my croissant long burned up. Until finally, finally… “You’ve reached your daily goal.” Thank God! And I’m still here.


On these days, when I finish, and I do make myself finish, I take a deep breath, and look around, a little embarrassed of the struggle. And maybe it’s not the struggle that embarrasses me, maybe it’s feeling “common.” I don’t want to feel common, ordinary, just one of those silly people who can’t get through anything. I wish it never gave me that reply. And maybe it’s worse because I pair it with all the things I see online – the youtube videos – “I learned Portuguese in 7 days,” “Fluent in one week,” “I learned this language while in the bathroom,” (that one I actually heard in real life! Ugh!


Then I talk myself off the ledge, and write my daily blog. (I haven’t missed a day in over 100 days — nothing ordinary about that!) I guess the key is to stop listening to the negative voices around us, and to stop comparing ourselves. We all have our own paths. And we find our own way. We get through things in our own time. We must never tell each other how to learn, how to grieve, how to feel, or how to live. Each of our struggles and victories is special. Maybe you did learn Portuguese in 7 days, well, good for you! But I survived today’s lesson and didn’t pass out! Good for me!!!


Today, and every day, let’s celebrate the courageous, the uncommon heroes, the humble winners, the losers who play again and again just for fun. I’m already feeling better. The sun is shining. (And we have more croissants.) Nothing is Common. That’s extraordinary!

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When there’s no parade.


There was a small piece of this wood left in the scrap pile. I could have just left it there. Who would know? Who would care? I guess the answer is me. I cut it into the largest four lengths possible (which wasn’t very big). There was a hole in one of the lengths. I had to use it, or there wouldn’t be enough wood to complete the tiny frame. I squared it up. Pounded in the old nails I pulled from another piece of wood. Sanded. And sanded some more. I cut a small piece of wood from an old dismantled armoire to fit the opening. The whole thing was about 6″ x 5″, fitting into the palm of my hand. I stained the frame. Gessoed the board. Painted a pear in charcoal. Secured it to the frame. Covered the back in paper. And attached my card. But what to do about the hole? It wasn’t that I didn’t like it. I thought it added something, but still, it called out, like “use me – this could be really special.” So I found some weathered string, and attached the smallest card. Front – Still. Life. Inside – Never perfect. Always original. And it was complete. For me, a treasure. Right there in the palm of my hand.


Today is the Fourth of July. For Americans, that’s something special. Independence Day. Living in France, it could easily pass as just another day. I could just forget about it. Who would know? Who would care? I guess the answer is me. There will be no parade, and no fireworks. But the songs we marched to in band play over in my head. The kids waving flags, and jumping into the lake way too soon after eating too many hotdogs from the barbecue – these thoughts make me smile. They are treasures that fit into the palm of my heart, and I choose to care. Because that’s the freedom we were given, isn’t it? The freedom to choose what matters. The freedom to take something and make the best of it. To see not the flaws, but the beauty. The freedom to love, even the worst of us. And to celebrate all, wherever we are!


As I type the words, the sparklers are bursting from inside. To celebrate here is not perfect, but it is original! And it feels so good, so magical, just to care!!!!! Happy Fourth of July!

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Nothing small.

“Why didn’t you tell me I was small?” she asked her mother.
“Because I never thought so,” she replied.
“No really. Am I small?” she asked again.
“You fill my heart with joy. Could anything small do that?” her mother replied.
She smiled. And felt a world of possibility.
“I wish I were beautiful,” she told her mother.
“You light up the sky, my love.” Her mother showed her the stars.
“What if I’m not smart enough?” she cried before leaving.
“You are stronger than you think.” Her mother held back her tears.
“What if I’m not strong enough?” her mother asked the open sky.
“I love you,” she sang to her mother as she flew.
Love held her. Could anything small do that?

(Chickadee – from the book “Bird Song” by Jodi Hills)

I found something huge yesterday. (Yes, I’ve been deep diving in the cleaning department). Well, what I found is only about 1″ x 1/2″, but to me it’s huge! A pencil sharpener. Even in its original packaging. Unopened. Sometimes the universe just knows what you need. (Or maybe it always does, and we’re just not looking.) And the most important thing of all – it works!!! That may not seem extraordinary, but believe me, I have a lot of pencils, for all types of drawing, and I, until yesterday, did not have a pencil sharpener – that worked. I have one that you just spin and spin and spin and nothing ever happens. I don’t think you should have to lose weight while sharpening a pencil. I have another that, no matter what you put in, it only takes out that one side, and you’re left with the shard of wood that you try to pick off, and it gets stuck in your fingernail, and you start all over again, getting the same result. I have another that absolutely fits no pencil that I own. I have no idea what it’s for. And my last one, has the most voracious appetite, eating everything inserted. None of these I actually purchased. They were all left behind from Dominique’s family. (Maybe left behind for good reasons.) But yesterday, aah yesterday, I found it. I opened it with such hope — oh, the tenacity of HOPE! — yes, I opened it and tried the closest pencil. The most perfect point. I tried another. Perfect. Easy. I tried charcoal. Yes. Lead, yes! Colored – sure, why not! Soft – no problem. Perfect points all. I wanted to fling open the doors of the studio and shout to the world – it works – it really works! I raised up my best Sally Field’s impression to the sky, “You like me – you really like me!”

I know it’s a pencil sharpener, yes, it’s small, but it takes that one thing in my life and makes it so much easier, makes it delightful. Nothing small can do that.

I guess it’s always the little things that make up a grand life. If you look at the ingredients of a croissant, it’s almost nothing, and extremely ordinary, but rolled and rolled, it becomes something magical. And shared with someone you love — even better. While eating our croissants at breakfast my husband said, “We have to find or make these for your mother, because she would really love them.” I told my mom that later in the day. She beamed – I could feel it over the telephone. He had thought of her. Just a little thing, but oh, so magical. The universe does this for us every day. Certainly we can do it for each other.

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Shine

I found this frame deep in storage. It was empty. Probably empty long before I even arrived in France. I stretched a piece of canvas to fit the opening. Normally, one makes a frame to enhance the canvas, but this time, I did it in reverse. I thought the frame had been alone long enough.


It’s easy to worry about “what someone else could do for me.” How could they make my life better? But sometimes it’s good to look in the other direction. What can I bring to the table? How can I be of service? How can I help them shine? In the end, we all end up looking better.

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